Page 55 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Verona stated that she’d had oatmeal for breakfast the morning she died. She doesn’t like oatmeal, but she agreed to eat it twice a week—except not on weekends—because her mother said it was good for her. That morning, she couldn’t finish the bowl because she accidentally put too much salt on it. Well, she told her mother it was accidental, but in reality she loosened the top of the saltcellar so the contents would spill out. Her mother asked her if that’s what she’d done, but Verona denied it. I think she’s sorry that the final thing she told her mother was a lie.”

Pascal had no idea if this was true or not. The subject of Verona Walters’s last meal with her parents had not previously come up.

“Why don’t you check that with her family?” said Drew. “It might help to convince you of the truth of what I have to say. I don’t mind waiting. I’ve set aside the afternoon.”

Pascal still remained hopeful of finding a rational explanation for this woman’s knowledge of events. He tried to recall if the little girl’s doll had been mentioned in any of the briefings or news reports, and decided it hadn’t. The doll wasn’t in Verona’s possession when she vanished, but in her bedroom at home. He knew because he’d seen it there himself when they’d searched, in case the room revealed any previous contact between Verona and her abductor, and therefore clues as to where she might have been taken.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “I have to warn you again: there are penalties for wasting police time. If for any reason you’ve been in touch with the Walters family in the past, or have some insight into their routines through friends or associates, it would be better if you told me now.”

“I’ve never met the rest of the family in my life,” said Drew. “Just their daughter, and then only in a manner of speaking.”

Pascal asked a female officer to sit with her while he went to call the Walterses. He couldn’t have said why he wanted Drew to have company. It wasn’t that he thought she might damage police property, or harm herself out of some further derangement. Perhaps he was afraid she might begin levitating, or walking through walls.

He made the call from his desk. Larraine Walters was at home with their infant son while her husband was at work. He was a supervisor at the city’s Public Works Department, and had been offered extended compassionate leave with full pay while the search for his daughter continued. He was inclined to accept, but his wife advised him to return to his post. She loved him, but he was driving her nuts, and she was close enough to madness as things stood.

“This may sound like an odd question,” said Pascal to Larraine Walters, “but would you happen to remember what your daughter had for breakfast the day she went missing?”

Even as the last words emerged from his mouth, he was already regretting them. Dumb, so dumb. Thanks to all the forensics-led shows on TV, and the mystery section in the local Barnes & Noble, everyone was now an expert on autopsies. But the Drew woman had thrown him. It was her calmness.

“Have you found a body?” Larraine asked. “My God, you have, haven’t you?”

“No, Mrs. Walters, we haven’t. I can’t even explain right now why this might be important, but I’d be obliged if you’d answer the question.”

“She had oatmeal, just a spoonful or two,” said Larraine. “She doesn’t like oatmeal, but we try to encourage her to eat it a couple of times a week. She can be fussy about food, and that’s a slippery slope. Next thing you know, she’ll be refusing to eat her greens and subsisting on fried food and Butterfingers.”

He noted her use of the present tense and wondered how often she now found herself lapsing into the past when speaking of Verona.

“Did she refuse to eat her oatmeal that morning only because she doesn’t like it?”

“No, she claimed the top had come off the saltcellar and doused the bowl, but I suspect she might have tampered with it. Verona has more tricks up her sleeve than David Copperfield. Now, can you please give me some idea of what this is about?”

Pascal contemplated just how much he should share with her: a little, and no more.

“Are you or your husband acquainted with a woman named Sabine Drew?”

There was silence while Larraine Clark rummaged through her memory.

“I don’t recognize the name. Have you spoken to Chris? She might be someone he knows from work.”

“I’ll ask him, but I wanted to talk to you first. The name doesn’t ring any bells at all? That’s Sabine Drew.” Pascal spelled it out for her.

“Definitely not. Who is she? Do you think she had something to do with Verona’s disappearance?”

“No, that’s not why I’m asking about her.”

Pascal wasn’t sure if this was true. He knew certain types of killers liked to circle a case, even involving themselves as potential witnesses. They returned to the scenes of their kills to relive the experience. They drew pictures. Maps.

“Then why are you asking about her?”

“Because she wants to help,” he said, “and before I engage with her further, I thought I’d try to find out more. Oh, and another thing.” It had just struck him. “Your daughter had a doll: Carly.”

“She still does,” said Larraine, and he experienced the correction as a slap.

Dumb again. Three strikes and you’re out.

“Of course. I apologize. Did you ever take Carly to be repaired? You know, to a doll’s hospital, or a seamstress?”

“No.”

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