Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,32

way into my head, no matter how hard I try to shut them out. Certain sounds and smells take me right back to the moment she was taken and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”

“Like your runaway pilot.” McKittrick peered into her mug at the darkening liquid. She shoved it across the kitchen counter.

“Pilot?”

“Sounds like you’re telling me you’re suffering from PTSD yourself.”

“It really doesn’t compare to Foster’s. According to his wife, any loud noise can trigger a reaction in him.”

“You mean like the crying of his own child?”

“I know—it’s tragic.” Ingrid took a sip of her tea, decided it wasn’t at all what she wanted, and threw the reminder into the sink. She opened another kitchen cabinet and retrieved a couple of shot glasses.

McKittrick grabbed the bottle from the counter and opened it. She poured out two measures. They both downed them in one and she refilled the glasses.

“That’s the thing that’s been troubling me about his meltdown,” Ingrid said.

McKittrick gulped down her second shot.

“Kyle Foster developed his PTSD long after his return from Afghanistan. He was flying search and rescue missions there. His symptoms didn’t show until after he started operating drones.”

“So?”

“So you’d think his triggers wouldn’t be loud noises. It’s got to be pretty quiet in some isolated room in the middle of the Air Force base.”

“I don’t think you can say that. The mind’s weird—maybe the drone missions reminded him of his earlier ones in the field and everything’s got mixed up in his head. Who knows?”

“Still doesn’t seem to fit.” Ingrid removed her phone from her pocket and started turning it over and over in her hand, waiting for Svetlana to call again. She couldn’t put off speaking to her forever.

“Maybe you should call her back.” McKittrick refilled her own glass.

Ingrid put the phone on the counter.

“It was just a suggestion.”

“There’s something else. On my cell phone. I’ve been avoiding it since this afternoon. But I need to check it out before I talk to Svetlana.”

“Do you have any idea how little sense your making?”

Ingrid took a deep breath and started again. “When I found out about the house in Minnesota, I put in a call to a contact I still have in D.C. This afternoon he sent me a photograph of one of the women. The only one who hasn’t been identified.”

“Are you telling me you haven’t looked at it yet?” McKittrick shoved Ingrid’s glass at her.

“What if it’s Megan?” Much to her surprise, Ingrid’s voice came out in a whisper. “What if it isn’t?”

“You have to find out. God, Ingrid, you just have to.” McKittrick snatched up the cell phone before Ingrid had a chance to. “Where is it? In your picture roll? Email?”

Ingrid plucked the phone out of her friend’s hand. “You don’t need to bully me into it.” Holding her breath, she scrolled through to Mike Stiller’s email and clicked on the attachment. She closed her eyes. She could hear McKittrick’s breath quickening beside her. She opened her eyes and stared down at the image. All she saw was a jumble of random features—somehow the picture wouldn’t resolve into a face. It seemed her brain was refusing to analyze the information it was receiving.

“Well?”

Ingrid blinked hard, as if she had grit in her eyes. She continued to look without being able to see. She stared at the image a little longer. Finally the random parts settled into a whole. The woman looking back up at her had drawn features, her face framed by lank, dark hair, her eyes lifeless with dark circles underneath. Ingrid shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s been so long.”

McKittrick shuffled closer to her and peered at the image.

“Eighteen years since she was abducted. At least a decade since I last saw a photograph of her.” She shoved the phone back into her pocket. “I can’t tell. Jesus Christ, I can’t even tell.” Hot, unwanted tears sprang into her eyes. She turned away. She didn’t want to cry in front of McKittrick.

“Bloody hell, it’s hardly surprising. God only knows what that woman’s been through over the past however many years. She probably looks completely different to the way she looked five years ago, even.” She put an awkward arm around Ingrid’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’ve got nothing to beat yourself up about.”

If only you knew.

Ingrid emptied her glass and screwed the lid back on the bottle. “You want to take this with you?”

“Let’s save it till next time. I might drink it on the way