monstrous acts, then expect me to let you tear up my home.”
She paused, took her sister’s arm. “One more moment, Jess.” She said to Carson, “You might as well know, Dr. DeSilva, I called you a liar because I know Rafer didn’t mumble anything at all under his breath. You and that man next to you who hurt Rafer, both of you have a gift you can’t claim because no sane person on the planet would believe you, so none of it will matter.”
She looked at Sherlock. “You’re not like these others, but you’re not exactly common, there is some light in you.”
Sherlock said, “Any light you see in me is very low wattage, Mrs. Bodine.”
“You’re clever. You notice things, things other people don’t necessarily pay attention to. But your headache is worse, you need to rest.”
Cyndia started to walk away arm in arm with Jessalyn toward the kitchen, her sandals slapping on the oak floor, Jessalyn’s boots making no sound at all. “It’s time for you to leave. You may all let yourselves out.”
“Mrs. Bodine,” Savich said, “would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
“What? All right. It’s down the hall to your right. The rest of you can wait outside. Jess, come with me to the kitchen. I want you to taste my lasagna sauce.”
Savich waited until they were out of hearing, and said quietly, “Griffin, Carson, look around in the woods, check for possible grave sites. Sherlock, you have an excellent eye. Check out the size and shape of the buildings and the garage.”
“A hidden room?”
“This would be a perfect place for it, but more than one room, I imagine, since three teenagers were kidnapped.”
The house was large, at least six thousand square feet, and there wasn’t enough time to do any sort of search. Savich was lucky to find Mr. Bodine’s home office near the bathroom at the end of a wide, carpeted corridor. He gave Sherlock one final look, saw her walking down the front steps, and hoped she’d go back to the car if she felt ill.
Sherlock ignored the niggling headache and walked quickly to the large four-car garage. She looked through the window of the first dark-blue-painted bay door. It was pristine inside, a workbench along the back wall with tools laid out neatly on shelves above it. Four cars lined up like soldiers at attention—a new white Mercedes sedan, a black BMW SUV, a Chevy Silverado truck, and a classic baby-blue Mustang older than she was. There was road dust on the Mustang so she guessed it was Jessalyn Bodine’s car. She stood back and examined the space. No doubt in her mind the garage interior should be deeper. She examined the space again, walked it off again. And stopped, her head cocked. It was strange, but now the measurements appeared exactly right. She had to hurry, Dillon would be out at any moment and they’d have to leave. She quickly examined the outbuildings—a small woodworking workshop, a toolshed with tractor, lawn mower and gardening tools, and a well-constructed storage building with skiing equipment, odds and ends from the house, and some paintings stacked against the wall, a white sheet covering them. There was a painting still on an easel that wasn’t covered. Rich vibrant colors were splashed on with abandon, it seemed to her, with no theme, no attempt to be anything but wild untamed colors themselves. Cyndia Bodine’s?
She walked quickly past the guest house. It didn’t look like it had been used in a long time, given the layer of dust she saw through the living room window.
She walked back to the house, disappointed, hoping the others had better luck. Her headache was gone. She felt lighter on her feet, less tired. She saw Mrs. Cyndia Bodine standing in the doorway of the entrance hall, and, oddly, Cyndia seemed to be staring at her. Where was her sister, Jessalyn?
Cyndia said to Sherlock as she walked up the steps, “You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see, now could you?” Sherlock felt the weight of her focus. Cyndia turned on her heel and walked back into the house and down the oak steps into the great hall. She’d left the front door open, so Sherlock saw her pull open the side French door and walk to stand at the deck railing. She never looked back at Sherlock.
Where was her sister? Where was Jessalyn Bodine?
Sherlock wasn’t about to let herself be spooked. What had Cyndia meant—You couldn’t see what you couldn’t see? She