Familiar Pieces: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery (A North and Martin Abduction Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Jim’s phone buzzed, and he checked the message quickly. The Broker had been contacting him since that first case, taunting him. Jim had turned over his phone to their cyber division in hopes of setting a trap for the Broker, but they’d had no such luck.

  Up late again? You should really get some sleep, Jimmy.

  Jim fought the urge to smash the phone.

  You’re about to have another big day tomorrow. Stay sharp, Jimmy ;)

  Jim squeezed the phone so hard his knuckles turned white and the plastic groaned as if it would break in half.

  “You’re up early.”

  Jim quickly hid his phone as his mother entered the kitchen. “Morning.”

  “Morning.” Mary Swisher kissed the top of Jim’s head on her way to the coffee pot. She had her floral-pattern robe on, complete with matching slippers. “I don’t make it as strong as you probably like it, but do you want some?”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” Jim reached for the case files. “I’ll get this cleaned up before the kids come down.”

  “I appreciate that,” Mary said, and she leaned back against the counter as the coffee machine warmed up. “You’re still going over those files?”

  “There’s something I’m not seeing,” Jim answered. “Something I missed.”

  “How many children have you brought home?” Mary asked.

  Jim paused to think about it. “Nine hundred and twelve.”

  “And how many kids have you not brought home?” Mary asked.

  Jim stared at Amy Fuller’s case file. “One.”

  Mary walked over to the table and sat next to Jim. “You need to cut yourself a break.”

  “A girl died because I couldn’t get there in time,” Jim said. “There’s no excuse for that.”

  “You’re only human, Jim,” Mary said. “You’re not a machine. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “Tell that to Amy’s parents,” Jim said.

  “Hey,” Mary grabbed Jim’s hand, her touch warm and familiar. She was the first and only true mother figure he had ever known. “We are not defined by a single mistake.”

  “You used to tell me that all of the time when I first got here,” Jim said.

  “I did,” Mary said. “Because you made a lot of mistakes.” She smiled.

  Jim studied the lump of files on the table. “The person behind all of this, the one working with these pedophiles to lure children out, he’s not going to stop until I catch him.”

  “For as long as I can remember, you have always been able to do anything you put your mind to,” Mary said. “You’re stubborn. Too stubborn. And you don’t realize when you have too much on your plate.”

  “I’m fine,” Jim said, but the crack of fatigue in his voice betrayed him.

  “You don’t sleep, you barely eat, and every time I look at you, I think you’re about to pass out from exhaustion,” Mary said.

  “I got a few hours tonight,” Jim said but couldn’t look his mother in the eye as he spoke.

  “Have you talked to Jen?” Mary asked.

  Jim sighed. “No.”

  The coffee maker rumbled as it began to pour the black liquid into the carafe.

  “You need to call her, Jim,” Mary said.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Jim said. “I promise.”

  Mary grabbed Jim by the chin and leaned in close, her gaze intense. “Your father and I like Jen. She’s good for you. Don’t screw it up.” She let him go and then returned to the coffee maker.

  Jim knew his mother was right, but his obsession with work had consumed him. He had missed dates, failed to call her back, and was rarely home. And three weeks ago, when he and Jen had tried to talk, their conversation had erupted into a fight that had brought Jim back to the foster home where he had grown up. A place where his parents continued to foster children with no place else to go.

  “And what about the other thing?” Mary kept her back to Jim as she poured her coffee.

  “I haven’t reached out to her yet,” Jim answered, quickly stacking up the files.

  “Does Jen know?” Mary asked, sipping from her mug as she turned around.

  “No,” Jim answered. “And that’s not what we’re fighting about anyway.”

  “You’re fighting because you’re working too much,” Mary asked. “And you’re not telling her the truth about why you’ve been so on edge. It’s not just the case, Jim. You need to tell her about your mother.”

  “You are my mother,” Jim said.

  “Your biological mother,” Mary said.

  Ever since Jim was a child, he had always wondered who his parents were, but more importantly, why they had given him up.

  Jim had already found his father—an experience more horrifying than he could have imagined—but his mother’s identity had remained a mystery. Until a month ago.

  “Your father and I have always been supportive of you looking for your birth mother,” Mary said. “And until you reach out to her, until you talk to her, you’ll never have the answers you’re looking for, Jim.”

  “I don’t need the distraction,” Jim said, finishing packing up the files.

  “But you need the closure,” Mary replied. “You should talk to her before all of that pain inside of you destroys all of the good things you have in front of you—like Jen.”

  Jim winced. Deep down, he knew she was right. He had allowed his own feelings to fester for far too long, and it was growing difficult to keep them at bay.

  Kelly Rawlins, age fifty-two, still lived in the Seattle area. She had remarried, had children, and lived a perfectly normal life. A normal life without Jim.

  Jim wondered if they had ever crossed paths before or if Kelly even knew what he looked like or recognized his name. They didn’t share the same surname. Kelly’s maiden name before she married was Acosta. So Jim wasn’t even good enough to inherit her name.

  Jim had hundreds of questions for her, but there was one question that always came up first: Why had she given him away?

  It was the most frequent question any orphan asked themselves, at least the ones whose parents hadn’t died. To be discarded so carelessly as a piece of trash had affected him and every other orphan he’d ever known.

  Because even now, years later, as a grown man, those childhood insecurities resurfaced, the ones that whispered to him that he wasn’t good enough for a family, and those whispers had grown so loud it was all he could hear these days.

  Jim’s refusal to deal with the past had begun to affect his present. The workload he’d taken on at the precinct had strained his relationship with Jen. He still loved her, and she knew that, but what good was love when it was never around to hold onto?

  Jim pressed his scarred palm against the table, the wood cold and foreign against his hand. He would have much rather it been touching Jen, a woman who had helped him come to grips with his scars, physical and emotional.

  But there was only so much Jen could do, and it wasn’t her job to heal him. That onus was himself, and until he came to terms with his past, his future would be spoiled like milk left out of the fridge.

  Jim swayed when he stood, but caught himself. He wondered how much longer his body could withstand the breakneck pace with no rest.

  “Jim—”

  “I’m fine,” Jim repeated and kissed Mary on the cheek. “I’ll take my coffee to go.” He returned to the living room before his mother could offer up any more advice.

  He packed away the files, and after he zipped up his briefcase, he saw the tremor return to his hand. Jim’s nerves were fried. He knew he was pushing his mind and body to their limits. But the job wasn’t done, not until Jim had the Broker in handcuffs, and judging by the message Jim had received earlier, today would be another relentless day.

  2

  The arguing never stopped. Even when they didn’t think he could hear them, he could, just like now.

  Ricky Teller lay in bed, his racecar sheets pulled up to his chin, staring at the crack in his bedroom door
where a bright glow of light challenged the darkness. He wished they would stop bickering, but even more, he wished they stopped pretending everything was fine when he knew it wasn’t.

  Unable to sleep, Ricky slipped out of bed and walked over to his desk, where his laptop was located. He turned it on and then logged onto his YouTube channel. Lately, this was one of the only places Ricky could go that he felt truly connected with people.

  He had started making videos three years ago, and his channel had exploded with subscribers since then. He was one of the most-watched creators on YouTube. He had only started doing them because they were fun, and he never imagined he would have the popularity he enjoyed now.

  But there was an added pressure that came with making the videos now, and it took away the fun that had made him want to create content in the first place.

  Ricky scrolled down the pages of videos, all the way back to his first upload. He was reviewing a new toy he had received for his birthday. His father was holding the camera, and back then, the footage was grainy and shaky. It was before they had multiple lenses, lights, and microphones, back when his father simply used his phone to record.

  Ricky smiled when he saw how happy he used to be, but what was more, he saw how happy his parents used to be. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being fun and turned into work.

  When the channel first started to become popular, Ricky remembered how his parents had sat him down and told him that they would only keep making videos if he wanted to. He would be able to stop anytime. But Ricky assured his parents, at the tender age of five, that he would do this forever. And despite his parent’s repeated assurance that he could quit anytime, Ricky didn’t know if that was true anymore.

  All of the arguments between his parents centered around money, screaming about how they needed more and disagreeing on how they should get it. There was never a peaceful moment, and what started as a project that seemed like a dream come true was slowly turning into a nightmare that wouldn’t end. But Ricky didn’t dare speak those thoughts aloud because he didn’t want to make things worse.

  How could he tell his parents, who were always yelling about money and work, that he didn’t want to make any more videos? He might not have understood everything about the business side of their channel, but he knew it was how they paid for everything. Without the money, they would fall apart.

  It had been difficult holding all of his thoughts inside, but Ricky knew it was for the best. Because he knew he was responsible for his parent’s arguments. If he had never started making those videos, then his parents wouldn’t be yelling at each other and they would still be a happy family. But maybe if he kept making those videos, everything would return to normal.

  So Ricky put on a smile and played the role of a good little soldier, helping develop new ideas for the channel. He was too afraid to do anything else, and all of that fear was starting to wear him down.

  But there was one person he could always talk to, a friend who he trusted, someone who he would be meeting soon.

  Ricky looked back to his bed, staring at his pillow. He closed his laptop and then crawled back into bed. He reached inside his pillowcase and removed a silver smartphone. It had been given to him as a secret present, sent to him by a friend he had made online.

  Ricky’s parents didn’t know about the phone, but he didn’t think they would have cared even if they did. They were too busy fighting with one another to care.

  But Ricky’s friend, Kurt, the one who had given him the phone, didn’t care about money. All he cared about was having fun, but what Ricky liked most about Kurt was how well he listened.

  It was so easy to talk to Kurt, and Ricky told him secrets he’d never told anyone else. He trusted Kurt; he trusted him more than anyone else he knew. Sometimes, Ricky wished he could live with Kurt.

  Ricky knew his friend was an adult. He spoke like an adult, and he reminded Ricky of one of his favorite teachers from last year, Coach Mike. A few weeks ago Ricky asked Kurt if he could stay at Kurt’s house, and they had started to plan for a sleepover.

  But they had to be careful. Kurt was adamant about not involving Ricky’s parents. He didn’t want his parents to ruin it, and Ricky agreed. They would just make a big deal about it, and Ricky didn’t want to go through all of that.

  So, Ricky and Kurt planned to meet at the convention where Ricky was doing a promotional show for his YouTube channel.

  Ricky had asked to know what Kurt looked like so he knew how to find him, but Kurt had told him it would ruin the surprise. Ricky thought it was strange, but he was too excited to care.

  Phone in hand, Ricky texted Kurt.

  Ricky: Hey.

  Ricky waited for the three little dots to appear, letting him know that his friend was about to reply. His friend was always available to talk, especially at night, when they texted most often.

  Kurt: Hey! What’s up?

  Ricky: Can’t sleep.

  Kurt: Sorry.

  Ricky: I know. Are you still coming tomorrow?

  Kurt: You bet! Wouldn’t miss it for the world!

  Ricky smiled and sent him a thumbs-up emoji. He tucked the phone back into his pillowcase and pulled the covers over him. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the exciting news of tomorrow when he would finally meet his friend that he had been speaking with for weeks now. Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

  3

  The room smelled of vanilla perfume and clashed with the aroma of the coffee coming from the next room. Whoever had sat in the chair before must have been coated in it because the scent was strong long after they’d gone. The way it hung thick in the air had a certain adolescent quality to it, the way teens tried to cover up their own pheromones with sweet perfumes that smelled more like candy.

  Detective Kerry Martin struggled to sit still, agitated by the lingering fragrance. She was alone in the waiting room of the therapist’s office, and she was glad no one could see her nerves. She was already dressed for work, knowing that she would have to go to the station the moment her session was over.

  Kerry had come here reluctantly, searching for relief. Her blue eyes always held a worried, anxious gaze these days, adding a few wrinkles amongst the spatter of freckles around her eyes. She brushed back her auburn hair, which she didn’t have time to wash this morning, and was pulled back into a ponytail.

  Kerry was dreading her conversation with Dr. Connor. Even though it had been her idea to go to therapy, she was beginning to second guess her decision. But her second-guessing was the reason she’d come here in the first place.

  After fifteen years on the job and a near spotless record, Kerry had learned to trust her instincts. The moral compass that guided her on the job had never failed her, but after Amy Fuller’s death three months ago, Kerry was questioning every decision she’d made, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could walk this path of uncertainty.

  While her partner, Jim, had chosen to wash himself clean in the waters of work, Kerry had been left to flounder in her own indecisiveness. It was like there was a hand on her throat, keeping a constant pressure on her just to make sure she was aware that she wasn’t in control anymore.

  But what drove Kerry mad was the fact that if she weren’t in control, then she didn’t know who was. Deep down, she had a sneaking suspicion that it was the idea of her father, a man whom she swore she would never be like but ended up walking his same path.

  Everyone assured Kerry that she wasn’t as bad as her father, the notorious cop killer who had tarnished the reputation of Seattle’s Police Department, representing one of the darker stains in the city’s history that refused to wash out. But Kerry had always felt this… thing, pulling her off the path she knew to be right and toward a destination she knew would corrupt her from the inside out.

  The conflict raging inside her, combined with her guilt of Amy’s death, overshadowed everything about her life at work and at home.

  “Kerry?” Dr. Connor poked his head into the waitin
g room, smiling. “Why don’t you come in?”

  The office was small but well decorated. Kerry took her seat in the other chair, thankful it didn’t have the same smell as the one in the waiting room, and struggled to find a comfortable position.

  “So, how are things at work?” Dr. Connor sat cross-legged in a large mauve-colored chair. He was dressed sensibly, classic sweater vest and glasses, and his hair was buzzed short, nearly bald. But the therapist’s hairline was still very prominent, so it had been a conscious decision.

  Kerry absentmindedly touched the badge on her belt. “As good as it can be, I suppose, considering my line of work.”

  “Any particularly hard cases you’ve had to deal with since our last session?” Dr. Connor asked.

  “Every case is difficult when you’re dealing with missing children,” Kerry said, harsher than she intended.

  “Of course, my apologies,” Dr. Connor replied.

  Kerry regretted her remark. Dr. Connor had such a friendly face that it was like kicking a puppy every time she lashed out at him.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Kerry said. “I guess my work week was more stressful than I realized.”

  Whenever a child went missing, there was always panic. It might not be widespread, big-headline panic, but for the families Kerry spoke with, their worlds were always on the edge of collapse.

  And when the authorities failed, the families always directed their anger, their blame, their hate toward the detectives who were supposed to bring their children home.

  “I imagine the stress of your line of work can be overwhelming,” Dr. Connor said.

  “Yes,” Kerry replied. “But I’ve always been able to handle it, except after what happened three months ago.”

  Dr. Connor nodded. “Amy Fuller, the girl who was killed.”

  “Yes,” Kerry said. “I’ve always felt the weight of the badge I wear, ever since I was a rookie. I know the responsibility that comes with it and what happens when you betray that responsibility.”