Mason blew out a breath. “Tonight? You’ve moved it to tonight?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. What if they’ve discovered my name by then? Is that who you want speaking for the family tonight?”

“That’s up to you and the Fairbanks family,” stated Wells.

Mason thought hard for several seconds and then nodded. “I told them I’d do it. The women are convinced they can’t do it without bursting into tears. This isn’t the time to worry about my own problems.”

“Do they know what’s going on with you?” Wells asked.

“No. They have enough to think about.”

Ava felt as if an invisible shield had just covered the man. The person they’d seen leaning over the kitchen sink, stressed out of his mind, had vanished and been replaced by a cop focused on his case. She silently applauded his shift but worried for his mental health. Her old coworker had nearly broken under the stress. Mason seemed to be able to compartmentalize his personal issues. He was the type of man who put his family before his job.

Or was he? Something had ended his marriage. Robin had hinted that he was a workaholic.

He wasn’t putting his family before his job, Ava realized. He was placing them before his own mental well-being. His job had been snatched away from him.

“What about your garage? Have you checked in there since you’ve been home?” asked Ava. She’d noticed the detached garage that sat behind the home. Mason shook his head and led them through the door to the deck. He didn’t say a word, and she could tell his mind was still processing the story and its potential to blow up to front-page news.

Who could he talk to? He must feel isolated from his peers.

He unlocked the side door to the single-car garage. His vehicle sat parked on the driveway in front of the building. They stepped inside the dark space, and he yanked on a light’s string over a workbench. There wasn’t room for his vehicle in the garage. He had three different workbenches full of woodworking saws and tools, and a row of cabinets overflowing with sports equipment. Looking closer, Ava noticed the sporting equipment was more suited to a child or teenager.

Jake’s stuff. He’s kept everything.

She wondered how long it’d been since Jake had used any of it. What appeared to be a four-wheeled ATV was covered by a tarp, taking up a large portion of the space. The area smelled of fresh-cut wood and old motor oil. Exactly how a garage should smell.

Wells pointed at a large metal locker. A gun safe, Ava realized. A huge one. She couldn’t imagine what it must have weighed. “You must have used a forklift to get that in here,” Wells commented.

Mason nodded. “Just about.” He spun the combination on the front and opened the door to a wealth of weapons.

“I know where I’m going during the zombie apocalypse,” Ava muttered.

Mason smiled at her over his shoulder then turned his focus back to the weapons. “Nothing missing here.” He slammed the door and spun the dial. Ava thought of her tiny safety gun case by her bed. She owned one weapon. It was enough for her.

He opened a few cabinets, scanning each one and then moving to the next. Ava glimpsed paint cans and gardening supplies mixed in with Jake’s sporting equipment.

“Looks like Jake played every sport there is,” Wells commented. He was watching Mason with sharp eyes. He hadn’t asked to look closer at Mason’s arsenal. Most men would have asked to spend a few minutes gazing at the weapons. Wells was private, and he respected other people’s privacy. It was one of the reasons Ava liked him. He wasn’t pushy or nosy.

Except when he needed to be for his job.

“Jake tried every sport at least once,” said Mason. “Some stuck, some didn’t.” He opened the last cabinet, scanned it, and started to close the door. He stopped and opened the door wider. And froze. Ava and Wells both stepped forward after exchanging a glance.

Ava saw baseball mitts, batting helmets, a catcher’s mask, a dozen baseballs, and three wooden bats.

It looked harmless.

“What’s wrong?” Wells asked.

Mason was quiet for a long moment. “There’s a bat missing.”

16

50 HOURS MISSING

When would the FBI finish asking questions?

Jake glanced at his mom. She sat stiff in her chair in the dining room next to Lucas with his hand clasped in hers. Lilian sat next to Jake and opposite his parents as they listened to Special Agent Sanford ask his million questions. Jake noticed Lilian couldn’t hold still. Her hands moved from the tabletop to her lap and to her cup of coffee and back again. Over and over. She shifted in her seat like she wanted to run away.

He understood that.

He was sick of being trapped inside the house. Trips to the command center didn’t count. He wanted to go see his friends or go to a movie. But that didn’t feel right. He shouldn’t have fun while Henley was still missing.

He brushed at his eyes with the back of his hand, fighting off the images that flooded his mind when he thought of his little sister. Henley tied up in a cellar. Henley outside and cold. Henley not breathing with her eyes closed in death. If he was struggling, then her mom and Lucas had to be suffering a hundred times worse. He shuddered and concentrated on Sanford’s questions.

“Have you looked closely at your personal things? Sometimes you don’t notice that something is missing until you go to use it.” Sanford looked at the women. “What about jewelry? I’d like you to take an inventory and pay close attention.”