The American Girl by Kate Horsley

Author:Kate Horsley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-06-20T04:00:00+00:00

Molly Swift

AUGUST 6, 2015

A new search had begun, no less clueless than the one that had been going on for days through the town and the woods. There was a different feel to this one, though. Panic had replaced methodical investigation and a sticky air of guilt clung to everyone involved, especially me. Valentin suffered from it, too, as did poor Didier. Thirsty and bored, he’d sloped off to get a cold Coke from the bar. When he came back, the room had been turned over and Quinn was gone.

As the next of kin, I had been impounded in a private room next to the bar and was under close supervision. Valentin’s minions brought me hot coffee with sugar to curb the hysteria they seemed to feel sure would erupt from me at any moment. I refused their offerings, annoyed that I was being politely detained under the guise of protection. In the process, I was also being denied my clothes and my phone while forensics picked over the remains of our room at a glacial pace. On the plus side, in the four hours it had taken them, I’d had ample time to reflect on how entirely to blame I was for this new turn in events: for taking Quinn out of the hospital, for bringing her here, for leaving her alone while I made bad romantic choices.

The fact that Valentin couldn’t seem to meet my eye when he rushed in for a moment told me he felt the same way. “There has been a tip about a possible sighting,” he said, brusque and businesslike, and then he was off, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs while he charged about.

I had to find a way to escape.

In the end, a little bit of cunning and a good deal of charm was all I needed to evade the security detail slash support group Valentin had apportioned me. It went like this: I spent some quality time with Didier, reassuring him that I in no way blamed him and even helping him beat some deathless game of Words with Friends he was stuck on. Clutching my stomach, I then intimated that I had lady problems. He asked how he could help. I said he couldn’t, unless he knew of an all-night pharmacy and was willing to go buy out their supply of Midol plus a jumbo pack of tampons. He looked like his head would explode. I suggested that there was one other option: I could slip to my room for a second. He agreed. Avoiding the elevators, which had become a police thoroughfare, much to the dismay of the hotel staff, I took the stairs two at a time up to the third floor.

The room I had briefly shared with my pretend niece was in ruins. Furniture had been turned over. Sheets and clothes were strewn everywhere. A shattered glass, white with printing powder, lay next to a crime scene label “5.” A red stain drying on the carpet freaked

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