Free Capturing Angels by V. C. Andrews

arrived, and his mother pitched in, too. When I refused to eat much, John’s mother, as John had done, pointed out that this was not the time to get sick. Of course, my mother agreed. I ate mechanically, but I ate. It was as hard to swallow as it would be with a serious sore throat. All the while, I couldn’t take my eyes off Mary’s chair. No one dared sit in her place. It was as if they all could see her spirit still there.
    Mom had prepared breakfast for the FBI agents, too, but they ate in a different room. I quickly understood that the morning meeting we were to have with them was when the second phase of the investigation would really begin. It was tantamount to assuming that there would be no ransom call, no hope of a quick return. Although Agent Joseph assured me that kidnappers looking for ransom could and did call after twenty-four hours, I could sense that he was leaning toward the same theory that Lieutenant Abraham seemed to have developed immediately, maybe out of some better police instinct.
    Whoever had taken Mary wasn’t interested in money—at least, not money from us. It was very possible that someone had taken her not for the money that they could gain but simply because they wanted her. If I was to believe this, which every part of me fought, I would have to believe that my precious little daughter was in the hands of a very disturbed individual. The damage on her emotionally or physically could be everlasting.
    I sensed that whatever made a woman a mother, that essential part of her that only other mothers could understand, was in great distress within me. It was as if we had two hearts, one for the woman in us and one for the mother, and the mother’s heart was crumbling with every passing, horrible moment that Mary was not in my arms again.
    The agents’ questions began. Many were similar to the ones Lieutenant Abraham had asked me at the mall, but I answered as quickly and as accurately as I could. A question about my medication was raised, but this time, as he had with his mother, John assured them that I wouldn’t have taken anything before I drove somewhere, especially with our daughter in the car.
    Our parents were present for all of it. To me, they all looked like observers watching some reality show, probably trying desperately to believe that this wasn’t really happening to us. Occasionally, my mother added to something I said, but nothing she said seemed to make any difference, and she could see that John wasn’t happy about any interruptions.
    Earlier, John had called his boss to tell him what had happened. The story was public now anyway. The FBI had put Mary’s picture in the newspapers and on television and had released the details of the abduction. John asked that no one at his office call to see what was going on, but it was clear that what had happened would spread quickly, probably even before people saw the newspapers and television. The husband of one of my friends, Sandra Johnson, worked with John. I was sure that by now, he had called his wife and she was phoning my other girlfriends with the terrible news.
    I could almost feel the web being woven around our home, our little world of friends outside closing in with their expressions of sympathy and hope, their offers to help in any way, and, finally, their mournful, fatalistic expression of defeat and never-ending sorrow.
    Sometimes during the questioning that Agent Joseph and his team conducted, I began to feel like someone on a witness chair in court. I knew they were only trying to work through possibilities, demanding more exact answers about places we often went to, especially places I had gone with Mary. They wanted to know the names of as many people we had visited as possible. Often, they came back to me to ask about anyone who had come to our door to sell something, to preach something. I found the interrogation and gathering of information exhausting but welcomed any opportunity that kept me from crying.