Star-Crossed Parents. C.J. Carmichael

live?”

      “Sorry, I don’t have a clue.”

      Leigh could have banged her head against the wall. “I can’t believe Taylor would do something like this.”

      “I can’t, either. It’s totally not like her.”

      Leigh disconnected the call, more concerned than ever. For a moment she contemplated the bizarre possibility that her daughter had been abducted and forced to compose the note. But there was no sign of any stress in Taylor’s neat printing. No sign of a struggle in the pristine apartment.

      She checked her daughter’s room and found it atypically neat. Taylor’s backpack, the one she’d used for school, was missing. So were several pairs of jeans and her favorite hoodie.

      Leigh looked in her own room next and found her closet in disarray. Not a good sign. It was usually when Taylor wanted to look older that she borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe.

      The computer was the next logical place to go. Leigh and Taylor shared the same password, since it was a family machine, and she had no trouble getting into Taylor’s e-mail account, though it was something she’d never done before.

      She groaned at the list of saved messages, almost all of them from someone who called himself PartyMan. Why hadn’t she thought to check up on her daughter sooner? The media were always warning parents to monitor their children’s computer usage.

      But Leigh never thought to worry about Taylor. She was such a good kid and there’d been no decline in her marks at school. Wasn’t that one of the warning signs that were supposed to alert parents that their kid might be in danger?

      But she couldn’t pinpoint any changes in Taylor’s demeanor or behavior. If anything, Taylor had seemed in higher spirits and even more cooperative these past few weeks. Leigh had attributed this to excitement about her graduation from high school and acceptance at Cornell. Apparently, though, her daughter had been excited about something else, entirely…

      An Internet romance.

      But was that really what was happening here? Fear crawled over Leigh’s skin and she tried not to think of the many newspaper articles and made-for-TV movies about far more sinister scenarios.

      Her daughter had a golden future before her. She had to be all right. She just had to be.

      Leigh opened the most recent message from PartyMan and skimmed the contents. Most of the message contained plans for when he and Taylor would finally be together. It all sounded quite innocent…long walks together, picnics, listening to music, that sort of thing. But of course, if this guy was a pervert he wouldn’t be broadcasting his intentions, would he?

      Her attention zeroed in on the last paragraph of his message: I’ll pick you up at the bus station. It’s just a few miles from my place. Can’t wait to finally meet you!

      Her stomach dipped, and her skin crawled again. “I’ll just bet you can’t wait to meet her, you creep.”

      Needing specific details about their plans, she opened the previous message. It was all there. PartyMan’s real name was Josh Wallace—or so he claimed—and he lived in a town called Jefferson in Mount Washington Valley, New Hampshire. He’d given Taylor information on the bus route, and, thank goodness, a home address.

      Leigh closed the computer and picked up the phone again. She had to rent a car and go after Taylor right away. She was negotiating a weekly rate, with unlimited mileage, when the doorbell buzzed.

      “Okay, that sounds fine. Can you have someone drive the car to this address?” She recited her apartment number and street quickly, as she crossed the room to the front door.

      Tina O’Dell, her curly hair in a messy ponytail, arms laden with a huge casserole dish, stepped into the room.

      “Party time,” she announced gaily.

      Leigh disconnected the call and shook her head. “Afraid not.”

      “What—”

      “Taylor is missing and I’m on my way to find her. But first I’m going to call the police.”

      T HE WINDOW of the 2003 Buick LeSabre slid downward and a grizzled face peered out from the driver’s seat. “Fill ’er up, Sam.”

      Sam Wallace heard the phrase every day, and each time it made him smile. “Fill ’er up,” sounded a lot like “Batter up” to him. Not too many people would see much in the way of similarities between playing baseball and working at a small-town gas station, but Sam did.

      Though he hadn’t played the game, or even checked a box score, in six years, baseball was part of him. He couldn’t shake it.

      “You bet, Ernie.” He reached in the open window to clasp the older man’s shoulder, before moving to the other side of the vehicle. He unscrewed the gas cap, then inserted the nozzle for regular unleaded gasoline.

      He listened to Ernie chat about the Red Sox until the pump shut off automatically. He recapped the tank, then waited while Ernie counted out the twenties with age-worn hands. “Bloody oil companies,” the older man muttered.

      “I’ll be right back with the change.” Sam took the money inside to his nephew, Robin, who was working for him for the summer.

      Two elderly women were sitting in chairs, waiting for the bus for Concord, which was due any minute. He nodded at them, then passed Robin the money. The sixteen-year-old passed him back the change with practiced efficiency.

      While Sam was settling up with Ernie, the bus from Concord pulled in. Three young people emerged into the warm New Hampshire sunshine. He nodded at two teenage boys he recognized. They were often in the store buying slushy drinks and chatting up girls.

      The young woman, though, Sam didn’t think he’d seen before. He guessed she came from the city. She looked like a model, all made up with stylish clothes. But the expression on her face was that of someone young and vulnerable.

      “You okay?” he asked. “You seem a little lost.”

      Her smile was sweet. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s just that someone was supposed to meet me.”

      Her voice confirmed it. This was a New York City gal. He wondered what she was doing here, who’d she’d come to meet.

      “Do you know Josh Wallace?”

      Sam blinked. “Ah…sure. He’s my—”

      Before he could finish, the sound of squealing tires had both him and the girl turning to watch as Josh’s van pulled into the station. Josh swung into a vacant parking spot, and a second later leapt from the driver’s seat and jogged over toward them.

      “Sorry I’m late.” Josh sounded breathless and he looked…different.

      Sam checked the impulse to comment on his son’s reckless driving. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen that look in Josh’s eyes. The girl seemed equally excited to see him, too. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other.

      He stepped between them and held out his hand to the newcomer. “I’m Sam Wallace, Josh’s father.”

      “Oh.” She shook his hand. “I’m Taylor Hartwell. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wallace.” She frowned. “You look kind of familiar. Are you—”

      “Taylor’s here to visit for a few days,” Josh explained. He’d interrupted Taylor, but she didn’t seem to mind.

      “Oh?” Sam said. “You didn’t mention anything at dinner last night.”

      Josh just shrugged, then hooked a hand around the straps of the backpack on Taylor’s shoulders.

      “Can I carry this for you?” he offered gallantly.

      Sam struggled not to smile as Taylor slipped off the pack and passed it over. As he took a closer look at the girl, though, Sam felt a twinge of concern. “So,