[COMPLETED] After finally turning eighteen, foster-kid Callista Ford, goes out to party with a group of friends, in hopes of coming out of her shell for once, and maybe even snatching up the cute green-eyed guy staring at her from across the room.
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COOL, calm, collected
Cool, calm, collected.
Cool, calm, collected. .
''Oh my God, John. You're so extra, just go so we can get this thing over with.'' Carter complained.
Cool, calm, collected, John chanted in his head, toning out the other.
The last thing he wanted to do was to give Callie's foster parents heart-attacks, after telling them their daughter may have possibly been kidnapped by the same people who wanted her parents dead.
He needed to recite what he was going to say, and practice his delivery in his head. He never knew what to do when the parent's of the Victim's cried. There was nothing he could do, except comfort them with words, words that he knew meant nothing to them at the hands of their dying or kidnapped child.
Hello there . . . I'm the detective here to deliver the bad news-
No.
Hi, I'm detective Smith, and you're daughter safety isn't looking too good-
God, no. That would alarm them.
''Fine.'' Carter announced. ''I'll take the lead, you go good-cop, I'll go bad-cop.'' And with that, he stormed into the interrogation room, leaving Smith and his wide eyes.
''They aren't suspects!'' John called after him, before just deciding to head in.
He took the lead instead, shooting Carter a pointed look when he reached into his back-pocket to light a cigarette.
He turned to face Callie's parents with a warm smile on his face, trying not to be swayed by their red-tinged eyes, and sad smiles.
''Good morning you two, I'm DET. John Smith, and this over here is my partner, Carter.'' He looked to the brunette woman. ''I assume you're the mother?''
''Delilah.'' She answered. Wiping the tears from underneath her eyes.
Oh great, the cryfest had already begun.
''Are either of you aware of what happened to Callie's birth parents in, 2001?''
They both shook their heads, causing John to push the folder closer to them. ''They were murdered,''
''Shot.'' Carter exaggerated, ignoring the glare John directed at him. Somehow saying 'Shut up, and let me handle this' without actually saying it.
Carter sighed, leaning back against his seat.
''I'm sure you're aware that Callie's birth parents were involved in a lot of gang-violence - ''
They shook their heads.
Did these people do any background research on her, or her parents before taking the child in?
And they wondered why their daughter had been kidnapped?
He massaged his brows. He was out of patience. ''Look... ''
Carter saw his mental struggle and took over. Abandoning his cigarette in the trash, after putting it out.
''Callista Brighten-Mendoza, is the name she was given at birth. Let's start with that, the Mendoza's. Did you two know anything about them?''
It was David who had spoken this time. ''They were rich.'' His voice was croaky, almost as if he had spent all of today and the last three days screaming and crying his eyes out.
Delilah nodded in agreement.
This was a good start.
''They were rich-rich, incredibly rich. Absolutely loaded. Callie had brought a lot of things with her, expensive things that they had spoiled her with. Like jewelry, shoes. Clothes.''
Carter took note. ''What kind of Jewelry?''
''Like rings, necklaces. Pearls....diamonds.'' They listed off on their fingers. A distant look in their eyes. ''We were always afraid that we were a step down from them as parents, because we could never afford the basic things, like dresses, store-bought cakes'' He sniffled. ''And Callie always assured us we weren't. That she didn't need any presents, and that she loved us just the same.''
Carter flipped back a page in his notebook, as if just noticing something. ''You said Callie brought expensive things with her, like Jewelry, pearls, rings, and etcetera, right?''
They nodded.
''Where do you keep all of this stuff? Is it just lying around, or is it like in a large safe or something?''
''We actually have a large-chest we bought her when she was little, where she could keep all her stuff and her jewelry inside. We installed a key, and lock to it, so she could know we were trying to respect her privacy, and we told her she could keep anything valuable she wanted to be in there, inside of it.''
Carter's eyebrows were dipped. ''You had a key for it? Where's the key to it now?''
The couple shared sad looks. ''We don't know, she was private about that stuff when she reached teenhood. We'd like to believe it's somewhere in her room though.''
''How much would you estimate all her jewelry would amount to?''
''Around... around ten-hundred thousand dollars maybe? Maybe even more.''
''One million dollars.'' Carter said to himself. Scribbling in his notebook. ''Are you saying that your daughter has an entire fortune on her head alone?''
The couple nodded. ''We've tried to protect it, and keep her away from the wrong crowd, but the night of her birthday, she wanted to go clubbing with a couple of her friends, and she rarely ever asked for anything aside from needing a new sketchbook. We didn't know what she wanted, and we didn't want to deny her of her happiness, so we let her go.''
''And that's when she was kidnapped.'' Carter finished. He glanced over at John, who was watching him, before looking back to the distraught couple.
''Ma'am, has your house ever been broken into?''
''No,'' She answered truthfully. ''Never.''
His smile seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. ''Do you have another daughter?''
''Yes,''
She said the words he'd been praying he wouldn't hear.
''A girl. Our baby Savannah. She's only four-years-old, and she's got her father's eyes,''
''And her mother's smile.'' David finished.
The couple smiled at each other lovingly.
Carter and John both seemed to be on the same page as each other now, alarmed. ''Where is Savannah right now?''
''She's at home.''
Pause.
''With our babysitter.''
Carter swore, jumping out of his seat and running out of the room. John made a movement to follow, but he was interrupted by the couple's worried voices.
