So I did it myself. I wrangled schematics from an indulgent engineer on base, and I opened up the radios. At first, Dad was as amused as that engineer. Sure, let the kid take a shot at it—curiosity is good. Then I not only fixed them, but made them as good as new. As for using them to hack into a secure military frequency, well, that came later.
Once Dad realized I had a talent for electronics, he brought me things to fix, things to take apart. And the guy who wouldn’t stop working long enough to play cards with me would watch me tinker for hours. He’d give me a look, like he couldn’t quite figure out where this little girl came from. For the first time in my life, I was a revelation to him. And the more fascinated he was by my talent, the harder I worked to improve it.
I still remember the day he brought me my first computer. I came home from school, and it was there, and he waved at it, much like one might wave at a troll crouching in the corner.
“You know how to use these things?” he asks.
I laugh. “It’s a computer, Dad. We have them in school.”
Let’s just say that my father is the reason I’m able to impersonate a technophobe so well.
Computers, as I discovered, were for much more than just typing up an assignment. I could control them. Bend them to my will in a way I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—with people. I could open them up, like a radio, and manipulate them there. Or I could go in through code and use them to achieve my goal that way. Which sometimes meant hacking.
When I was young, hacking was a challenge. Nothing more. I didn’t do anything with my skills. Not until my world fell apart, and a tech career in the army was the absolute last thing I wanted, and I was angry, so damned angry, and it was just the right time in my life for someone to suggest I use those skills in a very different way.
I don’t get access to the police email system over my lunch break. My skills are far too rusty for that. Instead, I accomplish step one: finding the server and poking at it a bit, seeing how hard it’ll be to hack.
Hack in and find out what’s going on with my case. What Officer Cooper really thinks of my story.
Find out whether that boy has a hope of ever being found.
And if the answer is no?
I’m not sure what I’ll do about that. Not sure what I can do.
No, that’s a lie. I know what I can do. I’m just not sure that I will.
I get an early start the next morning . . . and my car does not. It won’t start at all. I open the hood to find a broken fan belt. An easy fix, and I mentally calculate the time it’ll take me to jog to the hardware store.
No, I can’t risk showing up at work late again. So I catch a cab. Not really in my budget, but if I lose my job, I won’t have an income to budget.
I arrive at the library twenty minutes early. Not that it does any good—my coworker Nancy doesn’t show up with the keys until mere seconds before her shift begins.
I put my things away, head straight to the book-return bin, and focus on my task. I’m still distracted, fretting about yesterday, and I cannot afford to make any mistakes.
I like my job. Being a librarian isn’t just shelving and checking out books. There’s so much else—from helping a senior citizen send an email to helping a student find research material. A combination of public service and problem-solving that I love.
I’d love it even more if I could throw my tech skills into the mix, but that would lead to questions I can’t answer. Like how I got those skills when there’s no postsecondary education or tech job on my résumé.
I do use those skills on my break. I try hacking into the police system. It’s been thirty-six hours since Officer Cooper came to my apartment, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Nor have I found any mention of the case online. So I’m determined to get into the departmental email and see what they’re doing about it.
That takes both coffee breaks and my lunch hour, which would have been embarrassing five years ago. This isn’t the Chicago Police Department. It’s a suburban force with outdated cybersecurity. I’ve been out of the game so long, though, that even “outdated” means it’s newer than most systems I’ve hacked. By the time I succeed, my last break is over. I’ll need to postpone actually searching emails until tomorrow.
There’s something bugging me, too—a growing sense that I’m forgetting something. I keep running through the scenario in the park, both when I first met the boy with his mom, and later, when I saw the boy taken. Am I missing something?
The more I fret, the harder I need to concentrate on work. I count the minutes until my shift ends. Then Ingrid asks me to stay an extra hour—to make up for my double tardiness yesterday—and that sense that I’m forgetting something surges.
I finally get off work, and I’m walking to the parking lot when my phone buzzes. Thinking it’s the police, I scramble to yank it from my pocket.
Bright Horizons Daycare.
I wince. There’s only one reason they ever call me: if Charlotte is sick. Paul can’t dash in from the city, obviously, so this is the one responsibility he allows me to take.
Maybe Charlotte wasn’t faking her cough yesterday.
I answer quickly with, “Aubrey Finch.”
“Ms. Finch? Your husband said you were picking Charlotte up today.”
Today? Why would I pick Charlotte up on a Wednesday—
The princess tea. That’s what I forgot.
“Yes, I’m getting her today,” I say as calmly as I can. “Thank you for checking. I’ll be there in a half hour.”
A pause. “We closed five minutes ago, Ms. Finch.”
What? No. I get off at five and . . .
I stayed an extra hour. It’s past six.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I run for the parking lot. “I was asked to work late and totally lost track of time. I’ll be there in . . .”
I look around the lot. Where is my—?
Oh, no . . . I don’t have my car.
“In a few minutes,” I say as I race back to the road, frantically searching for a cab. “I’ll pay the late fee myself. Please don’t charge Paul. This is on me, and I’m so sorry. I’ll be right there.”
I jump out of the cab. As I run across the empty daycare lot, the side door opens, and Charlotte walks out . . . clutching the hand of a stranger.
For two seconds, reality snaps, and all I can think is I’m losing my mind.
That’s the only explanation as I watch my daughter being led away by a stranger, two days after I saw a boy snatched. This is not possible.
“Mommy!” Charlotte shouts.
She breaks away from the stranger and starts to run. The woman hurries after her and catches her hand. Then they walk toward me.
“You must be Aubrey,” the woman says.
She isn’t a daycare worker. Not dressed like this—sensible but stylish, from her heels to her dress to her hairstyle, short and smart.
Sophisticated. That’s the word that comes to mind. Stylish and sophisticated.
She’s in her late thirties. Not beautiful, but striking and self-possessed. The kind of woman I visualize for my future, when I’ve overcome all the bumps and gotten my act together.
The woman extends her free hand, the other one still holding Charlotte’s.
“Gayle Lansing,” she says.
Gayle . . .
Oh, no.
I shake her hand and babble something about being pleased to meet her. It is, quite possibly, the biggest lie I’ve told in a long time, and that’s saying something.
Gayle Lansing is Paul’s new girlfriend.
When he told me a few weeks ago that he was seeing someone—doing the right thing and warning me that there was a new face in Charlotte’s life—he said she worked in his office, and I thought, Really? He’s dating some cute young assistant? Figures.
Except that it didn’t figure at all, and deep down, I knew that. So I looked Gayle up . . . and promptly began wishing Paul really were dating a twenty-something assistant.
&nb
sp; Gayle Lansing. Thirty-nine, the same age as Paul. A lawyer at his firm. A new partner at his firm. As I’ve learned since, Gayle is divorced, with custody of her two children, who attend a private school, win tons of awards, and are shining examples of parenting perfection.
Naturally.
I look at her, and my memory kaleidoscopes through scenes from every social function I attended as Paul’s wife. At first, they’d seemed endless—the firm dinners, the charity banquets. At every one, I’d looked at wives like Gayle, poised and professional, and it didn’t matter how conservatively I dressed or intelligently I spoke, I felt like the stripper Paul met in Vegas and married after too many free drinks at the casino.
I tried to tell myself I was imagining it—being self-conscious again—but eventually we stopped going to those functions, and when I asked Paul, he shrugged it off and said he didn’t need to do that, now that he’d made partner. Which was a lie. The truth was that having me at those functions hurt his career more than not attending.
Having someone like this woman on his arm, though? That would be an entirely different matter.
“I am so, so sorry,” I say. “My supervisor asked me to work late, and I completely forgot why I couldn’t. I was just about to call the daycare when they phoned me. I guess I’m not the only number they dialed.”
“They notified Paul, but he’s in court, and I was already heading home, so he asked me to come by.”
“Again, I’m sorry. I know this looks terrible.”
She smiles. It isn’t exactly a bright and friendly smile, but it’s not fake either. Just restrained.
“Work emergencies happen,” she says. “I tried daycare when mine were young. I had to switch to a nanny because they threatened to kick my kids out if I was late one more time.”
I relax a little. “I am sorry they called Paul. I’ll—”
“Mommy?” Charlotte cut in. “Where princess dress?”
I smile down at her. “Don’t worry. It’s—”
In my car. I’d put it in there last night, so I wouldn’t forget it.
“It’s in my car,” I say. “Which broke down this morning, and I completely forgot to grab my outfit. We’ll head there now. I’ll call the princess tea shop and tell them we’ll be a little late for our reservation.”
“Late?” Charlotte’s eyes widen.
“Or I could just go like this.” I force a smile. “Ever heard of a librarian princess?”
She looks me up and down, and her lower lip quivers.
“Let’s decide on the way,” I say as I boost her up. “We don’t want to be too late, and I’m sure Ms. Lansing has to get home to her kids.” I turn to Gayle. “Thank you, and again, I cannot apologize enough.”
I got two steps when Gayle says, “Aubrey?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you come by cab?”
I nod. “I have an app. I can get one here in a few minutes.”
“And Charlotte?”
I pause.
“Her car seat?”
I only mouth a curse, but Gayle winces as if I shouted the words.
I look around. “The cab company might have . . .”
“Let me drive you,” she says. “My youngest is seven, not quite out of a seat yet, so I have a booster in my car.”
“I . . .”
I want to die. Right now. Just let the pavement open and swallow me.
“Mommy need dress,” Charlotte says. “Princess dress.”
“I . . . I know.”
“No be late.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing.
“I could take her,” Gayle says softly.
My head jerks up.
“I don’t mean to interfere,” she says. “I know you two had this planned for weeks, but you do have a reservation, and you’re already . . .” She clears her throat. “A little late. You can rebook, and I’ll take her today.” She waves down at her outfit. “It’s not exactly a princess dress, but . . .”
But it’s a whole lot closer to it than my outfit: a blouse, dress pants, and flats.
I want to say no. Hell, no. You’ve been dating my husband for three weeks. That doesn’t give you the right to take my daughter to tea. Our tea.
Step off, bitch.
As soon as I think that, I am ashamed. This isn’t a smooth play to win my daughter’s affections. It’s a sensible woman offering a sensible solution.
I bend in front of Charlotte.
“Ms. Lansing is going to be your fellow princess today, okay, baby? I don’t want you to miss tea. I know how much you were looking forward to it.”
That lip quivers even more. “Mommy not come?”
“Mommy come next time.” I hug her as tight as I can. “Two princess teas with two princess friends. How lucky are you?”
She nods, saying nothing.
“You look so pretty in your dress,” I say.
“Blue like Buttercup’s,” she whispered, gaze down, words almost too soft to hear.
“Blue like Buttercup’s. And do you know what else is blue?” I take off my necklace, a turquoise pendant my dad gave me when I got accepted to MIT. “Mommy’s special necklace.” I fasten it around her neck.
“The perfect finishing touch,” Gayle says.
I get a tiny smile from Charlotte.
“Be sure to get pictures for me, okay? Now hurry, you don’t want to be late.”
Gayle says, “At least let me drop you off somewhere, Aubrey.”
I don’t want her kindness. I want snide remarks and rolled eyes. Because this feels like pity, and it only makes the humiliation that much worse. Even my husband’s new girlfriend doesn’t feel threatened by me.
“I’ve got this,” I say. “I’ll probably . . . walk a bit and grab a coffee, steal a few minutes to do some work. Thank you again. I really do appreciate it.”
I accompany them to Gayle’s car. Like her, it’s nothing showy. A solid, dependable sedan . . . with a price tag triple my annual salary.
I put Charlotte into the booster. Secure it. Double-check. Kiss her cheek. Then I go around the car and fumble for my wallet so I can pay for the tea. Instead, I endure the fresh humiliation of Gayle’s sympathetic smile and assurances that she has it covered.
Don’t even think of paying, Aubrey. You very clearly need that money more than I do.
I thank Gayle again. As the car pulls away, I wave and smile. Then, the moment it turns the corner, I run.
I run as hard and as fast as I can.
I don’t drink. That was my father’s crutch, and after his death . . .
No, his suicide. Call it what it was. He got back from Iraq, and I was off at college, too caught up in my life to realize he was in trouble, and no one else gave a damn—suck it up, buttercup—and by the time I realized how bad it’d gotten . . .
Gun to head. Bullet through brain. A note left on the counter. I love you, Bree.
Didn’t love me enough to hang on, did you?
I squeeze my eyes shut. That’s how I felt then. I know better now. I understand that in his depression, he didn’t see me, couldn’t see me. And I didn’t see him. I was busy, and the damned army certainly didn’t help—
I don’t blame him now. Don’t even blame them as much as I used to. But at the time, God, I’d been furious. At myself mostly, but I couldn’t handle that so I blamed the world. Dropped out of MIT. Abandoned any thought of enlisting—vomited just thinking about it. And then . . .
Hey, Bree. Got a proposition for you. Use those magic fingers to put some cash in your pocket.
I shove that aside. The point was that no matter how bad life got, I didn’t drink. I won’t take meds for my shoulder either. I refuse to engage in any activity that could provide a false sense of relief.
But that day, after Gayle leaves with Charlotte, I walk into a grocery store and stare at the glittering rows of bottles.
Just this once. Please just this once.
I tear myself away and wander the aisles, looking for something to cheer me up
. I stand in the ice cream aisle and gaze at the Ben & Jerry’s. That’s the cliché, isn’t it? Drown your sorrows in ice cream?
If only I liked ice cream.
I walk to the cookie aisle. Again, not really my thing, but I select a small bag for Charlotte as a treat. She won’t get the whole bag, obviously. One cookie, and maybe even a milky cup of decaffeinated tea. Our own princess tea, to hold her over until I can get a new reservation. I try not to think of the fact that it took me two months to make today’s.
I’ve already left a message at the tea shop, and when my phone rings, I yank it out. It’s a spam text, offering me work as a mystery shopper. At this point, if I thought it was legit, I might take it. God knows, I could use the money.
I console myself by opening my photo album to find the pictures of Charlotte trying on her princess dress. The first photograph I see is one I don’t recognize. I’m not even sure what it is.
A mis-hit shutter button, it seems—the kind where you get a shot of your leg while taking out your phone. Except it isn’t my leg. It’s the back end of a vehicle.
The back of a dark SUV, its license plate smeared with mud.
It’s the SUV. The one that took the boy. I had been lifting my phone, fumbling to set up the camera, and I must have snapped the shutter without realizing it.
It’s a crappy shot. Off-center and blurred, the camera in motion. But the full plate is there, and I can make out enough of the vehicle emblem—
“Excuse me.” A glowering senior waves me aside brusquely. “You are blocking the biscuits.”
I pay for the cookies and hurry from the store. When I spot a coffee shop, I veer toward it. I’m tempted to bypass the counter. Sit and pretend I’m waiting for someone while I get a better look at the photo. But I squelch the urge, treat myself to a caramel latte and a blondie, and then take a seat buoyed by the righteousness of having paid to occupy it.
I import the photo into an app and refine it. I don’t have proper graphics programs these days, but basic apps will do a decent job. The first thing I notice starts my heart pounding.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 4
