If I'm Found

by Terri Blackstock

  “Ya think?”

  “And of course he coulda been working on cases, talking to witnesses, whatever. I only know for sure that he took cash from this guy. But I made a list in case you want to check them out.”

  I pick up the report and scan it. “Was Rollins with him when he made these visits?”

  “His partner? Yeah, on a few of them.”

  I smile, glad I hired him. “That’s just what I needed. Good work, buddy.”

  “Need me to keep on?”

  “Yeah, if you have time.”

  “Nothing but.”

  I write him a check for the hours he’s put in. I hope it makes his life easier.

  “So what do these guys have to do with Casey Cox?”

  “They’re the detectives on her case.”

  “And you think they’re dirty.”

  I don’t know whether to answer, so I just look at him.

  “How dirty?” he asks.

  I turn away and flick on the TV. The news channel comes on.

  “I mean, like, skimming a little under the table dirty, or worse?”

  “I can’t really talk about it,” I say, looking back at him.

  “No problem, man.” He leaves it at that and lowers to the couch. “Did I tell you I had an interview the other day? Tried to point out that they didn’t have enough handicapped people working for them. Hate that word, you know, but if it checks off a box they need checked off and gets me a job, then I’ll use it.”

  “You’re the least handicapped guy I know.” It’s true. He tackled his amputations with gusto. He went through the depression and grief that all amputees endure, but it focused him on rehab. He waited so long for his prosthetic limbs, then suffered pain and frustration as he tried to make them part of himself. And those were just his physical challenges. If it were me, I might not have wanted to push through that pain. I might have just opted for the wheelchair and drugs.

  Truth is, I may be more handicapped than he is.

  “So how you doing, really?” he asks me, as if I’m the one to be worried about.

  “Good. This case is keeping me busy. Hey, I took your advice and signed up for that clinical study with that patch thing.”

  “Did, huh? They send it to you yet?”

  “No, but they called. I’ve been approved. Just waiting to use it.”

  “Got mine last week. It’s helped me, man. I sleep. I’m not as gloomy. And hey, my wife tells me I’m better looking.”

  “I noticed that right away.”

  “So are you still hunting that girl, even though you doubt she did it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any leads?”

  “No, not this time. She’s smart. Really, really smart. She doesn’t go where anyone would expect her to. She picks places randomly, with no rhyme or reason. That makes things harder. Last time it was a small town. This time it could be a big city. Impossible to know.”

  “Any idea where she’s getting these identities? Is she counterfeiting driver’s licenses herself?”

  “Doubt it. There are lots of places where you can get fake driver’s licenses.”

  “But how would she know them?”

  “I wish I knew. It’s not like she has a history of hanging out with criminals.”

  He grabs the remote and finds a ball game as I look at his list again.

  “Want to get lunch?” he asks after a few minutes.

  I decide to go, even though he should probably be with his family today. I don’t ask questions about that, because it would sound like I’m judging. Sometimes you just need to be around other PTSD victims.

  25

  CASEY

  When Candace goes to the airport, I hope she’s picking up Keegan. I circle the garage for a couple of hours, waiting to see if she’s coming back out. She doesn’t, so I park and walk over, look into her car for clues. She’s neat, so there isn’t anything on the seat that would give me any info about where she’s gone.

  Since I doubt she’ll be back today if she really flew out of town, I use the rest of that day to follow the Trendalls—the family accusing Cole Whittington of molesting their daughter. I don’t know why that family is plaguing me, but Cole’s suicidal thoughts worry me. I want to know if he deserves what he’s getting. My snooping has turned up their address, which isn’t far from here.

  I’ve also learned that Tiffany Trendall accused her boss of sexual harassment two years ago and won a cash settlement, and just before that, Nate, her husband, accused his employer of religious persecution. Again, there was a settlement. Tiffany was also married before and has older children with that husband, and during that divorce, she accused her ex of child abuse and won custody.

  And it looks like she has a problem with people rear-ending her. She’s been hit from behind three times. I read a .pdf file of the brief of one of the cases, and it cites the police report. The person who hit her claimed Tiffany slammed on her brakes and forced the collision. But in all these cases, she was awarded settlement money.

  Now this family is suing the school system for their child’s abuse. Their past doesn’t necessarily negate the possibility that little Ava was abused by the vice-principal, but it makes me doubtful.

  I find their house, which is in a middle-class neighborhood. The house is nice, but the yard is grown up—the only yard in the neighborhood that looks neglected. Two doors on the passenger side of their gray van are open. They’re either coming or going. As I drive by, I see a little girl in a pale blue T-shirt with her name—Ava—in black text. She’s playing by the mailbox, way too close to the street. She’s a cute little thing with curly black hair and huge brown eyes, and she looks younger than seven. I would have figured her for a five-year-old.

  I round the block, then before getting to their house again, I pull over a few houses down. I watch as the couple comes out and the three of them pile into the van. Then I follow them to a children’s indoor playground called Bouncy House Heaven.

  They go in, so I wait a few minutes and follow them. I’m surprised that there’s security at the front. As they check in the family in front of me, I realize I’ve got to have a reason for being there without a kid.

  I step up to the turnstile. “My sister’s family is already here,” I say. “I’m late.”

  They accept that and take my money. I go in and look around. There are inflatables all over this place, with a bunch of tables in the middle. On the side is a concession area, next to a bunch of arcade games. I go to the counter and order a drink, then glance around to see where the Trendalls are. Tiffany and Nate are sitting at a table, both of them reading their phones. I scan the building for little Ava. I don’t see her. She must be inside one of the bounce houses.

  I walk over to one of the rubber houses and see Ava through the netting, trying to jump among bigger kids who knock her down. I glance back at the parents, hoping they’ll intervene and direct her to a place where she’s safer, but they still aren’t watching her.

  That disturbs me too. If their child has already been abused, you would expect them to be overprotective, not checked out.

  I watch as a pizza is delivered to the table. Tiffany and Nate start to eat without trying to find their daughter.

  I take a seat and watch for another hour or so. In the time that they’re there, Ava comes over and eats a few bites of pizza, but most of the time she’s off playing, out of sight, and her parents never check on her. But maybe that’s normal for a child that age. It’s not like she’s a toddler, though she isn’t much bigger than one.

  When they finish the pizza, Nate and Tiffany get up as if to leave, but they don’t go get Ava. I watch through the front window as they go outside to smoke, not bothering to tell her where they’re going. I expect them to come back in within minutes. But then they get in their van and drive away.

  They’ve left their daughter behind.

  Alarmed, I watch Ava more closely now, afraid she’ll come out of the bounce house and look for her parents and be
terrified that she’s been left. But she just goes from one inflatable to another, bouncing around with other kids.

  I go to the castle she’s in and peer through the black netting. Some kids who look like they’re too big to be in there tumble down from the second level, bobbing and squealing. Ava doesn’t move fast enough, and one of them lands on top of her.

  She screams as the girl rolls off of her. Alarmed, I find the flap and crawl in. “You hurt her!” I tell the girl. “You have to watch out for the little kids!”

  The older girl ignores me and bounces away, but Ava keeps screaming. Her face is crimson and her mouth is stretched with heartbreaking wails, and tears stream down her face. She crawls past me to the doorway and gets out, then looks around for her parents. I get out behind her, glad to be on solid ground.

  “Mama!” Her cry shrieks over the building.

  I stoop down in front of her. “Are you all right, honey?”

  She shakes her head, hiccupping sobs.

  “I think your mom walked outside.” I look her over to make sure nothing’s broken. She’s standing on both legs and moving her arms and fingers, so everything seems to be in working order. “How about I buy you something to drink?”

  She sucks in a sob and wipes her eyes. “Okay,” she says in a high-pitched voice.

  I lead her to the concession area and buy a piece of pizza and a strawberry-flavored drink, and I give her the drink. She slurps it and follows me to the table where her parents had been sitting. I don’t want them to come in and notice me, so I don’t sit. I put her pizza plate down and check to make sure it’s not too hot. “Is that better?” I ask her.

  She nods, perches on the edge of a chair, and takes a big bite of pizza. Her front two teeth are missing, so she bites with her side teeth.

  I stroke her corkscrew curls and look toward the big glass window. Her parents are pulling back into their space and another black, beat-up van pulls in next to them. Tiffany gets out, so I point Ava’s attention to her. “There’s your mom.”

  Ava looks through the glass as she slurps her drink, but as the driver of the black van gets out to talk to Tiffany and Nate, Ava drops her drink. It splashes on the tile, and I stoop to grab the cup. “Oh, honey . . .”

  But Ava hasn’t noticed the spill. She’s staring toward her parents, a look of terror on her face. I look from her to the window.

  Ava whizzes past me and shoots to the bathroom. I look back at Nate and Tiffany. They’re coming in now, and the greasy man from the van stays outside, leaning back against his fender.

  I hurry into the bathroom. Only one stall door is closed, and I glance under and don’t see feet. But I hear Ava sniffing.

  I want to ask her if she’s all right, but the bathroom door flies open. I slip into the stall closest to me and lock it.

  “Ava? Baby, are you in here?”

  Ava doesn’t answer. I watch under the door and see Tiffany duck her head down to look under the stall. “Ava, get out here!” she yells when she sees the little girl. “Unlock this door right now!”

  I hear the door clicking, but Ava doesn’t come out. Tiffany shoves the door open and jerks her out.

  “No!”

  “It’s time to go. You straighten up or we’re never coming back!”

  “I don’t want to go with him, Mama!”

  “Hush!” Tiffany says, dragging Ava to the door. “Dry up right now. Do you hear me?”

  I close my eyes as Tiffany walks her out.

  I wait a minute, giving them time to leave the building before I come out of the bathroom. I look through the big front window again and stand in utter amazement as the greasy man takes Ava’s hand and puts her in his van.

  Tiffany and Nate get into their own van.

  I hurry out the door to my car, and as the man with Ava pulls out of the parking lot, I follow him. I use my phone to take pictures of his tag.

  Is he a relative? A babysitter? Could he be her father rather than Nate?

  I follow a block behind him, watching as he pulls into the parking lot of a junkyard. He gets out, carrying Ava, and takes her into the office that seems to be closed.

  She doesn’t seem to be crying anymore. Her little face just looks blank.

  I drive around the block several times, trying to see if Ava’s in the junkyard or standing at the window, but there’s no sign of her. I park at the tattoo parlor half a block away and watch for them to come out.

  An hour passes, when finally I see the man walking out with Ava trailing several feet behind him. He opens the sliding side door and she gets in. He doesn’t buckle her in, just slams the door and gets behind the wheel.

  I get a sick feeling as I follow him back to the parking lot of Bouncy House Heaven. Nate and Tiffany have moved their van to deeper in the parking lot, and they’re standing outside it as if waiting. I pull into the first space I see, several rows away, in front of a grocery store.

  Nate drops his cigarette and stomps it out as the black van pulls up behind them. I see Tiffany slide the back door open. I expect her to get her daughter out, but instead she retrieves a brown paper sack, opens it, and looks inside. Apparently satisfied with the contents, she grabs out Ava.

  The man in the van takes off, and Nate and Tiffany put Ava in their van. They don’t leave right away. They sit inside the van for a few minutes. I’m soaked with sweat as I sort through what I just saw. Was this a drug deal? If so, what was the payment?

  I feel the contents of my stomach rising up, and I open the door and throw up on the pavement. The van pulls away.

  Could this man in the black van have been the one who actually abused Ava, rather than Cole Whittington? If so, this can’t be allowed to happen anymore. I have to do something.

  My head is splitting when I get back to Miss Naomi’s. I’m not in the mood for Lydia or Caden. Lydia’s car isn’t there. I go in through the front door. Miss Naomi is sound asleep in a recliner, and Caden is playing on the floor in front of her.

  “Manda!” he says, springing to his feet.

  “Caden,” I say. “Where’s your mama?”

  He shrugs, then points to his grandmother, who’s snoring. “She seeping.”

  I go over to Miss Naomi and touch her shoulder, try to wake her. She doesn’t rouse. I look down at him. I can’t leave him here.

  “Come on upstairs with me, buddy,” I say. “I’ll read you a book.”

  Delighted, he holds my hand as we head upstairs, but it takes a while because he wants to hop up each step. When we finally make it to the top, he runs to climb on my bed. I’m not in the mood for entertaining a child, but Caden shouldn’t be left alone with a sleeping grandmother.

  When Lydia finally comes home, I hear her bounding up the steps. She comes to my door.

  “Mama!” Caden bounces down and runs to her, and she lifts him.

  “Your mother was asleep,” I say. “He was playing by himself when I got home.”

  “And she calls me irresponsible,” Lydia says. “Thanks for hanging out with him. He likes you.”

  “I like him too,” I say, hoping this won’t make him come back to my bed and start things up again. I really want to get on my computer. I grab it and open it. Maybe she’ll get the message.

  Thankfully, she does, and she closes my door. I hear the TV going on outside it. Bubble Guppies again.

  I lean back against my headboard and type in the black van’s tag number. Nothing comes up. I don’t have access to the DMV’s database, and the man may not own the junkyard. Somehow I’ve got to find out who that man was and why Ava’s parents handed her over.

  I tell myself that it can’t be what I fear, even though I know better. I don’t know what to do. What if I go to the police and risk exposing myself, only to find he’s an uncle or something? I could emphasize how afraid she was of him, but I can’t prove that anything happened.

  I can almost hear my sister’s voice, begging me, pleading with me, to let this go and mind my own business. She would tell me that I h
ave catastrophic problems of my own, and that I need to focus on them if I ever want to return to my family.

  The Bubble Guppies theme song plays from the other room. I think of my little niece’s soft hair on my lips and her head swaying to the beat of the music, laughter in her eyes.

  She’s probably walking by now. I imagine her holding a chair and pushing it across the room as she learns how to pick up one foot, then another. I picture her falling, then getting back up, reaching for her mom and lifting that right foot again, then the left, then toppling over. I ache as I think about catching her up before she hits the floor, and cheering like she’s just run a 5K.

  I’ll never be able to see her milestones. She’s out of my reach now.

  And the idea that I will ever be a mom myself seems even more out of reach. Even if I did manage to find a good, stable hiding place and start a new life, how could I ever bring a child into my fugitive world? It would only put her at risk of emotional trauma, or worse. No, that’s not a possibility anymore.

  I know that Hannah has probably posted videos of Emma’s milestones, but I fight the urge to use one of my fake Facebook accounts to go see those latest pictures, because I know they’ll be watching for me to do that. I don’t know how much information they can get from something like that, but I suspect that they can trace my location via my server. I’m just going to have to miss all of her milestones. I may miss her whole childhood.

  But within the context of all the other losses in my life, I should be glad that she’s sheltered from the pain. She probably won’t feel as though anyone has been ripped from her life. I’ll be the aunt who’s mentioned in hushed tones, the one in pictures at her grandmother’s house, the one people don’t want to talk about openly. As long as she’s protected from Keegan and his schemes, it will all be worth it.

  26

  CASEY

  I’m at work, just clocking out for lunch, when Cole stops me. “Miranda, can I talk to you for a second?”