“How do you know?” he asks.
She turns to him, a question in her eyes. “What?”
“That he’s upset about it.”
The question seems to surprise her, but she explains with, “Mia found him when he was a kitten. He’s never been away from her. He sleeps with her every night. I just know.”
He realizes she’s measured her response, can see that it is difficult for her not to label him a complete idiot.
“You and your sister both like animals?” he asks, doing a quick assessment of the living room, noting the family photos, two large ones of possible parents on a far wall. The rest seem to be only of her and Mia.
“Yes,” she says, studying him intently. “We both like animals. You don’t?”
The enormous cat chooses that moment to demonstrate the logic behind his name, launching himself from the back of the nearby sofa to latch onto the front of Knox’s right leg, nails hanging on his suit pants.
“Pounce!”
Emory Benson grabs for the cat, but he’s latched on with no intention of letting go. She squats in front of him, doing her best to disengage the cat’s claws from his leg. The nails give the cat leverage though, and he sinks them in, penetrating pants and skin.
“Pounce, let go!” she demands, and as if he knows he’s crossed the line, the cat instantly releases himself.
She swoops him up in her arms, apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to him.”
“That’s okay,” he says, reaching down to rub his leg.
“He’s never done anything like that.”
“Glad I could be the first.”
This brings a half-smile to her mouth, and as if it has surprised her, she instantly sobers. “Maybe he thinks you can help find Mia.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Or maybe he’s just an ornery cat?”
The assessment clearly offends her. She pulls Pounce a little closer and says, “I believe animals have the ability to sense things that humans do not.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea whether you’re right or not, but do you think you could stick him in another room until we’re done?”
She considers the question long enough that he’s fairly sure she’s going to tell him to go screw himself, but instead, she disappears from the living room, the cat staring back at him over her shoulder. He hears a door open and close down the hallway and then looks up as she walks back in the room without the cat.
He feels a short stab of guilt that she’s conceded to booting the cat, realizing he’s given her absolutely no reason to like him enough to answer any of his questions. “If you’d rather he hang out in here, it’s fine.”
“Why are you here, Detective Helmer?” she asks, ignoring the concession. Her arms are folded across her chest, her manner now all business.
“So you got through medical school while raising your kid sister?”
“I did.”
“That ever feel like a burden?”
Her eyes go wide at the question, shock rippling across her face. “Is there a point to your question?”
He lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug, holding her gaze. “Should there be?”
Outrage flares now, and he can feel her desire to give him the verbal dress-down she thinks he deserves. “Are you implying I had something to do with my sister’s disappearance?”
“Did you?”
It’s a little direct, even for him, going for the jugular that way, but he’s not in the mood for dancing around the real reason he’s here. He’s already made one significant error in judgment within the past twenty-four hours. He doesn’t need to add another to the list.
She visibly struggles for control, her cheeks red with a rush of anger. “So is this what’s happening with Mia’s investigation? This is the best your department has got? Send over a detective with an obvious chip on his shoulder to grill the sister who must have a reason to want her dead?”
“No one said anything about dead,” he says, his voice even.
“Are you trying to back me in a corner?”
He watches her rein in her disbelief. When she speaks again, her voice is the one he imagines she uses as a doctor with a patient she expects to disagree with her recommendations.
“My sister is my entire world. She is the only family I have. I am dying inside at the thought of her being hurt or—”
Her voice breaks there, and the regret that shoots through his chest is a surprise.
“Can we sit down?” he asks.
She leads the way to the sofa in the center of the room and sits at one corner without answering him.
He takes the other corner and makes the decision to try a different course, pulling a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket. “Tell me what Mia likes to do.”
“I went over all of this at the station last night.”
“Indulge me.”
She glances out the window at the middle of the room. She’s quiet for several long moments. When she finally speaks, it’s as if she’s been trying to filter all the fear from her voice so that she can paint him an accurate picture.
“She’s a runner. She likes to run because of the way it makes her feel. It’s natural to her. Like breathing. We do races together, but she always beats me. She likes animals. She wants to be a veterinarian.”
“Smart girl?”
“Valedictorian of her class at this point.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Run in the family?”
“That particular thing, yes.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” she says, again notably offended by the implication that she might not know her sister as well as she thinks.
“She likes boys?”
“Yes, she likes boys,” she says, emphasizing the last word. “She just prefers focusing on her studies right now. She received an academic scholarship to NC State for pre-vet undergraduate work.”
“She’s a hard-worker then?”
“Very.”
“Was the scholarship mandatory for getting to go to college?”
“Our parents left us well-taken care of, if that’s what you’re asking. We both thought it made sense to get whatever scholarships we were able to get.”
“Why psychiatry?”
The question is out of the blue, and he sees the sideswipe of surprise on her face. A few moments pass before she answers with, “I like figuring people out.”
“Are you good at it?”
“I’m getting better.”
“That’s honest.”
“Take you, for instance.”
Now it’s his turn to be surprised. He waits for her to go on without giving her permission to do so.
“You hate your job. Or maybe it’s your entire life that you hate. I’m guessing ex-military. Specialty, I would presume judging by your fitness, the haircut. SEAL?”
Her accuracy is startling, but he refuses to let it show on his face. He keeps his expression neutral, expecting her to stop, but she goes on with, “This work must bore you by comparison. Having to spend your days asking ridiculous questions of regular people like me. You’re probably used to blowing stuff up, invading places in the dark. Adrenaline-inducing assignments. You seem like someone who would become addicted to that. Find life bland without it.”
She stops for a moment and then goes on with, “My guess is you’ve also got relationship issues. You’re not one to put down roots or take the time to invest in anything real. Affairs are probably more your thing. Expectations are obvious up front. You don’t have to pretend to want more. Both parties get what they came for.”
She waits for his response, clearly confident that she has nailed him.
“You’re good with the diversionary tactics,” he says, pinning her with a silent command for her to stop. “But I’m supposed to be the one drawing the conclusions.”
“And have y
ou? Drawn any?”
“One.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Your sister is probably lucky to have you looking for her.”
She doesn’t expect this, and he watches her previous desire to decimate him dissolve and fade away. “Thanks,” she says, her voice now barely audible. “But I have no idea what to do other than trust that you and your department will do everything possible to bring her home.”
“Tell me about the friend. Grace?”
“Yes. They’ve known each other since elementary school. Mia is the leader in the friendship. Grace would like to get off track sometimes, but Mia has always been able to steer her back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wanting to try things. The normal teenage stuff. Drinking. Cigarettes.”
“Is it possible she could have convinced Mia to run away?”
“From what? They both have very good lives with their futures planned in the fall. They’re going off to college. They don’t do drugs. Why would they run away?”
“I don’t always know why teenagers do some of the things they do. I just know they do them.”
“Not these two. It would be out of character.”
“So what do you think happened to them?”
The question is direct, again catching her off guard.
“If I knew, would I be sitting here taking this from you?”
“I simply mean, what does your gut tell you?”
Her response is instant. “That someone took them. I know my sister. That is the only possible explanation.”
He’d come here today, hoping to see evidence of something else. Something that would make him conclude this was another case of two teenage girls who had taken off on an adventure and would eventually find their way back home.
But he doesn’t. He believes Emory Benson. And in his gut, he thinks she’s probably right.
Someone did take them.
Emory
“I don’t count my sit-ups; I only start counting when it starts hurting because they’re the only ones that count.”
—Muhammad Ali
I CAN SEE the moment Detective Helmer decides he agrees with me.
The realization sends whatever hope had been fluttering at the center of my chest, plummeting. Despair erupts from its ashes, and I am mortified by the tears I cannot control.
I do not want his pity, but it’s clear that he feels it, whether he wants to or not. “Ms. Benson, Dr. Benson,” he corrects, “we have some great cops working on your sister’s case. It’s early hours yet. We’re combing camera feeds in areas around the festival. We’re going door to door within a one mile radius, asking for information from anyone who might have seen anything at all suspicious. I know the waiting is the unbearable part, but give us a little time. We’ll do everything we can to find them.”
I want to believe him. I need to believe him. But I think of all the horrible cases I’ve heard about—on television, in books and movies—and terror is all I can manage to feel.
He must see this despite my effort to hide it because he says, “The moment I learn anything at all, I will let you know.”
He stands then, adding, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“Only that I can’t imagine my life without Mia. Please find her. Please.”
He pulls a card from his shirt pocket, walks closer to hand it to me. “My cell number is on there. If you think of anything else, call me at any time.”
Our gazes hang for a moment. Something passes between us. I feel its current-like electricity, and I wonder if, under other circumstances, we might be drawn to each other. But then I recall my predictions about him, feel certain I’d been right, and I know he’s not a man I could ever be drawn to. My search in life is for stability, predictability, the opposite of out-of-the-blue middle-of-the-night phone calls that wreck an entire existence.
My only hope for anything from Knox Helmer is that he will help bring back the only thing that can ensure that life will make sense again: my sister, Mia.
~
ONCE DETECTIVE HELMER leaves, I let Pounce out of Mia’s room. He trots behind me into the kitchen, sitting like an observing statue in the doorway while I empty the dishwasher and wipe the countertops. Once that’s done, I clean out the refrigerator, throwing away leftovers I should have thrown away weeks ago. I fill a trash bag, take it out to the can at the door off the side of the kitchen and then come back inside to find Pounce still staring at me.
He meows a protesting yowl and trots into the living room. I hear a clatter and leave the kitchen to find that he is standing on the keyboard of my desktop computer. His tail swishes in agitation, and I swear it’s as if he is asking me to do something.
Whether it has anything to do with him or if the prompting is purely coincidental, I realize I cannot fill my hours with cleaning and rearranging. I take the chair in front of the computer, lifting Pounce from the keyboard and depositing him on my lap. I hit the space bar on the keyboard, the screen lighting up.
Pounce’s tail stops swishing, and he folds himself into a comma, his chin resting on my left knee.
I have no idea where to start, so I offer the search engine the most obvious thing that comes to mind: missing girls Washington, DC.
The first results shock me. A screenshot of the Metropolitan Police Department Twitter feed reads: Critical Missing. Two Teenage Girls. Mia Benson. Age 17. Grace Marshall. Age 17. Last seen at Spring Jam Festival.
Their physical info is given, their photos displayed along with information on how to contact the Youth and Family Services Division or the Command Information Center with any possible leads.
I stare at my sister’s smiling face. It’s the profile photo she used for her Facebook page, and I realize they must have pulled it from there.
Tears well in my eyes, and her smiling face blurs before me. Grief explodes from my chest, and I put my head on the desk in front of me, sobbing until the sorrow begins to be replaced with rage.
Pounce puts his paws on my shoulder, kneading my shirt the way he does his favorite pillow. I hear him purring, turn around and swoop him up against me, squeezing him so tight against me that he lets out a protesting yelp.
I loosen my hold but don’t let him go, and he doesn’t want me to. He tucks his face against my neck, and we sit that way until my angry crying drains me into silence.
I tap the space bar on the keyboard and back out of the current page to my original search findings for missing girls Washington, DC.
Washington DC Police locate missing 12-year-old girl
Nov 11, 2015 – WASHINGTON, D.C. – Police were searching for a missing 12-year-old girl.
7 facts about missing children in the DMV | WUSA9.com
May 25, 2016 – 1. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, there are 140 missing children in the Washington, DC, Maryland; and …
11-Year-Old DC Girl Missing Since Friday | TBV3 Washington
Dec 9, 2014 – An 11-year-old girl from Southeast D.C. has been missing since last Wednesday, police say.
I exit the screen, unable to read more.
Overwhelm hits me like a cascade of rocks, and I fall back against the chair, Pounce still clinging to me.
We sit there in the middle of our living room, shipwrecked passengers who have washed up on an island they have never seen before and have no idea how they will exist on.
But we have no choice other than to figure it out. We have to be here for Mia when she comes home. And she will come home. Anything else is unthinkable.
The Proprietor
“I will say that I cannot imagine any condition which could cause a ship to founder. I cannot conceive of any vital disaster happening to this vessel.”
— E.J. Smith, Captain of the Titanic
THE ENTRANCE SIGN is discreet.
Hotel California
The two words are scripted across a heavy brass estate plaque mounted to a single stacked-stone column.
Her driver makes the turn onto the narrow asphalt drive, hits the remote for the iron gate. They wait for it to swing open, and, as always, she takes the moment to admire the setting before her.
Here, on this northern fringe of Virginia countryside, barely an hour beyond the power corridors of downtown Washington, DC, the Hotel California had once provided occasional escape to some of the country’s most well-known political families. She had found guest books in the hotel vault dating back to the early 1900s with names like Roosevelt and Wilson gracing the pages.
It was a source of pride to know that she was the modern-day proprietor of such a place. Of course, when she’d first found the hotel in the real estate for sale listings of properties close enough to the city, it had looked nothing like it now looks. It had been a sad, drooping shadow of its former self.
And she, she, had been the one to spot the diamond in the rough, wave the magic wand and transform it.
Little had she known the extent of the bounty inside the treasure chest of the Hotel California.
No, that discovery hadn’t made itself known until the contractor had discovered the secret elevator shaft.
Ahead, at the end of the long drive, just barely visible from the gate entrance, the hotel stands now like a reinstated beauty queen, the deep lines of fatigue blasted from her surface by one of the country’s best architects with the same determined skill as a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Her brick walls had been cleaned with bleach and water, mildew and mold fleeing like no longer welcome guests from its surface.
The manicured lawn and accentuating boxwoods resemble the English country houses they’d originally been patterned after. Two enormous oak trees flank each side of the main building. The arborists told her it was extremely unusual that neither tree had ever been damaged by lightning, every single limb still strong and thriving.
She liked to think of the trees as protectors of the hotel, warding off encroaching dangers like storms and wind and ice. Much the same as she was the protector of the very precious guests and residents of the hotel.
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