Something simple, but tried and true.
Blackmail.
Emory
“It takes half your life before you discover life is a do-it-yourself project.”
—Napoleon Hill
I WAKE TO the realization that it’s Day Three since Mia disappeared.
Three days.
I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand by the bed, tap the screen to see if there had been any messages during the night.
No notifications. No texts. No calls.
I hurl the phone to the foot of the bed and stare at the ceiling, frustration churning in my stomach like acid.
How did this happen? How can I be lying here in my bed when Mia is . . . I don’t know how to finish that.
Because I don’t know where she is. How she is. If she’s alive or . . .
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I can’t. It’s too unbearable to even think.
Pounce meows from the open doorway. I pat the side of the bed, and he trots over and sails up beside me. He’d slept in Mia’s room again last night.
I rub his soft back, and he arches against my leg, meowing softly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, picking him up and wrapping my arms around him. Pounce is not a cat who likes to be hugged by anyone but Mia. This morning, though, he seems to know that I need it as much as he does. I press my forehead against his neck, and the sobs that rise up out of me will no longer be denied. I cry until I have no more tears to cry. God love him, Pounce tolerates my grief, and I rub my hand across his tear-drenched neck.
I have never in my life felt so helpless. I have no idea what to do. Who to turn to. How can I do nothing? Go in to work as if my life has not been upended and my baby sister will be home anytime?
I can’t.
I know my residency is at stake, but I cannot return to life as normal.
I decide then that I will call Dr. Maverick as soon as I’ve had a decent cup of coffee and cleared the anguish from my voice.
What else? What else can I do?
I glance at the stack of papers I left on the nightstand the night before. I pick up the paper on top and glance down the list of recommended things to do when a loved one has gone missing. I’ve done all but the last one: hire a detective.
Is it time for that? What if the police find out I’ve hired someone? Will that lessen their efforts to find Mia?
My stomach drops at the thought. But I can’t leave this box unchecked.
How do you find a private detective?
I have no idea.
My phone rings. I jump to a sitting position, grabbing it from the foot of the bed. Pounce yowls and leaps to the floor, prancing out of the room with his tail straight in the air.
I don’t recognize the number and answer with a question in my voice. But I recognize the caller’s voice immediately. “Detective Helmer.”
“Sorry if I’m calling too early.”
“No,” I answer quickly, and then more frantic. “Have you found Mia?”
“Ah, no,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s not that.”
I release a sigh of incredible disappointment. “Do you have any leads?”
“As of yesterday, no. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to let you know that another detective will be handling your case starting this morning.”
“What? But why won’t you be working the case?” I think of the time a new detective will need to get up to speed, and a fresh wave of despair floods through me.
“I’m going to be on leave for six weeks.”
Something about this statement strikes me as odd. “Personal leave?”
“Of a sort.”
I realize then it must not be voluntary. “Oh.”
“I wanted to let you know.” He hesitates. “I didn’t want you to think I just walked off and left the case.”
I try to process everything he’s said. All that he knows about the details of the disappearance of Mia and Grace and how frustrating it is to think of throwing it out the window. And then I remember the private detective box I haven’t yet checked. “Detective Helmer?”
“Yeah?”
“Since you have six weeks of free time on your hands, would you be willing to work for me? Privately?”
If his silence is any indication, I have shocked him. “I’m not licensed for private work, Dr. Benson.”
“Would it have to be official?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I found this list of things to do when someone you love goes missing, and I did all of them yesterday except the last one. Hire a private detective. When you called, I was just trying to figure out where to start, how to find someone. The phone rang, and it was you. Surely, that must mean something.”
“Dr. Benson . . .”
“It’s Emory. And please. Detective Helmer, you already know as much or more than anyone involved. To think of someone else starting over when she’s already been missing . . . this is day three.” I start to cry then. I don’t want to. I want to plead with him from a point of strength, but my reserves are at rock bottom. I try to speak again, but a sob is stuck in my throat, and I make this awful choking sound.
“Hey,” he says.
“I can pay you,” I say quickly. “I still have some of the money our parents left us. They would want me to spend it on finding Mia.”
Silence hangs from the other side of the phone, and I am wondering if he has hung up when he finally speaks. “I can’t take money from you, Dr. Benson, Emory. I’ll follow through on the leads I was working on my own. But I can’t promise you anything. I would be doing you a disservice if I told you anything other than the truth.”
“And that is?”
“We’re going on seventy-two hours. And every hour that passes lessens the likelihood that your sister will be found.”
Rage bubbles up inside me, and I want to scream that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I know that he does. And so I force my voice into a neutral tone when I say, “Please. Can you start this morning? Now.”
He’s silent for another string of moments, and then he says, “I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.”
This part surprises me. But I don’t let him hear that in my voice when I say, “I’ll be ready.”
Knox
“One of the most important things you can do on this earth is to let people know they are not alone.”
―Shannon L. Alder
HE NEEDS TO have his head examined.
This is what he’s telling himself when he pulls into Emory Benson’s driveway thirty minutes after their phone call. A near bark of laughter erupts from his chest, because he does have his head examined on a weekly basis with Dr. Thomason. What more proof does he need that those sessions are a complete waste of time?
He wipes the smile from his face under the realization that Dr. Benson’s psychiatric experience could be used against him if he’s sitting here smiling like a lunatic when she comes out.
She steps through the front door just then, locking it behind her and then walking to the Jeep, looking at it as if she’s surprised not to see the department sedan he’d driven here before.
She opens the passenger door and climbs in, and suddenly, he’s wondering if he should have gotten out and opened it for her. Okay, that’s crossing the line for sure.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Hi,” she says. “So where are we going?”
She’s brusque and to the point, and he pulls his thoughts back from the realization that she smells like some clean spa smell that fills the Jeep in a nice way. Her hair is wet and pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing jeans and running shoes and a light-blue, collared shirt. She doesn’t look anywhere near old enough to be a psychiatrist. Even one who’s still a resident. “Ah, I wanted to take another look at the area where you found her phone. Let’s start there with you showing me the exact spot.”
“Why?” she asks. “Surely, the police have thoroughly covered that?”
“I’d like to make sure nothing was missed.”
She stares out the window and then says, “I don’t know whether to be hopeful or discouraged by the fact that you think it’s a possibility.”
He glances in the rearview mirror and reverses out of the driveway. He stays at the edge of the residential speed limit, keeping his view straight ahead. “Here’s a fact about all investigations. They’re conducted by human beings. And human beings make mistakes. Sometimes, it’s the smallest clue that solves a case. I heard a football coach say once that you never know which play will win the game. So you play them all like they’re the winning one. I tend to look at evidence the same way.”
She visibly processes what he’s said, then nods once in understanding.
They drive in silence until he reaches the Capital Beltway.
“You’ve had cases like this before?” she asks, her gaze leveled at the windshield.
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Were they all solved?”
He hears the hope at the end of the question and wishes for a moment that he didn’t have to crush it. “Four of them.”
She swings to him, and he already knows her focus is on the one they didn’t find. “What happened?” she asks.
He settles over the memory for a moment, feeling his own reluctance to go there. “Thirteen-year-old girl waiting for the school bus. The little sister said two men in a black car pulled over and grabbed the older one. The younger sister ran back to the house to get help, but they were out of sight by the time the mother got to the bus stop.”
He senses her stiffen beside him.
“Does anyone know . . . ?” She breaks off there.
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
“How can someone just disappear?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
He has no answer that will do anything other than crush whatever hope she has left. “It depends on why they were taken.”
“You mean whether the abductor continues to have a purpose for them or not?”
He nods.
“I keep thinking about those three girls in Cleveland who were missing for ten years. Can you imagine being the 911 person who took that call?”
“No. Some people might not have taken her seriously.”
“After ten years, they still had enough fight left in them to take a chance to go for help.”
“They never gave up,” he says.
“But that long. How did their families survive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they believed they could still be alive?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She draws in a quick breath, as if he’s stabbed her with something sharp. The truth can be like that. He should know. “I don’t blame them,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Human beings need resolution to go on. It’s the waiting, the not knowing what’s going to happen that does us in.”
He can feel her desire to reject what he’s said.
She studies the blurred buildings outside the window as the Jeep rolls down the Beltway. He dips in and out of the traffic lanes, eager to get where they’re going.
“What sets apart a survivor from someone who doesn’t survive?” she asks in a low voice.
He considers the question, not wanting to give her a flip answer. “It’s probably a lot of different factors.”
“Indulge me.”
“The most important thing is whether the victim is a fighter or not. Is she?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “She is. But I’ve always been her protector, and I hope I haven’t—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I’m sure you’ve taught her everything she would need to know.”
“Maybe I’ve been there too much. Stepped in when I should have let her work it out.”
“It’s a delicate balance, that parenting thing.”
“With an eighteen-year-old taking over the job, I have no doubt she got shorted.”
“But you were there for her. What if you hadn’t been?”
The shadow that crosses her face tells him it’s something she’s considered. “I can’t imagine.”
“I’m sure she couldn’t either.”
She glances at him, and he lets his eyes meet hers for a second before turning back to the road. In that brief flash of connection, he realizes she’s let the veil down, her pain clearly visible. “Tell me about the friend,” he says.
“Grace,” she says, the name little more than a whisper. “She’s a follower. Mia is the leader in the friendship. But it seems to work for them.”
“They’ll separate them,” he says. At Emory’s stricken glance, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I have a bad habit of voicing my thoughts out loud.”
Tears well in her eyes, and he could kick himself for the visual he’s given her. “Emory—”
“It’s okay. I want your honesty. I have nothing to gain from being told anything that isn’t true.”
Traffic starts to pool in front of the Jeep. He brakes, slowing the Jeep to a crawl. “Did Mia mention anyone unusual in the days before her disappearance?”
Emory bites her lower lip, and he sees her concentration, her desire not to give him an answer until she’s considered the breadth of her memory. “The only new person in her life was a guy at school. She thought he was cute. A football player. She hasn’t been too interested in dating so my ears perked up at that, but she never mentioned anything that would make me worry.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“What?” she asks, swinging her gaze to mine.
“Worry.”
She shrugs. “More than Mia would like.”
“Did . . . does she keep things from you because you worry?”
As if she realizes where he’s going with this, she says, “I think she understands why I’m protective.”
“But would she keep things from you if she thought you might worry about her if you knew?”
“Maybe,” she concedes.
“So you can’t be sure that what you know of her daily habits, routines, choices is definitely what you believe them to be?”
“Detective Helmer,” she says, her voice iron-edged now, “why is it starting to feel like I’m under investigation here?”
“You are,” he says, following through on her desire for honesty. “Anyone I can find who has any connection to your sister is under investigation, as far as I’m concerned. I’m connecting dots here. And I’ll follow whichever dot leads to the next one. That is the only chance of connecting them all so that we have any hope of ever seeing a complete picture.”
“How did this happen?” she asks softly, shaking her head. “Is life really this random? Do any of the efforts we make to drive the speed limit, eat the right foods, pick the right guy, never run on the jogging path alone, does any of it matter at all? Or is the asteroid headed right toward us the whole time so that none of the things we do ever matter at all?”
He draws in a breath, blows it out slowly. He’d like to reassure her, tell her he believes those efforts do matter. But the truth is, he’s seen too much evidence to the contrary.
“That’s all right,” she says, holding up a hand. “You don’t need to say anything. I should know the answer to my own question. My parents were two of those people who tried to live within the lines. And one driver who decided to get under the wheel after a night partying with his buddies obliterated all of their efforts in a single moment.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else is there to say?
“So maybe the truth is we’re all living under this grand illusion that we’re in charge of our lives and what happens to us. I’m working on another year of education in a field where I’m supposed to end up being someone who tells other people how they can regain control of their lives. How crazy is that?” She laughs a short laugh, and then
the laughter flows up and out of her. She leans forward with her arms wrapped around her waist and tries to stop. But she can’t.
He’s debating what to say when the laughter instantly changes to a sob, and her shoulders begin to shake hard. And she’s crying, as he’s never heard anyone cry before.
He takes the next exit, staying to the right until he finds a parking lot to turn into. He pulls in a spot and cuts the engine, unhooking his seat belt and turning a knee toward her. He feels awkward and unsure what to do. “Has anyone hugged you since this happened?” he asks finally.
She looks up, tears still flowing. She shakes her head a little, as if the realization has just occurred to her.
He doesn’t give himself or her time to think about it. He unsnaps her seat belt and reaches for her, pulling her up against him and locking his arms around her. She holds herself stiff, as if giving in to the comfort will label her incapable of dealing with what she’s facing.
“It’s okay,” he says, resting his hand at the center of her back.
She holds out for another fifteen seconds or so, but when she breaks, it is instant, and she folds herself against him, burying her face against his shirt. The sobs are back, and he understands that she has absolutely no control over them. That all the pain she’s been keeping behind the dam between her heart and reality has broken. He absorbs the pain, holding her as tight as she’ll let him.
Birdsong drifts in through his lowered window, along with traffic sounds and the muted laughter of children somewhere nearby. He’s reminded of how easily the world goes on, despite the pain and those times when people have no choice but to stop and release it.
Her grief is a tangible force inside the Jeep, and he feels the knot in his throat thicken. As her sobs soften, he becomes aware of the woman in his arms. The clean scent of her hair, the feel of her cheek against his chest. His body stirs, and he shoots himself with a mental cussword. He’s the one who stiffens now, and she takes it as a signal to pull away, comfort session over.
She wipes her hands across her face and then reluctantly lets her gaze meet his. “You’re kind,” she says.
He turns in his seat, facing forward. “No, I’m not,” he says. “Believe me.”
Swerve Page 9
