Somebody's Daughter

by David Bell

  Griffin found the sound of his tapping irritating. “Really? You too? You’re going to throw that ‘You don’t have kids, so you don’t understand’ crap at me?”

  “I don’t mean it like that,” he said, his face flushing. “I just meant . . . I understand.” He paused. “And I know some of that stuff Helen was saying about miscarriages hit close to home. I do.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I hear you. But back to Erica Frazier. I kind of get that she’s not at home, even if it does make her look a little . . . unusual.”

  “Suspicious.”

  “Sure. That too.” He reached over, adjusted the air-conditioning vent, directing it at his large head. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “And we’ve already had a long day. And we may have more long days to come ahead of us. I think we should head in, touch base with everyone at headquarters, Reddick and Phillips, and then try to get a little sleep, even a few hours, before the craziness starts all over again tomorrow. They’re going to need us to be at our best. What do you think?”

  Her partner’s words made sense, and she agreed to go along with them, even though she didn’t like the idea. She didn’t like it at all.

  chapter

  twenty-seven

  11:20 P.M.

  As they drove across Trudeau, Michael’s mind filled with thoughts of Angela. Their phone conversation lingered, and he could imagine her at home—drinking a glass of wine, organizing the kitchen, listening to music while doing paperwork. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Eleven twenty. Getting late. By this point, she might be in bed, propped up on pillows reading something for her book club, the glow from the bedside lamp illuminating her light-colored hair.

  Michael caught another glimpse of Erica in the rearview. She didn’t see him look, but he saw the haunted sadness in her eyes.

  The loss of a child. He knew what it felt like to lose someone you were supposed to be responsible for. When Robyn died, no one said anything directly to him. His parents never placed blame on him. No one in school or the town directly pointed fingers. Everyone who knew Robyn knew how adventurous she was, how much she liked to climb and jump and push every boundary.

  But Michael felt it. Even if it was all in his head, he felt it. Everyone knew he was the oldest child. Everyone knew he could have been watching his sister more closely that day.

  He told Angela about Robyn’s death on one of their first dates. They dove into one of those getting-to-know-each-other-well conversations, the kind that felt essential to any relationship that might make it off the ground. They sat in a coffee shop on a bright afternoon, the rich aroma of roasted beans and toasted bagels filling the air.

  He told her everything he remembered about that day with a catch in his throat, his eyes meeting hers and seeing the empathy there. She listened so intently, actively, as though hearing his words required as much energy on her part as saying them did on his.

  When he was finished, she said, “It seems like you blame yourself.”

  “I do. I should have been there. I could have stopped Lynn from having to see that too.”

  Angela shook her head. “You can’t. You really can’t. It was an accident. And you were a kid too. If she climbed all the time, if she was a daredevil, could you really have stopped her?”

  He’d heard some variation on those words a thousand times over the years, but he never believed them as much as when Angela said them. Even when his parents said them, he wasn’t sure they registered. He remembered the pride and love in his father’s eyes when he looked at Robyn, the way he doted on her, the way he called her his “Robbie-girl.”

  At that point, talking to Angela shortly after he met her, he understood they were moving toward something more serious, possibly something permanent.

  “Michael?”

  Erica’s voice came from the backseat, cutting through his thoughts.

  “What?”

  “That’s where it happened,” she said. “Tom Haynes Municipal Park. There on the right.”

  “The kidnapping?” Michael asked. “Right there?”

  Michael slowed. The park entrance was just off the street, and he wanted to take a look, to get a glimpse at the very place where Felicity disappeared.

  “Michael, don’t—”

  “Don’t what?”

  But then he understood.

  He saw a cluster of bright lights. Three news vans sat in a line near the entrance, the reporters and crews packing their equipment and rolling up cables. They’d no doubt done their live updates for the late broadcast and were ready to go home.

  Michael stopped the car about fifty feet away from them.

  “Get going,” Erica asked. “They’ll see us.”

  “Maybe they can tell us something. The latest news.”

  “You’re just going to walk up and ask them for news on the case?” Tolliver asked.

  Michael shook his head. “I’m not.” He turned around so he could see Erica. “She is.”

  Erica’s mouth fell open. She started shaking her head back and forth like the pendulum on a metronome. “No, Michael. I’ve done that all day. And if I walk out there, they’re going to be all over me. And you.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “They’re hungry for a story right now,” she said.

  “She’s right,” Tolliver said. “It’s better if you go.”

  But one of the reporters was coming closer, moving toward the car. She squinted in the dark, her heavy makeup visible in the parking lot lights.

  “Mrs. Frazier?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  “Oh, shit,” Tolliver said.

  “Go, Michael,” Erica said.

  “No,” he said. “She saw you. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  chapter

  twenty-eight

  “Keep me out of this,” Tolliver said. As the reporter approached, he slunk down into his seat.

  “It’s just a reporter.”

  “I’d rather talk to the police,” he said.

  “Damn it, Michael,” Erica said. “Now she saw me.”

  Erica pushed open the back door of the SUV and walked around the front, her body passing through the headlights as she approached the reporter. She looked small in their glare, almost like a child, and to some extent he always thought of her that way. Not childish but childlike. Emotional, impulsive. Carefree and high-spirited. Those qualities attracted him to her from the first moment they met during their junior year of college. And, at times, they caused him no end of frustration. School deadlines were missed, bills went unpaid. But, at the same time, he valued the way she pulled him out of himself, made sure he didn’t take himself too seriously.

  He had to admit she didn’t seem completely the same after ten years. Yes, the impulsiveness, the rashness, were still there and visible in her behavior that night. But Michael also detected a steeliness, a strength below the surface of everything Erica did that made her seem far more mature than the woman he knew a decade earlier.

  Maybe it was motherhood. Maybe it was ten years of raising a kid alone.

  Maybe it was just growing up, the scrapes and scars everyone carried as life smacked them around.

  The reporter offered Erica a sympathetic smile and a hug. They talked, the reporter nodding repeatedly as two more came closer, sensing they didn’t want to miss the story.

  “So, is Felicity really such a great kid?” Michael asked. “Is she . . . smart and creative and all that?”

  Tolliver nodded. “She is. She really is. She’s also one of those kids who seem to trail a little sadness along behind them. Some kids are like that. I always chalked it up to being raised by a
single mom. I know a lot of kids who are growing up in single-parent homes, and I’m not saying they’re all sad. I just got the feeling it was a struggle for Erica. A lonely struggle sometimes. That must have bled over to Felicity.”

  “She could have told me. She could have asked for help.” The words came out impulsively, through clenched teeth. Michael paused, gathered himself.

  What would have happened to his life if he’d known Erica was pregnant back then? Would he have left the marriage? He couldn’t imagine it, which meant the entire last decade would have played out in significantly different ways. A marriage to Erica, a child. Maybe more children.

  And no Angela . . .

  He felt sick just thinking about it, a sour, acidic taste rising in the back of his mouth.

  Could someone miss what he’d never had?

  Nine years. Could a parent make up nine lost years?

  He might never get a chance if the girl wasn’t found, and the thought of that caused an aching chill to start working its way through his body from his stomach up into his chest. He might never see her, might never know who she was.

  He stopped himself. He couldn’t think that way. He didn’t even know whether Felicity was his daughter. He reminded himself not to grieve for someone he never knew.

  But he could tell he wouldn’t be able to stop that. In a way, he already felt like she was his. Some deep-seated paternal drive made him want to reach out and fold the girl in his arms, to protect her and see that she was safe from any harm.

  He wanted her to be safe. He understood the odds, the urgency.

  More than that, he wanted Felicity to be his. He wanted a child and hadn’t been able to have one, and the world seemed to be offering him that chance. A bizarre, unexpected chance, but an opportunity to be a father nevertheless. He felt that wish with an intensity that surprised him, a palpable ache at the center of his torso, something that went beyond any conscious understanding and dipped into the primal.

  He wanted Felicity to be his daughter. He wanted to fill that gap in his life.

  As to how he’d fit Felicity into his life with Angela . . . he’d have to figure that out later. . . .

  “What is she doing now?” Tolliver asked.

  Erica faced three reporters and a handful of crew. As she spoke, she gestured with her hands. They didn’t appear to be filming her, as the conversation seemed casual and informal. But then Erica started walking back toward Michael’s car, and the reporters and their camera operators came with them.

  “What is this?” Michael asked, even though he could see what was happening. Erica was bringing the reporters to him. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Why not?” Tolliver asked. “Oh, I see. If you go on TV, all of a sudden everyone will know you’re the baby daddy. How else are you going to introduce yourself? As Erica’s chauffeur?”

  When Erica came alongside the vehicle, she gestured to Michael to power down the window. He did.

  “I think you should talk to them,” she said.

  “Why?” Michael asked. He noticed the reporters standing a respectful distance away—close enough to hear but far enough back that they didn’t appear to be listening.

  “They think it’s a good idea too. I’ve talked on camera a few times today, but if you went on and said something, it might bring more attention to the case.”

  Michael spoke in a whisper. “Erica, I don’t think I have a role here.”

  “Your role is doing anything you can to get Felicity back. That’s why you came along with me.”

  “No, I can’t. It’s not right.”

  “Do you want the word to get out that Felicity is in danger?” Erica asked. “Do you care about finding her? I thought you did.”

  “I do. But not this way.”

  “I’ll sit over here in the dark quietly,” Tolliver said, pressing his body against the passenger-side door and hunching down in the darkness. “If they don’t film me, I’ll behave.”

  “Erica,” Michael said, “this makes me uncomfortable.”

  “You know what makes me uncomfortable?” she asked. “Not knowing where my child is. And she’s your child too.” She stepped back and waved the reporters forward. “He’s ready.”

  “Erica . . .”

  The reporters and cameras moved closer. The lights went on, blinding Michael for a moment in the darkness. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes. While they adjusted to the glare, he heard a reporter say they were eager to get the footage of him for the next broadcast or maybe a special live update. “This will really help draw new attention to Felicity’s plight.”

  Michael’s heart rate increased. He wanted to drive away, to ask for a moment to gather his thoughts before proceeding, but they didn’t allow for that.

  “Can you just tell us why you’re here and what you want for Felicity?”

  The reporter was still hard to see with the bright lights shining in his face. He managed to get a vague sense of blond hair and manicured nails holding the microphone.

  Michael said, “I’m here helping Erica because I’m concerned about Felicity. I want to know that she’s going to be returned home safely where she belongs.”

  “And what would you say to whoever perpetrated this crime?”

  The question stumped Michael. What would he say to that person? How could he even imagine who that person would be?

  “Just let her go,” he said. “Let her return home. She’s a little girl. She’s probably scared out of her wits being away from her mom like this. Let her go and let her come back.”

  “And how are you related to Felicity?” a different reporter asked.

  “I’m not,” Michael said. “I mean . . . This isn’t really relevant, is it?”

  “You’re Felicity’s father, right? Her biological father?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Her mother thinks you are,” the first reporter said. “Could you just say you’re concerned about your daughter?”

  “I am concerned about her, about Felicity.”

  “Because she’s your daughter?”

  “I’d be concerned no matter what. She’s a missing child. We should all be concerned.” Michael felt good about that answer. It was the right thing to say, the right sentiment to express, and he hoped it marked the end of the interview. But had he said enough? Had he made enough of an impact?

  If the person responsible for the crime was watching, would he be moved in any way by what Michael had said? Did he need to say even more?

  “Okay,” he said, “yes, I’m concerned because . . . she might be my daughter. I don’t know yet.”

  But another question came: “If you’re Felicity’s father, why weren’t you around this morning? Did you not know she was missing?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Do the police consider you a suspect? Have you been cleared?”

  Michael could no longer get his answers out in enough time. The questions rolled on.

  “What is your relationship to Erica Frazier? Are you married to her?”

  “Do you pay child support?”

  “Do you think Erica knows where Felicity is?”

  “Do you think Felicity’s dead?”

  Michael waved his hand in front of the cameras, trying to indicate that the interview was over. When they kept asking him questions, Michael reached for the window button and powered it up, turning the reporters’ questions into a distant, muffled noise.

  The door opened and closed behind Michael as Erica slipped back into the vehicle.

  “Okay,” she said, “do you want to get us out of here?”

  “Erica,” Michael said, “that was terrible. I can’t believe you led me into that.”

  Faces flashed across his mind. Angela. His mother and sister. People he worked with. They all might see him, all might wonder what he was d
oing.

  “You did what you needed to do,” Erica said. “The right thing. And I did what I needed to do. What is your discomfort weighed against a child’s life? Your child’s life?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You don’t know what?” Erica asked. “Whether she’s your child?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He saw Erica shaking her head in the rearview mirror. “Does that matter, Michael? Would you not care about her well-being if you found out she wasn’t your child?”

  “You put me way out on the ledge there,” he said. “You dragged me into something I don’t fully understand because I don’t have all the facts.”

  “Fine, Michael,” she said, her voice resigned. “But I told you not to stop at the park.”

  “She did,” Tolliver said. “I heard her.”

  “Take us to the cops, and then you can go home,” Erica said. “That’s it. I’ll release you from it all.”

  He wanted to say more, to tell her how much he wanted Felicity to be his, but Erica stared out the window, not making eye contact with him. And he understood that having a parting of the ways might be best for everyone.

  He backed up and pulled out, leaving the lights and reporters behind them.

  chapter

  twenty-nine

  11:25 P.M.

  Angela went into their bedroom and sat on the bed, her back supported by several pillows. She sent a text.

  Are you still awake?

  It took several minutes for a response to come. The slow reply surprised Angela, since she knew her sister-in-law was a night owl, a vestige of her many nights spent in clubs and bars playing music. Musicians operated on their own timetable, and it was a late one.

  I am. Barely.

  Are you up for a call?

  Again a long pause. Then the response: Sure.

  She didn’t often call Lynn, not just to chat, but Angela needed to talk to someone in Michael’s family. She’d almost called his mom, but then realized she’d just freak her out. And open herself up to a lot of questions she couldn’t answer.