by Amber Garza
“Um...just an old friend.” She swallowed hard. “A...a family friend.” That part was a lie, but there was no way she could explain any of this. She didn’t even understand it herself.
Rattled, she backed out of the room. Natalie trailed her.
“Want me to make some tea? Maybe that’ll help,” she offered.
Whitney nodded.
Natalie glided into Whitney’s kitchen, opening drawers and pulling things out as if it were her place. They’d spent a lot of time at each other’s respective homes. She figured she’d know her way just as easily around Natalie’s kitchen. As Natalie filled the teakettle with water, Whitney’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
She yanked the phone out so hard the edge of her jean pocket painted a white stripe on her finger, stinging. She rubbed it swiftly.
“It’s Dan,” she told Natalie. The officers’ voices traveled from down the hallway as she answered.
“Did you call the police yet?” Dan asked, his voice tired, still groggy like earlier. Clearly, he wasn’t able to get any sleep since they’d talked.
“Yeah, they’re here now.”
“Good. Do they have any ideas on what might’ve happened?”
“I get the feeling they think she ran away,” Whitney said.
It was silent a moment. “Remember when she was like four and she got mad at us and packed a bag and said she was running away?”
“Yeah, and then she snuck out and we found her sitting on the neighbor’s front lawn, playing with a baby doll?” Whitney laughed, finishing the story. After a few seconds the laughter died on her lips. “If only it were that simple this time, huh?”
“Hey, I don’t know if it helps at all, but the last time Amelia and I talked she was asking a lot of questions about when we met.”
“But she already knows the story of how we met.”
“She didn’t want to know how we met,” Dan explained now. “She wanted to know more about your life back then. Like stuff about your ex-boyfriend and former friends.”
“Why?” Nervously, she paced back and forth in the living room. The teakettle whistled from the kitchen. Cups clinked together.
“I don’t know. At the time I just assumed she was trying to figure out why you were being so strict. You had just told her she wasn’t allowed to date.”
That would’ve made sense if Whitney hadn’t just seen that photo from her past displayed in Amelia’s room. Clearly, Amelia had been doing a lot of digging into Whitney’s earlier years.
But why?
“What did you say?” Whitney asked.
“I just told her what I knew about your ex and how he treated you, you know?” His tone was tender. He was skating around it, the way he always did with this subject.
“She knows about him. I’ve told her already. I wonder why she felt the need to ask you.”
“Maybe trying to get a different perspective,” Dan added thoughtfully. “Probably has nothing to do with anything, but she was also asking questions about her birth and stuff.”
Whitney froze. “What do you mean, questions about her birth?”
“I guess you’d never told her the story, about my layover and all the drama with that,” he said. “It was a crazy time.”
“Yeah, it really was.” Whitney knew she hadn’t shared much about that time with Amelia. Dan worked long hours, missing so much of Amelia’s early days. And she’d gone through horrible post-partum depression. Honestly, she tried hard to push that whole time period to the back of her mind.
Whitney stumbled out of bed, body tight, eyes bleary. The light was dim, but not dark, sunlight streaming in through the closed blinds. Disoriented, she looked at the alarm clock. It was 3 p.m. She’d put Amelia down for a nap around noon. Was she still asleep? Wow, that’s a long nap.
Too long, actually.
She was probably hungry.
Yawning, she ran a hand down her face, and ambled over to the bassinet.
Amelia wasn’t in there.
The bassinet was empty.
Amelia’s blanket in a pile near the bottom.
Exhaling, she rubbed her eyes. She’d been doing this lately. Hallucinating. But when she opened them, there was still no baby.
Gathering herself, she left her bedroom and headed into Amelia’s room. She hadn’t remembered putting her down in her crib, but she must have. Usually, she liked having her close, but Dan had been encouraging Whitney to acclimate Amelia to her crib. So sometimes she put her down in there.
Amelia’s room was bright. Decorated in bold pink and sunny yellows. The kind of room she would’ve loved as a child. The blinds were pulled all the way up, and the window was open. Sunlight spilled into the room. A breeze blew in, bringing with it the scent of grass, damp earth, honeysuckles. The air was cool, and goose bumps rose on Whitney’s flesh. She hoped Amelia was covered up.
Why hadn’t she closed the window when she put her down?
She passed the large pink flowers hanging on the wall to reach Amelia’s crib. Her heart sank.
Empty.
Oh, my God. It was happening again.
She couldn’t lose another baby.
Her gaze shot to the open window, then back to the empty crib. A figure appeared in the doorway.
“Where is she?” she cried out, putting her head in her hands. “My baby. She’s gone.”
Footsteps neared her. “Whitney.”
Her head popped up. “Dan,” she breathed out.
His hands wrapped around her shoulders, his gaze blazing into her. “You’ve gotta stop this. Our baby is fine.”
“She is.”
“Yeah, I’ll show you.” Placing his hand on her back he ushered her forward. Out of the room, down the hallway. “I really think you should talk to someone, Whit.”
“No way. I’m not talking to your dad. He already thinks I’m crazy.”
“He does not,” he said. “But I wasn’t talking about him anyway. We’ll find you a different therapist.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t need one.”
They rounded the corner, into the family room. There was a blanket on the floor. Her baby was lying on top on her stomach, facing the opposite wall. Her tiny hands were fisted, her feet suspended in the air.
“See? She’s fine.” Dan beamed.
Exhaling with relief, Whitney rushed forward and fell to her knees in front of her daughter. When the baby lifted her tiny head, Whitney’s breath caught in her throat, and tears filled her eyes.
“This isn’t her,” she whispered. “This isn’t my baby.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the officers emerging from Amelia’s room. “Can I call you back, Dan?”
“Of course,” he said.
Tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans, she faced the officers. McAvoy approached, handing her a business card. “Here is my number. Call me right away if Amelia comes home or contacts you, okay?”
“You think she will?”
“In many runaway cases, the child eventually gets in touch.”
“You think she ran away?”
“It fits when you look at the big picture. She took a chunk of money out of her account, she took off with a new friend, she’s been seeing and talking to boys behind your back.” When he rattled off the facts, counting them on his fingers, it sounded rational. The logical explanation.
“But what about all the other stuff? The boy she’s been seeing—Michael. Or the fact that she’s been talking to an older man online? Oh...oh, and I forgot to mention that all of her pictures of her and Lauren disappeared from her Instagram. I mean, that’s weird, right?” Oh, God, what else had she forgotten to tell them? What if something bad had happened to Amelia and the cops dismissed it, too busy assuming she ran away?
“We’ll look into all of those things,” McAvoy promised h
er. “We’ll also check the local hospitals, shelters, airports.”
Whitney’s skin flamed. She hadn’t even thought to check those places.
“And like we said earlier,” Sandavol interjected, “we’ll ping her phone every forty-five minutes, so we’ll know immediately when she turns it on.”
“We’ll be in touch every hour,” McAvoy explained. “And you be sure to call us if you hear anything.”
Whitney nodded like a robot. Once the officers were gone, she joined Natalie in the kitchen, where she was handed a piping hot cup of tea that she would probably never drink. Amelia and Natalie liked tea. Whitney preferred coffee but knew that would be a bad idea right now. So she held on to the mug, allowing it to warm her cold, shaky hands.
16
SATURDAY, 8:00 P.M.
TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS
AFTER DROP-OFF
“WHEN WAS THE last time you ate?” Natalie came up behind Whitney, who flinched, not having heard her approach. She’d been staring out the window, willing Amelia to walk up to the front door. Since the cops left, she’d checked Amelia’s location at least a dozen times. Still nothing.
In many runaway cases, the child eventually gets in touch.
God, she wanted to believe Amelia had simply run away, some stupid rebellious adventure that would be over as soon as she got bored or missed home. But that nagging feeling was back in the pit of her stomach. That sensation that something wasn’t right.
“I don’t know,” she answered distractedly, glancing toward the kitchen. “I think breakfast, maybe...”
“That’s not good.” Natalie clucked her tongue. “I’ll make you something.”
“No, really. I’m not hungry.” Shoulders slumping, Whitney walked with dragging feet to the couch and spilled into it, like a glass of dirty water toppling over. “I’m just tired.”
“Probably because you haven’t eaten anything. You need to keep your strength up. You’re not doing Amelia any favors by wasting away.”
There was no arguing with her when she got like this, so Whitney didn’t even try. Her eyes burned, her entire body aching. Was this what shock felt like? Or had she surpassed that and was now moving on to grief?
No, grief would be giving in.
And Whitney wasn’t doing that.
Cabinet doors opened and closed, Natalie’s feet shuffling on the floor. Whitney heard the suction of the refrigerator seal being broken, followed by the sound of contents hitting the counter. She was lulled by the comfort of it, her eyelids fluttering closed, her body relaxing. As she drifted into the place where her bones turned to jelly and her mind went blank, an insistent buzzing aroused her attention. Just ignore it, her body protested and there was a relief in listening to it. Then she remembered Amelia and painstakingly forced her eyelids to open.
But it was only Dan, checking in. She gave him an update, and then Natalie set a plate with a sandwich in her lap.
“Thanks, Nat.” Picking up the plate, she stood. “I’m gonna take this into Amelia’s room, look around.” Ever since she’d seen that picture, she’d been curious about what else Amelia had in there that she’d never noticed before.
Things the cops wouldn’t have known to look for. Spots filled Whitney’s vision as she walked down the hallway. A headache pricked behind her eyes. She really did need to eat. Stepping into Amelia’s room, she reached for one half of the sandwich. It tasted like sandpaper and she struggled to chew and swallow. She was sure that under any other circumstance she’d enjoy it. But at this moment, nothing would taste good. After forcing down a few more bites, she set the plate down on Amelia’s dresser. Then Whitney picked up the photograph from earlier, studying it. It still didn’t make any sense. Where did Amelia even find it?
The picture did nothing but remind her of a past she’d tried for years to forget. Shuddering, she put it facedown on the dresser. Choking down another bite of her sandwich, she leaned her back against the dresser, her gaze scouring the room.
When it landed on the bed, comforter messy on top, a memory popped into her mind.
“Mom, can I ask you a hypothical question?” an eleven-year-old Amelia asked, eyes wide and bright.
“Do you mean a hypothetical question?” Whitney laughed.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Anyway, can I ask one?”
“Sure.”
“What if hypothically—”
“Hypothetically,” Whitney interjected.
“Hypothetically,” she parroted, “I had a boyfriend.”
“What? At eleven?”
“It’s just hypothetical.”
Whitney smiled. Amelia had gotten it right that time. “Right. Sure it is,” Whitney said with sarcasm. Did Amelia think she was born yesterday?
“It is,” Amelia insisted, and her tone bordered on whiny.
“Okay, well, then hypothetically, I’d have to forbid you from seeing this boy because you’re not old enough to date. The rule is sixteen, remember?”
She nodded, her face serious.
“Amelia? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. It was hypothetical.”
“But what made you think of it?”
“Oh, just ’cause a friend of mine at school has a secret admirer and it made me curious what would happen if I did.”
It actually sounded plausible. Too bad she was biting the inside of her cheek so hard she was probably drawing blood.
Later that night, when Whitney went in her room to say good-night, she caught Amelia stuffing a piece of paper under her mattress. Whitney pretended not to notice, and Amelia must have thought she’d been sly enough to get away with it. While she was at school the next day, Whitney found several notes tucked under her mattress from a secret admirer.
After swallowing down her latest bite, Whitney pushed off the dresser and headed toward Amelia’s bed. She swept her hand under the mattress, working her way from one side to the other, scooting on her knees, carpet scraping against her skin.
On the right side, almost to the pillow, Whitney’s fingertip grazed a sharp, pointy edge. She pushed her hand in farther, her palm sliding over what felt like the slick cover of a notebook. Folding her hand around it, she yanked it out.
It was a small notebook with a black, crinkled cover. Whitney flipped through the pages quickly, a perfunctory glance. Many of them were filled with blue ink, Amelia’s cursive. From the kitchen, Whitney heard cabinet doors opening and closing, dishes clanging. Natalie was clearly keeping herself busy.
Hoisting herself up off the floor, Whitney sat on top of Amelia’s bed, and opened the notebook. Poetry covered the pages. Beautifully written, she noted. But dark and sad. As Whitney skimmed through them, she started to wonder if Amelia actually was depressed.
When she reached one called “The Boy in 204,” Whitney sat up taller. Her eyes shot to words like bruise, blood and ache. Was Amelia being hurt? Abused? Or was this symbolism? The other poems all had macabre lines, as well. Things Whitney knew had never happened. It seemed all of her poetry was morbid and dark.
But then Whitney thought about her talk with Dan. How Amelia had been asking about Whitney’s past relationships. Was it because Amelia thought that history was repeating itself? That she was following in her mom’s footsteps? Whitney had spent Amelia’s entire life trying to stop that exact thing from happening. It was why she’d been so overprotective. So strict.
Clutching the notebook to her chest, she raced out to the family room. Natalie was pouring another cup of tea. Steam rose from it, circling her face.
“I think I know which apartment that boy lives in. The one from the picture.” She held up the notebook. “This thing is filled with poems and one of them is called ‘THE BOY IN 204.’”
“And you think it’s about him?”
“Yeah, I mean, it sounds like it’s about someone she’s seeing or at least likes. B
ut it also sounds like maybe he hurts her?”
“What?” Natalie wiped her hand on a towel and came around the kitchen island to where Whitney stood. “Let me see.” Whitney set the notebook in her hands. Natalie stared down at the page for a few minutes and then looked up. “It’s poetry, so you can’t really take it literally. I mean, it’s clearly a relationship of some kind, and it’s probably complicated.”
Her friend’s words propelled her toward the front door. A pair of Amelia’s flip-flops were discarded by the wall. Any other day it would’ve irritated her.
Does this look like a decorative item to you? she would’ve asked her, holding one up.
Today the flip-flop had the power to undo her. Swallowing down the unwanted emotions, Whitney shoved her feet into the flip-flops and reached for the doorknob.
“Where are you going?” Natalie was beside her in a matter of seconds.
“Apartment 204.”
“Don’t you think you should call McAvoy and tell him about it? Let him decide if it’s something to pursue?”
Whitney waved away her suggestion with a flick of her wrist. “Who knows where they are? This’ll be faster. I’m just gonna pop downstairs and see if he’s the guy. No big deal.” Before Natalie could stop her, she flung open the front door and burst outside. Cold air smacked her in the face. It had been so warm and stuffy inside that she hadn’t realized how much the temperatures had dropped out here. Hugging herself, she clambered down the stairs, Natalie at her heels.
She made it to the bottom and turned right, heading toward the park area—the place Becca had said they’d met up with the boys and partied together. They hadn’t lived here when Amelia was small enough to enjoy the green space. She’d always thought it was a stretch to call it a park—it was one picnic table, a slide and a tiny play structure—but she could see how teenagers and young adults might use it as a party spot. It wasn’t nearly as nice as the one at the apartment complex she’d thought was Jay’s. She still didn’t know what the deal was with him, but she couldn’t imagine him being the older guy Becca had referenced. It may have crossed her mind for a minute, but it couldn’t be him. Whitney couldn’t be that bad a judge of character, could she? He’d seemed so nice. So genuine. To be honest, it was the couple at that apartment that seemed shady. Rude. Not anyone she would ever trust. They could be lying, for all she knew.
