“You’d better get to it,” Alex says with a nod. “Tough customers.”
I fish my card off the stand. “Here, why don’t you give Dana a call—I’m sure she can help you—”
“I don’t want to work with Dana. I want to work with you.”
“I see.”
He smiles politely, but in a way that doesn’t touch his eyes. “I have a feeling she’ll understand.”
As he walks away, I think about how wrong he is. Dana never loses a sale without a fight.
Dana returns with popcorn and a chipper attitude. She doesn’t seem pissed, which is not surprising. “I had no idea you knew Alex,” she remarks, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She holds the carton out to me.
I shake my head. “He was my roommate in college.”
“Really?” Her bottom lip juts out. “Tragic situation. Horrible.”
I check my phone to see how much time is left on the clock. I can’t wait to get out of here and meet up with my family. I cock my head. “Tragic? What do you mean?”
“You haven’t kept up with him, then?”
I shrug. She sets the carton of popcorn on the plastic table and straightens the brochures to her liking. “I sold his house for him after the accident. You should have seen it—it was basically a shrine… he just walked away, never went back— and left it up to me to deal with everything in it.”
“Accident?”
“His girlfriend and baby were killed. It was horrific. Driving home from church…they were T-boned. Killed instantly. He was in the hospital for a while. I don’t know how long—”
I stare at her for several moments, wondering whether we’re talking about the same person. The Alex I knew in college told me he was gay. And he was definitely agnostic. Suddenly, I feel a deep sense of nostalgia and terribly, terribly sad for him.
“Anyway, it makes sense he’d want to work with another agent. Who wouldn’t want a fresh start?”
“I—” Dana looks over my shoulder, and my eyes follow hers. Greg is taking deep strides in our direction. He’s dragging Naomi behind him, her eyes wide and her mouth open.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, holding up his palms. “But I need your phone.”
I take it from my back pocket. A police officer joins us and I feel my heart rate rocket upward.
“Where’s Blair?”
He furiously types in my password. “You took pictures right?”
“Greg. Where’s Blair?”
He scans the photos and hands the phone to the officer.
I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like I’ve gotten on a carnival ride and it’s spinning. Everything is blurry, and I worry I might puke.
“Naomi,” I say, bending in two so I am at eye level. “Where is your sister?”
Tears stain her cheeks. “She wandered off.”
“Wandered off where?”
Naomi shrugs. My typical cool, calm daughter appears to be in shock. “Naomi.” I take her by the shoulders. “Where was Blair when you last saw her?”
“By the Ferris wheel,” Greg motions. “You’re panicking. I told you not to panic.”
The officer holds the phone up. “Do you know her approximate height and weight?”
Greg answers him. I take off at a full sprint toward the Ferris wheel.
My eyes scan the crowds. There are so many people. So many girls wearing corduroy dresses. None of them are my daughter.
Chapter Eight
Carnivals are no place for children. Statistics don’t lie, and he knows them well. The number of accidents at carnivals across the country—the number is astronomical. This doesn’t even take into account faulty parenting. Mothers who work too much. Fathers who bury their noses in their phones.
On one hand, it pleased him to see the children so happy. On the other, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Little girls have fragile bones. They need to be kept warm and away from night air. He tells the girl about William Henry Harrison. If a United States president can die of pneumonia, a little girl hardly has much hope.
She giggled, and he could see the point was lost on her. But then she looked sad. So he bought her a hotdog, which they shared, even though he knows what’s in hotdogs, and if pneumonia didn’t kill them, that probably would.
Thank God, he was there. He can’t bear to think of what might have happened if he wasn’t.
Chapter Nine
While I toss and turn all night, Greg sleeps soundly. My mind can’t help but replay every event of the last twenty-four hours. Every scenario, everything that could have happened, shuffles on repeat until the sun comes up, and the girls’ wake, and I am forced to face the day.
Those terrifying moments when Blair was missing will not leave me. Not as I make pancakes, not when I take the girls to the park, not even when I put on makeup or do my hair, not when I change outfits three times.
It happens to most parents at one point or another, Greg swears, and the important thing is we found her safe.
Still, I can’t help but feel that something has shifted. A breach has occurred, a weakness pointed out. It’s as though the universe is shaking its finger in my face, telling me it threw me a bone, but I’d better not let my guard down again.
“You look perfect,” Greg says before letting out a shrill whistle. “I’d better keep my eye on you.”
I cock my head. He’s always had a way of reading my mind, as though we are two parts of the same whole. What he’s really saying is he’s growing impatient at my trying on clothes and can we just get on the road.
The Meyers are hosting a backyard cookout, as they do every year, the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Friendsgiving.
Same as every year before, the event is still child-free. I am hesitant to leave the girls, but at the same time, I could use a breather. I welcome the opportunity for adult conversation, and this is the closest thing Greg and I have had to a date in several months.
I have spent most of the morning calling local shelters and adding to my social media campaign to find Rocky. I’ve checked Craigslist and posted in every place I can think of. Still nothing.
The girls seem in good spirits about it. Greg’s optimism that Rocky will return has rubbed off on them, and together they make up stories about where he might be and what he’s up to. Finding him and bringing him home has become an adventure. They draw signs, and Greg prints adult versions, offering reward money we really can’t afford.
Around one, Lucy, a college-aged girl who lives down the street, arrives to take over. She’s babysat for us plenty, and I’m grateful she knows the routine, because the second she steps over the threshold, Greg is taking my hand and pulling me out the door.
The Meyers’ home is best described as a visit to a museum. Like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. In fact, I think it was featured. Maybe even twice, once when they bought the place, and again after they did their remodel. Dana changes her mind incessantly. She points the finger at Trevor. Meanwhile, he blames her. One thing is for sure, they’re perfectly suited for one another.