I flip through Rookie’s notes, but it seems he’s gotten all the required information from the other staff . . . and some of the parents. Damn, he’s thorough. Might make a good detective in ten years, once his optimism dies.
I turn to leave. A quick look at the camera footage from above the door should prove Ms. Jennings was never there this morning. “No, I think . . .” I stop, seeing another note. “Oh, one thing—she said she dropped her daughter off with a woman named Fran?” I scan the row of punch cards, not seeing the name.
“Fran? She quit a while ago. An older lady in her sixties. She was wonderful with the kids, but she was having some medical issues . . .”
“But there was a Fran?”
“Yes. But as I said, she no longer works here.”
“Can I see the footage of the camera above the door from this morning?”
Annoyed unfinished fingernails fly across her computer keyboard, and a second later, she turns the monitor toward us.
I squint at the black-and-white images. Unfortunately, the camera is pointed toward the street, not the front steps, and it’s angled in an odd way. But I can see enough of a vehicle parked on the street to have my attention now fully on this case. A few minutes later, the car drives away.
“What happened?” I glance at the timer. The footage was from 8:03. “Can we back it up?”
Ms. Bennett shakes her head. “The cameras are on timers. They start at eight. We have a local security company that monitors all three properties on rotation every night. Just to make sure the outside play equipment is safe. Other than that, we typically don’t have a need for high-level security in this neighborhood.”
Security cameras don’t start recording until eight. Something Fran would know.
“Does Fran still visit the day care?” I ask, knowing things are about to get complicated.
“She used to,” Ms. Bennett says carefully, “but not in recent months.”
“Would she still have access? A key?”
“The front doors are keyless entry. Each employee has their own code.”
“I assume the codes are voided once an employee is terminated?”
She nods, but her teeth catch the inside edge of her lip.
“Always?”
Ms. Bennett blows out an annoyed breath. “Fran was like family. She’d never hurt anyone or abduct a child. This is ridiculous.”
If I had a dollar for every time someone’s believed that. “I’m going to need Fran’s contact information—a phone number, address . . .”
Ms. Bennett folds her arms across her chest as she stands. “Absolutely, Detective. As soon as you get a warrant.”
September 6—2:04 p.m.
My legs wobble and my thoughts are fuzzy as I climb the stairs to the house. Whatever sedative they gave me at the day care hasn’t helped to calm my anxiety; it’s just made it impossible to show it. My limbs can’t react to the intense adrenaline coursing through me, and my mind has trouble comprehending what’s real and what isn’t. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to demand Mikayla back. But I’m trapped inside my own body.
I still can’t reach Malcolm. An unanswered call to his parents only made me look crazier. They’re away on another mission trip, with limited cell service, which I already knew. The authorities are doubting everything I say, since there’s no one available to confirm my story. Seems awfully convenient to them.
But I’m not crazy or making any of this up. Mikayla exists. She’s out there somewhere . . .
I’d be running down the streets banging on doors if my body and mind were cooperating, but that pill the police department therapist insisted I take is hitting me harder than any drug I’ve ever tried. I shouldn’t have taken it, but complying with the police seemed like the best option at the time. I need them on my side.
Detective Ryan is so close as we walk up to the front door that I can smell his cheap aftershave. A combination of fusty bergamot and fresh mint. It’s making me nauseated. I want to be alone, but I know that’s not an option. This is just the beginning.
“Is that your car?” he asks, pointing to a vehicle parked on the street in front of the house.
I turn to look at it. “It’s been around the neighborhood a lot lately.”
He jots the vehicle’s description and license plate down in the notebook he stole from the younger cop—the nice one, with kind eyes and a sympathetic demeanor, who questioned me first at the day care. He seemed as though he at least wanted to believe me, and he took the situation seriously.
I wish he were still here.
At the door, I fumble with the keys in my hands, flicking through the tarnished gold and silver. I try one in the lock, but it sticks.
Detective Ryan’s intent gaze makes me drop them. The loud clang of metal hitting the threshold makes me jump.
“Here, allow me,” he says, picking them up. “Which key?”
I move back from the door, staring at the key ring. I need to pull it together. “One of the silver ones.”
He tries one. It works. He opens the door and steps back to let me enter first.
I walk inside on numb legs. The strong sedative from the crisis therapist was definitely a mistake. I’m walking through a dream. Nothing around me feels familiar or safe. Cool air blows around me, and there seems to be an echo of my breath when I exhale. This isn’t how a home is supposed to feel.
I hear other vehicles approach from outside. A search crew. They’ve already combed through the day care. Now they’ll search the house. They don’t believe that Mikayla was ever at the day care. They don’t even believe she exists, despite the photos in my wallet and my careful, detailed account of the day. One I’ve repeated the exact same way over and over.
This search is a waste of time to them. Detective Ryan didn’t even try to hide his disdain when he’d ordered it over the radio in his car on the drive here.
I swing around to face him. “What about my vehicle at the day care?” I was in no shape to drive, and I haven’t even given the car a second thought till now.
“We’ll have it towed here for you, if you’d like, or you can go pick it up . . . when you feel better,” he says.
Feel better. As if I’m ill. I’m a victim of a crime.
He doesn’t wait for my preference as he continues. “My crew will need to comb through the house. Every inch. The child could be hiding anywhere.”
The child. So cold. So unfeeling.
Hiding. Why would my little girl hide? How could she even get home from the day care on her own? He’s not making any sense. My heart thunders in my chest . . .
They think she never left the house.
Uniformed officers wearing rubber gloves enter through the open front door. Detective Ryan leaves me to speak to them, and I scan the house. In an hour, these strangers will know every inch of it. They will see all the personal things, rifle through the memories, turn everything upside down, tear everything apart, and leave it all for me to put back together again.
A dog barks, and I jump and swing around. Two German shepherds wearing police smocks at the end of a handler’s leash demonstrate their understanding of their orders.
Detective Ryan turns to look at me. “It’s just standard protocol,” he says.