The Lost Girl of Astor Street(61)

“What does recognize mean?”

“Is it a car you’d seen before?”

Cole nodded. “Yep. Lots of times.”

My heart had pounded, sure that I was a breath away from knowing who had taken and killed my best friend.

“I have one just like it at home. Santa Claus brought it to me. Do you know when Santa Claus will come back? Just Christmas. That’s the only time he delivers.”

“What did the car look like?”

“Black. Just like the one Santa brought me. Papa says they only make them in black. If I could pick any color for a car, I would pick orange. That’s my favorite.”

Not helpful. “Do you know what kind of car Santa brought you?”

“What kind?”

“No, I’m asking you. What kind of car is it?”

“Oh. Ford. Model P, Papa says.”

I couldn’t resist groaning. “Model T?” Only the most common car in the country. We’d seen seven just since we left the house, not counting the one that belonged to my family.

Cole had giggled. “Model T and Model P rhyme!”

So Lydia had been talking to someone—who could have been anyone—in a Model T. I asked if he saw what the driver looked like. Which had begun a long line of fruitless questions.

“Could you tell what color of hair the man had?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was there one person in the car, or more?”

“I don’t know. Hey, look, an ant.”

“Did you see what he was wearing?”

Cole shrugged. Poked at the ant.

But, finally, I landed on the right question. “When did Lydia do this, Cole?” I held up my finger like a one.

“I knocked on the window and waved to her. She did that and got in the car.”

No struggle? “Did she do anything else with her hands? Or say anything?”

“No,” Cole said. But then he pointed down the road. “Just this.”

“Just what?”

“This.” He kept pointing.

“She pointed at something?”

Cole nodded.

“At what?”

He shrugged.

“When did she do that?”

“When she was talking to the car.”

“So she pointed down the street before she showed you the one? Did she do anything else?”

“Just some talking.” Cole shrugged. “Butterfly!” And he was off to follow it.

My stomach clenched like a fist as I followed him on numb legs. She had gotten in the car. Willingly. The implications made my stomach feel sloshy. Had she known the driver? Could it be—I loathed to even think it—Matthew?

But it wouldn’t take much to talk Lydia into a car. She was easy to convince, after all. Despite the questions pulsing in my head, I let Cole prattle on about other matters—rocks and colors and bugs—for another ten minutes. He seemed lighter than he had been before telling me about Lydia, and I wanted him good and relaxed before I dug for the answer to the big question.

A passing police car provided the perfect opportunity. I lifted him off the ground so he could see the car far down the road. “Have you ever gotten to talk to a policeman before, Cole?”

He frowned as he thought. “No.”

“Even after Lydia made the one and got in the car? You didn’t talk to any policemen about it?”

“No.” He craned his neck, trying to watch the car at an impossible distance.

“Did you tell your mother about it?”

“She was sleeping. That was when she still had her big belly. Down, please.”

I returned him to the ground. “What about your father?”

Instead of skipping ahead, he took my hand again. “I’m not allowed to talk about Lydia to Papa. But sometimes, I forget.”

I thought of the stripes on his backside, and my stomach tightened. “Did you try to tell him about Lydia? I mean, a long time ago when you saw her get in the car?”

“I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes. Yes, you do, Cole. It’s in there, I know it is. “Did your papa talk to the police about Lydia?”

“They came to the house when I was in my room with Dottie. I wasn’t supposed to go down there, though.”

“Did your papa tell them about what you saw?”

Cole’s face scrunched. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, cuz he doesn’t like to talk about her. When I do, he just says, ‘You stop talking about that.’” Cole deepened his voice and made a lecturing motion with his pointer finger. “‘You know not to do that.’” Cole sighed. “Sometimes, I forget.”

I squeezed his hand. “It’s okay to forget with me, remember? We can talk about Lydia together, and it’ll be our secret.”

Cole beamed up at me. “I like you.”

“I like you too, Cole.” And, oddly, I wasn’t lying.

Cole squeezed my hand back. “Maybe when Lydia comes home, you can both come play with me.”

I hadn’t known what to say. Even now, sitting on my porch with hours of hindsight, the right answer eludes me. How do you explain to a five-year-old that a sweet girl who did nothing wrong was taken from this very street? That she was bound and gagged and killed for no clear reason. That she won’t be coming home.