Wherever She Goes(14)

I don’t blame him now. Don’t even blame them as much as I used to. But at the time, God, I’d been furious. At myself mostly, but I couldn’t handle that so I blamed the world. Dropped out of MIT. Abandoned any thought of enlisting—vomited just thinking about it. And then . . .

Hey, Bree. Got a proposition for you. Use those magic fingers to put some cash in your pocket.

I shove that aside. The point was that no matter how bad life got, I didn’t drink. I won’t take meds for my shoulder either. I refuse to engage in any activity that could provide a false sense of relief.

But that day, after Gayle leaves with Charlotte, I walk into a grocery store and stare at the glittering rows of bottles.

Just this once. Please just this once.

I tear myself away and wander the aisles, looking for something to cheer me up. I stand in the ice cream aisle and gaze at the Ben & Jerry’s. That’s the cliché, isn’t it? Drown your sorrows in ice cream?

If only I liked ice cream.

I walk to the cookie aisle. Again, not really my thing, but I select a small bag for Charlotte as a treat. She won’t get the whole bag, obviously. One cookie, and maybe even a milky cup of decaffeinated tea. Our own princess tea, to hold her over until I can have a new reservation. I try not to think of the fact that it took me two months to get today’s.

I’ve already left a message at the tea shop, and when my phone rings, I yank it out. It’s a spam text, offering me work as a mystery shopper. At this point, if I thought it was legit, I might take it. God knows, I could use the money.

I console myself by opening my photo album to find the pictures of Charlotte trying on her princess dress. The first photograph I see is one I don’t recognize. I’m not even sure what it is.

A mis-hit shutter button, it seems—the kind where you get a shot of your leg while taking out your phone. Except it isn’t my leg. It’s the back end of a vehicle.

The back of a dark SUV, its license plate smeared with mud.

It’s the SUV. The one that took the boy. I had been lifting my phone, fumbling to set up the camera, and I must have snapped the shutter without realizing it.

It’s a crappy shot. Off-center and blurred, the camera in motion. But the full plate is there, and I can make out enough of the vehicle emblem—

“Excuse me.” A glowering senior waves me aside brusquely. “You are blocking the biscuits.”

I pay for the cookies and hurry from the store. When I spot a coffee shop, I veer toward it. I’m tempted to bypass the counter. Sit and pretend I’m waiting for someone while I get a better look at the photo. But I squelch the urge, treat myself to a caramel latte and a blondie, and then take a seat buoyed by the righteousness of having paid to occupy it.

I import the photo into an app and refine it. I don’t have proper graphics programs these days, but basic apps will do a decent job. The first thing I notice starts my heart pounding.

This isn’t mud splatter from a dirt road. The dirt has been deliberately applied. I have a three-year-old; I know the pattern finger painting leaves. I can see the marks where fingers smeared on the mud. The rest of the car is spotless.

I reach for my phone. Then I stop.

A child is missing. And while I pray it’s only a custody issue, it could be more. It could be worse. I need all the ammunition I can get before I place this call.

I can see part of the SUV emblem and the first two letters of the vehicle name. TA. I’m no good at recognizing car logos, so I search on my phone browser and get a page of images.

It’s a Chevrolet. And while my mind immediately fills in the rest of the name as “Tahoe,” I search for all Chevrolet SUV and crossover names. Three start with T: Tahoe, Trax, and Traverse. It’s possible that the second letter is an R instead, but I’m definitely looking at a big SUV, not a crossover.

A Chevrolet Tahoe with a deliberately mud-smeared license plate. I can get access to better enhancement software and try making out the plate, but that takes time. The police need this information now.

I pick up my phone and dial Officer Cooper’s number. Voice mail answers.

I call the station’s main number instead and say I need to speak to Officer Cooper urgently, concerning a case.

I’m finished with my latte and my blondie before he phones back, and even then, when I answer, he greets me with a weary, “Yes. Ms. Finch,” as if I’ve been calling him hourly.

“I have a photo. Of the vehicle.”

A pause long enough that I wonder if he’s hung up. Then a slow, “Photo?”

“I wanted to take one of the SUV, but it pulled away while I was getting my camera ready. Apparently, I still snapped a shot. It’s not great, but I can identify the vehicle as a Chevrolet Tahoe. A dark blue Chevy Tahoe.”

A sigh vibrates along the line. “I appreciate you letting me know, Ms. Finch, but we still have no report of a missing child. Without any evidence of a crime, I can’t chase down a vehicle based on a make, model, and color.”

“The license plate was deliberately smeared with mud.”

“What?”

I try to keep the lilt of satisfaction out of my voice. Calm and steady. “I have a shot of the plate, which you may be able to analyze for the actual number, but right now, I can tell you that it isn’t accidentally splattered with mud. It’s been smeared on. I can see finger marks.”