Wherever She Goes(24)



“That’s Kim, Mamma,” her son says softly.

“When was her last shift?” I ask.

“Monday. She works Fridays, Saturdays, and Mondays. Can I ask when she . . . ?”

“Tuesday.”

“And it was in the news?” He curses under his breath, and his mother berates him in Italian. He apologizes for the profanity and says, “I haven’t been paying attention to the news lately.” He gestures at the shop. “We only opened a few months ago, and Kim is—was—our only employee. I’ve been putting in twelve-hour shifts every day.”

“I understand. Would I be able to see her employment record? I need her current address.”

“Sure.” He starts heading for the back and then slows. When he turns, he stammers. “I-I’m not sure I have her record. Here, I mean. Like I said, we’re new, and we haven’t quite caught up on paperwork.”

“I’m not with the IRS, sir. Whatever arrangement you had with Kim, I’m sure she planned to pay her income taxes.”

He nods. “Right. Yes. It was just . . . informal.”

“While a Social Security number would be useful, I’ll take anything. My only interest is in catching her killer.”

“Give the girl whatever you have, Francis,” the woman says.

“Of course, Mamma.”





Chapter Fourteen





Kim must be the dead woman. Her employers both ID’d the photo, and they haven’t heard from her since before the murder. But Kim doesn’t have a child.

So how can she be the young mother I met in the park?

Is there a chance the dead woman isn’t the person I met?

No. The young woman I met said she worked in a pizza parlor that opened at noon. Two people just identified the murdered woman as an employee in their pizza parlor, which opens at noon.

I must pursue this until either I solve this puzzle or I am somehow proven wrong. Even thinking that last part sets my heart racing, my breath coming short.

If I am wrong . . .

If I am wrong, I’ve given Paul what he needs to paint me as an unstable mother. First, I start hallucinating kidnapped kids. Now, I’m pursuing my delusion even after I’ve learned that the dead woman didn’t seem to have a child.

I am risking the one thing that is most important to me—custody of my daughter—and for what? Even if I am right, is it worth the risk to help a stranger?

I should have stopped as soon as Cooper told me there was no missing child. That’s what other people would do. Normal people. If they even took the time to report what looked like an abduction, they’d have dropped it there. Duty done, let the police handle the rest. It’s none of their business.

I did report the kidnapping. I reported that the dead woman was the boy’s mother. Now I’ve learned that the dead woman wasn’t anyone’s mother. So drop it. Drop it and step away before I get into more trouble.

I should do that. But I can’t. I will always be that little girl trapped in a car with her dying mother, the girl who grew up knowing she might still have a mother if someone had stopped, if someone had even taken a moment to report seeing a wrecked car. I will always be the eighteen-year-old, rushing home to help her father when no one else would, arriving too late to stop him from taking his life.

No one helped my mother. No one helped my father. No one wanted to get involved. I cannot be that person. Ever. If there is any chance that a boy is out there, in trouble, and no one is searching for him, then I must be that one person. The person who cares. The person who gets involved.

Whatever the cost.



Kim’s employers gave me her address. Before I check it out, I place a call to the police station tip line.

“Hi, I’m phoning about the young woman found in the park. I’m sure I’ve seen her working at Pop’s Pizzeria over on the west side. I think her name’s Kimberly.”

It’s not perfect, but at this point, calling in under my own name is a surefire way to make sure no one follows up.

The address leads to an apartment building. A nicer one than mine, though hardly upscale. At least it has controlled entry. That would work better if I didn’t just need to stand outside fumbling in my purse for my “key” until a resident came out. He even held the door for me.

I head straight up. Kim’s apartment is at the end of the hall, which is perfect. I slip out through the stairwell, make sure no one’s around, and walk to her door.

I should just go get the super. Make up a story, like I did with the pizza places. That should be my only option here, confronted with a locked door.

It is not my only option.

Hacking isn’t the extent of my skills. It isn’t the extent of my crimes.

I bend to check the lock. Old building; simple security. I can open it.

I’ll get inside and find evidence of a child. That’s all I need. Just the reassurance that a child exists, and then I will back off and wait for the police to ID Kim and figure it out for themselves.

I’m about to start on the lock when I hear a noise inside. I put my ear to the door and pick up a radio or TV.

Maybe she left it on when she went out.

That’s reasonable, but still . . .

I rap on the door. Ten seconds later, it swings open. A woman stands there, late twenties, tiny build, brown skin, her hair swept into the kind of style I know well: grab an elastic at 5 A.M. when the baby wakes, shove your hair up, and leave it like that until you collapse in bed at night and maybe, just maybe, remember to take it out. Sure enough, bright-colored wooden blocks litter the hall floor, and through the open door I spot a high chair in the kitchen.

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