Wherever She Goes(26)

“Kim Lyons?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ve got a girl, rents a place of mine, named Kim Lyons.”

“Is her phone number . . . ?” I read it out.

He checks and says, “Yeah, that’s Kim.”

“Great! I’ll drop this off for her. Where does she live?”

I don’t expect him to actually tell me, but I guess that just goes to prove that the world is full of people far more trusting than me. People who hear a friendly female voice on the phone, a Good Samaritan trying to return a lost phone, and they don’t even consider nefarious possibilities.

He rattles off an address and then says, “That’s really nice of you, you know that? Most people would just walk right past a phone on the ground. Or swipe it. Kim’s a good kid. She’ll appreciate that.”

“It’s the least I can do. I know how tough it is, being a single mom.”

He pauses. “Single mom?”

“Bad guess?” I laugh. “Sorry. Apparently, I suck at this amateur detective stuff. I was trying to figure out whose phone it was, and I saw a photo of a little boy. I thought it might be hers.”

“Nah, Kim’s just a kid herself. No little ones yet. But she’ll be thrilled to get her phone back. So thanks for doing that.”

“Happy to help.”



Kim Mason—or whoever she is—has rented a house on the outskirts of Oxford. It’s no country manor. There are no country manors in that area, too close to the city’s waste disposal, too close to the railroad tracks. The house is much bigger than any apartment, but in a secluded area, away from public transport and city amenities.

A secluded place.

A private place.

That’s the first word that comes to mind when I see the property: “privacy.” It’s on a dirt road, and the house itself is surrounded by trees and set a couple hundred feet back. There’s a rear yard where a child would never be spotted. The nearest neighbors are a half mile away. A child could play unseen and unheard, even at preschooler decibels.

Could I hide Charlotte in a place like this? Yes. Room for the two of us to walk and play, and a driveway that loops around the rear, so I could get her out into a waiting vehicle and take her into the city, where I’d be just another woman with a child.

I break in the back door. It’s easy work—simple locks and no chance of a passerby spotting me behind the house. Once I get the door open, though, I see that it shouldn’t have been so easy to break in. There are two dead bolts. Good dead bolts, plus a basic security system. But the dead bolts weren’t fastened and the security system isn’t on.

I head straight for the kitchen. This is where I’ll find evidence of the boy. When Charlotte isn’t staying over, I put away her toys and store her booster seat, and take her special pillow from the bed we share, and she disappears . . . until you open my fridge.

I am not a mass consumer of juice boxes or string cheese or tiny yogurt containers covered in cartoon animals. Even without that, you’ll find signs of Charlotte in my cutlery drawer, two child-sized sets with plastic handles. There’s more plastic in the china cupboard—cups and plates and bowls. A five-year-old might have graduated to silver cutlery, but I know there will be signs of him in that kitchen.

There are not.

I check every cupboard, and all I find is glassware and china. There’s food in the fridge and the pantry, but nothing particularly child-friendly. Not even a box of Cheerios.

I open every drawer and door, and I see only what I’d expect in the house of a twenty-three-year-old. The basics. That’s it.

He is here.

He must be here.

And what if he’s not?

I won’t think of that. I can’t. There is a child, and I will find evidence of him in this house, proof I can take to the police.

The living room is empty. Yes, there’s furniture, but only the sort that comes with a rented house—not so much as a magazine or a blanket added. In the bathroom, I find only women’s toiletries. No tear-free shampoo. No superhero-shaped bottle of bubble bath. No tiny toothbrush alongside hers.

I grip the counter, looking at myself in the mirror.

Have I made a mistake?

What have I done? What have I risked?

Keep looking.

I head into the bedrooms. There are three. Two have nothing but bare beds and empty dressers. The third is Kim’s room. There’s not much, but it’s clearly occupied, and again, it’s all hers. Women’s clothing. Women’s shoes. Women’s accessories. Nothing more.

I walk into the bedroom right beside Kim’s. That’s the one I’d pick for Charlotte, keeping her close. But then I hear a truck rattle past and realize the window overlooks the front yard. While I can’t see the road through the trees, if I was being paranoid, I wouldn’t want light visible from more than one bedroom at night.

I search the third bedroom, with a rear-facing window. I open every drawer. I pull them all the way out and check underneath. I open the closet, pat the shelves and then bring in a kitchen chair to examine them closer. I don’t even find a piece of Lego.

It is only when I peer beneath the bed that I spot something. I crawl under it, and my hand closes around the familiar shape of a juice box.

Gripping it, I start backing out, and my other hand brushes something smooth and slick. When I pull that out with me, I find myself holding a book.