Wherever She Goes(5)

It only takes a moment.

Just last month, in the mall, I let go of Charlotte’s hand to adjust my shopping bag, and she disappeared. It only took two seconds to spot her dark curls bobbing toward the pet shop, but even as I raced toward her, I imagined showing up at Paul’s doorstep and saying, “I lost her.”

I lost our baby.

Now I am about to inflict that hell on another woman.

I saw your baby get taken. I know, you only looked away for a moment.

But it only takes a moment.

I can’t see the boy’s mother. The playground is even busier now. I spot a blond woman reading a book and take a step her way, only to have her look up and reveal the face of a grandmother.

Another blond woman stands at the side, but she has a baby carriage.

Another blonde, heavyset and tending to a girl Charlotte’s age.

I spin, skimming faces as they blur before me.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks.

I look into the concerned face of young dad. I nod and walk away, searching the crowd.

Then I spot her. Off to the far side by that patch of forest, a woman with a blond ponytail hurries from tree to tree as she calls for a child.

As I jog over, I rehearse what I’ll say.

Should I be the one to do it? The police will be here any second.

No, I’m a fellow mom, and we’ve met, if briefly. The news should come from me.

I take a deep breath and walk up behind the increasingly frantic woman. I open my mouth and— “Found me!” a little girl squeals as she launches herself from behind a bush.

The woman scoops her up. “Don’t ever take off on me like that, Amber.”

“I was hiding.”

“You need to tell me you’re going to hide. You can’t—”

The woman nearly crashes into me. I murmur, “Excuse me,” and she continues past, still scolding the child.

“Ms. Finch?” a voice says.

I turn to see a uniformed officer. He’s nearing retirement age. Bulldog-faced, his eyes and jowls and belly drooping, like someone who’s been pulling double shifts all his life and has resigned himself to permanent exhaustion. His nameplate reads cooper.

Three younger officers follow—two men and a woman—but they stay back as Cooper approaches me.

“Oh, thank God,” I say. “I can’t find the boy’s mother anywhere.”

“It’s okay, ma’am. We’re here now. You said you saw a boy taken from the playground?”

“No, the parking lot.” I point. “He was on the swings and wandered that way.”

I explain. Slow and relaxed and careful. Step by step, despite the voice in my head screaming that they need to find that SUV, find it now.

This is how they will find it. By me staying calm and explaining.

When I finish, Cooper says, “So you saw him here with his mother, and she didn’t follow him when he walked off.”

“No, I only saw her on Sunday, when I spoke to them both.”

Cooper’s brows shoot up. “You were jogging through the park Sunday and saw them then, too?”

“I was here with my daughter on Sunday. I jog on my lunch hours. I work nearby.”

“Describe the boy, please,” he says to me. “In as much detail as possible. We’ll ask around, see who saw him, figure out where his mom is.”

“He’s school age, but just barely. About this tall.” I motion. “Thin. White. Short blond hair.”

He pauses. When I don’t continue, he says, “Anything more specific?” He points to another boy, fair haired, about the same age. “How would he be different from that kid? Taller? Thinner? Hair darker, lighter, shorter, longer?”

“Thinner in the face. Maybe a bit taller.”

Cooper points to another child, who also looks similar. In this neighborhood, towheaded white kids are as common as German-built cars. As I struggle to remember distinguishing features, my heart hammers. What if it wasn’t the boy from Sunday? I only saw him from a distance today, and several of the kids Cooper points out do look like him.

That doesn’t matter. A child is still missing. Just limit my description to what I remember of the boy I saw today.

“What’s he wearing?” Cooper asks.

I pull up a mental picture, and . . . it’s blank.

Stop that. I saw him. I chased him. Surely I can remember— “Jeans,” I blurt. “Jeans and sneakers and a T-shirt.”

Cooper casts a pointed look at the playground, where nearly every child is in jeans and sneakers, and at least half are in tees.

“The shirt was blue. A medium shade. Like that.” I point to a woman’s blouse.

“And his mother?”

“Young, early twenties. She’s blond and wears her hair in a ponytail. Well, she did Sunday and . . .” Deep breath. “Just focus on the boy, please. Even if it’s not the same child, I did see a child get pulled into an SUV.”

Cooper nods. “Okay.” He turns to the officers. “Don’t let anyone leave before speaking to you.”

As they walk toward the playground, he says, “You mentioned being on a lunch break. Are you late for work?”

“Yes, but I can stay—”

“We have this. I’ll take your contact information and be in touch.”