Wherever She Goes(56)

I’m about to text back a “Thanks!” when Ingrid appears from the stacks. I slide my phone under the counter, and I head out to shelve books. As I’m leaving the desk, a mother stops to gush about my story-time skills . . . just as Ingrid is passing to overhear. When I come back from shelving, she tells me several of the parents commented, and Nancy has been talking about giving up story time, and maybe I could take it over. It is the icing on my cupcake-perfect morning. Ingrid and I talk, too, really talk. At break time I grab my phone to continue the delicious sweetness of my day by watching my daughter play.

I sit in the staff room with a fresh cup of coffee and a doughnut dropped off by a patron. I hit Play on the video. I watch Charlotte and a preschooler tear through the tiny playground in their neighborhood. I smile as I enjoy the video and my doughnut. Then I see a woman holding a Chihuahua on a leash. She’s close to the girls, keeping an eye on them. This must be the neighbor—Mrs. Mueller.

I think that . . . and then I pause. If that’s Mrs. Mueller, who’s taking the video?

Maybe her spouse works from home. Or has the day off. That makes sense. Except, when I start thinking about that, I notice another oddity. No one turns to the camera. No one waves at it. No one smiles over at it.

If this videographer is with Mrs. Mueller, then the kids know they’re being filmed. There isn’t a chance in hell that two preschoolers wouldn’t look over at least once.

A chill slides between my shoulder blades.

I flip to the text message and send back: Who is this?

A response comes within seconds: Are you sure you don’t know anything about that little boy, Aubrey? Maybe my video jogged your memory?

My fingers tremble as I hit Call to dial the number. No one answers. I send back a text: I told you there isn’t a little boy. I made a mistake.

The response: I don’t think you did.

Then: You have such a pretty little girl.

My heart slams against my ribs. I start to compose a response, but I can’t untangle my fingers to write anything coherent. I dial Paul’s number instead. It goes straight to voice mail. I pull up his office number from my contacts, and I call. He has a new admin assistant, but when I tell her who I am, she says Paul’s in court, and she’ll take a message. She’ll make sure he gets it on his next break. I leave a message. Call me back. It’s urgent. She promises to get it to him as soon as she can.

Next my fingers hover over Laila Jackson’s number, but it’ll take too long to explain. I go to directory assistance and begin searching for the Muellers’ number. I have the name and the street. They only moved in recently, though, so I don’t know if there’s much chance . . .

Yes! They have a home number, and it’s listed.

I call. No one answers. I leave a message saying who I am and that I’m worried about Charlotte and could they call me back right away.

“Aubrey?” Ingrid appears. “I’m going to need you to end your break early. The desk is swamped.”

“Actually, I have to go,” I say.

“What?”

I’m about to lie. Say I’m sick. But I stop myself—no more lies, not when the truth is a perfectly valid excuse.

“My daughter is in trouble, and her dad’s in court today. I need to leave.”

“All right, come help me with this, and we’ll call someone in to cover for you.”

“No, it’s urgent.” I hold out my phone. “Someone just texted me a video of her as a threat.”

“What?” Her face screws up, not in horror but confusion.

“It’s connected to that missing boy. I-I’ll explain later.” I grab my purse. “I can’t reach the sitter, so I need to go check on her.”

“If your daughter really is in danger, call the police.”

I don’t miss the way she says “if.”

“I will,” I say. “On my way there. I just need to be sure Charlotte’s okay. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“No.” Ingrid steps into my path. “I need you up front, Aubrey, and I’ve had enough of this nonsense. If you are legitimately concerned, call the police. Then do your job until I get someone to cover your shift.”

I fight the panic coiled in my gut. That video came in nearly twenty minutes ago. Whoever sent it is toying with me, and the longer I argue with Ingrid, the later I’ll be before I can leave.

“I’ll help you with the desk,” I say. “Five minutes. I’ll check people through and then—”

“I said no, Aubrey. You will stay until—”

I swing past her and break into a jog.

“If you leave this building, do not come back,” she calls after me. “I have had enough of your . . .”

I don’t hear the rest. I’m already flying out the door.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





On the drive, I call Laila Jackson . . . and get her voice mail. I don’t leave a message. Not yet. First I want to be sure Charlotte is okay. When a call comes in moments later, I glance at the screen, hoping it’s Paul. It’s Ellie Milano. I let it go to voice mail—whatever she has to say, I don’t need the distraction right now. She doesn’t leave a message.

I drive straight to the park. It’s nearly empty, and I can tell in a sweep that Charlotte isn’t there. I spot one of the moms I knew from before. I pull over, jog to her, and ask if she’s seen Charlotte.