Wherever She Goes(6)

“I just work over at the library. It’s a few blocks away. If you need to stop by, I’m there until five.”

“A phone number and home address will be fine, Ms. Finch. Thank you for your help. We’ll take it from here.”





Chapter Four





The police don’t show up or call during my shift. I have to grab a few groceries on the way home, but I keep it quick, in case they stop by. As I enter my building, I’m well aware of how it will look to Officer Cooper. My apartment is affordable. Very affordable. I could do better, even with my part-time job, but I want a down payment on a condo before I fight for Charlotte, so I took a cheap downtown apartment while squirreling away the extra.

I do have money, from before, but I can’t access much of that. Not without raising questions I don’t dare answer.

I’ve lived in worse places, and I’m comfortable here. There are a few veterans on disability that I run errands for, while cursing the system that put them into this situation.

Once inside, I tidy my apartment. It’s never bad—I grew up fixing my bed the moment I rolled out of it. But I want to make the best impression possible, overcoming any negative one left by the old building itself.

I’m washing the breakfast dishes when a knock comes at the door.

I open it to find Officer Cooper and the female coworker who was with him earlier. I invite them in and offer refreshments. They don’t accept the latter. We sit in the living room, and Cooper looks around.

“Is your daughter here?” he asks.

“She lives with her dad.”

I catch their reactions and wince. I need to stop saying that. I really do. She’s with her dad today. That’s the way to phrase it. Otherwise, I get this—both of them looking up sharply, like I’ve just confessed to armed robbery.

Cooper’s brow furrows, as if the concept of a three-year-old living with her father confuses him. The younger officer—Jackson—compresses her lips.

When Jackson’s gaze scans the apartment again, I say, “Yes, this isn’t the sort of place I want my daughter full-time, which is why she’s with her dad on weekdays. It’s a recent separation. I’m saving up for something better.”

Her expression judges me for my decision. I bristle at that. Kids do live in this building. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.

I do, though. I live here—and bring my daughter here—voluntarily.

“Have you found the boy?” I ask.

“No one is missing a child,” Jackson says.

“What?” I say.

“Some parents said they saw boys matching your description,” Cooper says. “They just didn’t see one wander off.”

“Because it was busy. A packed playground with plenty of kids who look like him.”

Jackson opens her mouth, but a look from Cooper stops her.

“I know what I saw,” I say.

“A boy pulled into an SUV,” Cooper says.

I relax. “Yes.”

“You heard someone call to the boy from an SUV. He ran to it. Willingly ran to it. Yes?”

“Right, but then he freaked out. He shouted ‘no’ and began screaming for his mom as a man dragged him into the vehicle.”

“Is it possible . . . ?” He shifts on the sofa. “You have a little girl. I’m sure you’ve needed to carry her to the car once or twice, when she’s overtired, overstimulated, kicking and screaming bloody murder.”

“That’s not—”

“Kids love the playground. They hate to leave it. There can be screaming. A good parent doesn’t drag their kid into the car like that. Unfortunately, questionable parenting isn’t illegal.”

“That’s not what it looked like at all. Are you sure no one saw anything?”

“A couple of parents saw you,” says Jackson. “They noticed you jog past. With a man.”

“What? Oh, right. I wasn’t with him. He was just . . .”

“Just what?” Jackson says when I trail off.

Hitting on me. That’s what I was going to say. Then I realize how it sounds. Yeah, so this guy told me I was stretching wrong and running wrong, but I’m sure he was just coming on to me. Really.

These officers already think I’m delusional. That won’t help.

“He was talking about stretches,” I say. “I was busy watching the little boy, so he took off.” I stop and look at Cooper. “He would have seen the boy. He must have. He said he jogs through the park at lunchtime, too. I could—”

“Parents said they see you there quite often,” Jackson cuts in. “Hanging around the benches, watching them, watching their kids.”

That throws me, and it takes me a second to recover and say, “Yes, like I said, I work nearby, and I jog through the park. I do my stretches near the playground. At the benches.”

“There are other benches in the park, Ms. Finch.”

I cut off a snippy reply and say, evenly, “I used to be a stay-at-home mom, and I miss being with my daughter all day. Stretching in the playground helps me cope.”

I’m baring more of myself here than I like . . . and it doesn’t cut me one iota of slack with Jackson, as her eyes narrow.

“You make some of the other parents uncomfortable,” she says.