The Last Thing She Ever Did(37)

It happens.

“You’re fine,” she said. “Tony, you’re doing fine.”

Inside, Esther wished he’d been a thousand times more observant. He didn’t even know the model of the car. Thought it was a Chevy but could have been a Ford. His description of the child—apart from being blond, male, and about three or four years old—wasn’t much better.

“If it was a dog,” he said, “I know I could have done better. I know my dogs.”

Esther took down his contact information and the meager details of what he’d witnessed and thanked him for being a good citizen. She loved animals too, but right now she had a missing child to find. Every second counted, and by that point the case was edging toward hopeless.

“It just came to me,” Tony said as he was getting up to leave. His face brightened a little. “The car’s plates were from out of state. The one with the stylized sun. New Mexico. Yeah, the plates on the car were from New Mexico! I’m pretty sure. Well, I’m almost pretty sure.”

Esther perked up too. That was something. True, there were probably more than half a million vehicles registered in the Land of Enchantment, but they still weren’t all that commonly encountered in Central Oregon.

She made arrangements to get a local portrait artist who volunteered to do the occasional police sketch in to meet with Tony, though she held no real hopes for the exercise. While well-meaning, the artist was more of a law-enforcement groupie than someone who could actually render a viable sketch based on the details coaxed from someone else’s memory. One time she’d spent most of her time sketching another officer’s likeness and signing it along with her phone number.

A white Chevy or Ford with New Mexico plates was hardly a defining clue. It was something, however. Something along the lines of something is better than nothing. In Esther’s experience, there wasn’t time for a slow-burn investigation, the kind in which leads come in dribs and drabs. They needed a breakthrough. They needed something definitive—fast. Esther hoped—and she held this hope deep, deep in her marrow—that Charlie was still alive. But experience and common sense told her time was running out. Time did that. It just doesn’t stand still.

She went to the break room down the hall and filled her I ? BEND mug with the last bit of coffee from the carafe. Not even a full cup. Whoever had been there before her had neglected to do what the sign said: LAST CUP? MAKE A FRESH POT.

It dripped like molasses into her mug. Esther knew it was going to be terrible after sitting on the burner for way too long. She started another pot, and as she poured boiling water over the ground beans, she found herself saying a silent prayer.

Find Charlie. Help us find him.





CHAPTER TWENTY

MISSING: ONE DAY

Carole dragged herself to the door to let Liz inside. Carole’s silver-blond hair was flat. She wore yoga pants and a pullover. She didn’t look at all like Carole Franklin. She was a wounded animal. The younger woman from next door held some takeout containers in her hands. Neither woman said anything at first. Liz awkwardly put her arms around Carole and hugged her.

“I know it’s early,” Liz said, “but I know you haven’t eaten anything.”

Carole pulled away. Her blue eyes were puffy and red. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know,” Liz said. “But you have to eat. I got your favorite.” She opened the box and the smell of pad thai wafted into the air. “Three-star. Shrimp.”

“Thank you,” Carole said, trying to smile, though she had no intention of eating. Eating would only ensure another trip to the bathroom, where she’d end up bracing herself over the toilet and heaving up anything in her stomach. Or nothing at all, if it was empty. She’d thrown up twice that morning.

“He’s out there,” she said, tears stinging her eyes once more. “He is.”

Liz started to cry too. “Oh, Carole, I’m so, so sorry.”

Carole reached for Liz, holding her close while they sobbed. “They’ll find him, won’t they?” she asked. “He’ll be all right. Remember that girl that went missing for ten years? The one in California? They found her. She’s all right. She survived. She hadn’t been murdered.”

Liz could hardly speak. “Don’t even think about that. Don’t. Don’t let your mind go to that place.” Tears streamed down her face. She felt sick. Sicker than she ever had in her life. She’d never be well again.

Her hands trembled when she went into the kitchen to make a plate for Carole. Carole stayed planted on the sofa, cocooned in the afghan.

“Where’s David?” Liz asked, coming back with the food.

Carole looked up. “At work.”

Liz set down the takeout and looked into her friend’s eyes. Carole didn’t blink. She just looked at her, telegraphing a message that indicated disappointment with her husband.

“He got a call from someone,” she said. “Said he was going to see the detective and then go on to work the dinner service at Sweetwater.”

Liz sputtered. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How could he do that? He needs to be here with you.”

Carole picked at the Thai food. “It’s fine,” she said, her words still splintered by the trauma of all that was swelling around her, sucking her into a whirlpool. A tar pit. “Why should this day be any different than all the others? For all I know, he’s off with some girlfriend somewhere, crying on her shoulder, looking for comfort sex. Or just sex, period.”