Darling Rose Gold(87)

“Where’s Rose Gold, Patricia?” she asks, piercing me with dark eyes. She reminds me of a vulture.

“Patty,” I correct her again. “And I don’t know.” My hands are starting to shake, so I cross my arms against my body.

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“I dropped her off at work yesterday morning. She said she would jog home at the end of her shift. She did that sometimes. But then she never showed.” My hands have somehow escaped their hold and are wringing themselves at my waist. I tuck them into my back pockets, then take them out again, worried the stance is too flippant. I need to look innocent.

Tomalewicz continues. “Why didn’t you call the police or report her missing?”

Careful now, Patty.

“It hasn’t been much longer than twenty-four hours,” I say. “I thought she might be blowing off steam somewhere.”

“Is that like Rose Gold, to ‘blow off steam’?” Tomalewicz asks, using air quotes.

No, I think. “Yes,” I say. “Sometimes.” I realize I don’t sound very concerned about my daughter’s whereabouts, so I add, “Being a new mom is hard. I wanted to give Rose Gold a little space.”

“I see,” Tomalewicz says. I don’t like her tone. “I have an officer at Gadget World talking to the store manager. He says Rose Gold never showed up to work yesterday—or today. He says the last time anyone saw her was five p.m. on Saturday. That was fifty-two hours ago, if math isn’t your strong suit.”

I need a drink of water. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed four pounds of sand. I gulp. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know where she is.”

Tomalewicz appears unconcerned. She saunters to a chair across from the hospital bed and lowers herself into it, her long grasshopper legs bent at sharp angles. I sit on the bed, relieved to have support, some way to hide my trembling legs.

“Dr. Soukup says you told her Rose Gold was at a work conference.” Tomalewicz watches me, waiting for my response, but I can’t think of one, so I stay quiet. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Why did you tell her that if you just told me you don’t know where Rose Gold is?”

I clear my throat. “I needed to deal with one problem at a time. Adam was—is—so sick. I couldn’t take care of him and find my daughter.”

“That’s what the police are for,” Tomalewicz cuts in, eyes narrowed. “Officer Potts here is going to take a look through your things.”

I nod my permission, though she didn’t ask for it. To illustrate how cooperative I am, that I have nothing to hide, I hand over my purse and the diaper bag.

Potts begins with the diaper bag. The bag weighs at least ten pounds and has dozens of little compartments, zippered pockets, and snap pouches. Potts begins removing each item one at a time and placing them in a pile on the side table—diapers, wipes, pacifier, portable changing mat, diaper rash cream, hand sanitizer, backup onesie, pacifier clip, hat, burp cloth. From the side pockets, he pulls two bottles of milk and examines them before placing them on the floor, separate from the rest of the stuff.

He keeps digging farther into the bag, pulling out tissues and Rose Gold’s hair ties, all the junk that gets us through the day. My heart jackhammers in my chest.

By now, Potts is elbows deep into the diaper bag, unzipping small side pockets we never use. From one he pulls a small rectangle—an iPhone. I had no idea it was in there.

I think I might throw up.

“Is this yours?” Potts asks me. This is the first time he’s spoken. His voice is much deeper than I would have guessed. He touches a button on the phone, but the screen remains black—it’s dead. Potts rummages through his own bag and pulls out a charger. He searches the wall for an outlet, then plugs in the phone. Satisfied, he glances up at me, waiting for the device to power up.

I could lie. I could say it’s mine. I could say I don’t know whose it is. But I bet there’s an easy way to tell whom the phone belongs to, and I don’t know enough about technology to outsmart the police on this one. Potts looks like he was born with an iPhone in hand.

“It’s Rose Gold’s,” I mutter. Both officers’ eyebrows rocket skyward in surprise. Tomalewicz’s lips are starting to curl up at the corners.

“I’ve been calling her and leaving frantic messages for days,” I protest. “Check the call log.”

“Days? I thought you said it’s been twenty-four hours,” Tomalewicz says.

“Hours, then,” I say. “Maybe it just feels like days. I’m so worried,” I say, which is now true. “I’m so worried about both of them.”

By now the iPhone is back up and running. Potts starts scrolling, tapping, hunting. I can’t see the screen, so I don’t know what he’s searching for.

“The thing is, Patricia,” Tomalewicz says, “we got a call today from a concerned resident. Someone who received an alarming letter from Rose Gold.”

Who? I think, then glance up, hoping I haven’t said it aloud.

Tomalewicz crosses her legs, resting her right ankle on her left knee. “Rose Gold sounded very frightened by you in the letter. It sounds to us like you were back to abusing her.”

That accusation again. This town will never let it go.