Now You See Her Page 0,31
know her as Audrey.”
“Sorry, no.”
It was the same with everyone she asked.
“Sorry. Can’t help you.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t know her.”
“No, sorry.”
Marcy occasionally pressed. “Could you look at the picture again? Maybe you took an English class together?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Couldn’t say.”
“No, sorry.”
“Have you tried the registrar’s office?” someone suggested.
Moments later Marcy was in the office of the registrar. “She doesn’t look at all familiar?” she asked the woman behind the reception desk.
“No, I can’t say I recognize this one. You’re sure she’s a student here?”
Marcy admitted she was sure of no such thing.
The woman typed something into her computer. “Audrey, you said her name was?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Last name?”
Marcy hesitated. Which name would her daughter use? “I don’t know.”
The woman shook her head, her eyes seemingly focused on a spot to the left of Marcy’s nose. “I’m afraid I can’t help you without a last name.”
“Try Taggart.” Marcy spelled it. “And if there’s no Audrey Taggart, try Devon.”
“Audrey and Devon Taggart.” The woman sighed as she typed in both names. “No, nothing for either of them. Sorry. Have you inquired at the other colleges?”
By four o’clock, Marcy had tried virtually every department on campus. She’d popped her head into every office and classroom, visited every gallery, walked down every hall, investigated every nook and cranny of every building, peeked behind every tree, asked every student she was able to corral to look at the photograph. “You already asked me,” one muttered, sidestepping her as if she were a panhandler.
Marcy was just exiting the campus when she saw her.
The girl was standing on the footbridge separating Bachelor’s Quay from North Mall, staring down at the water below, seemingly lost in thought. A breeze was blowing her long hair into her face, and every few seconds her hand reached up to push the pesky strands away from her mouth.
“Devon!” Marcy cried out, her voice disappearing under the wheels of a passing car. She began running up the street toward the bridge, each step bringing her closer to the daughter she feared she’d lost forever. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Please let her be happy to see me, she prayed as she ran. Please let her not be angry. Please let me hold her in my arms again.
Which was when she heard the shouting and turned to see the bicycle coming out of nowhere, a look of horror on the cyclist’s face as he tried to avoid crashing into her. But he was traveling too fast and her reflexes were too slow, and his front wheel caught the back of her legs, spinning her around and lifting her off her feet.
In the next second, Marcy was sprawled across the pavement like a rag doll, a small crowd gathering around her. “Are you all right?” someone was asking. “Is anything broken?” “Can you stand up?”
Marcy felt hands underneath her arms, dragging her to her feet, returning her to an upright position. “I’m fine,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice. What the hell had just happened?
“You’re sure? Do you need to go to the hospital?” a young man asked, pushing his way to the front of the crowd.
“I don’t need a hospital.” What I need is to find my daughter, Marcy thought, recovering her equilibrium and deducing from the boy’s ashen complexion that he was the one who’d run her down. She looked frantically toward the footbridge, but she couldn’t see over the heads of those who’d stopped to help her. “Please. I have to go.”
“No,” the young man insisted, his strong hand on her arm preventing her from going anywhere. “You shouldn’t move for a few minutes. You could have a concussion.”
“I didn’t hit my head. I don’t have a concussion. Please, if you could all just get out of my way …”
“You heard the lady,” the young man snapped at the small crowd. “Back off. She needs some air.” The people immediately began dispersing until only Marcy and the young man remained. “I’m so sorry,” he was saying, curly brown hair framing a face that was more rugged than handsome, small dark eyes skipping nervously across her features, as if checking for signs she was about to collapse.
He looked to be in his twenties, Marcy thought, her eyes straining past his head toward the footbridge. The same age as Devon. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice flat. “It was an accident.”
“I was just goin’ along, mindin’ me own business, not payin’ enough attention, I guess, and suddenly there you were,” the boy elaborated