nodded, then took in the room again, slowly tallying things one by one. The open window. The bed. The hallway. Back to me, eyes roaming over my clothes, my exposed skin. I followed her gaze to my knee, to the tear in the fabric, the red seeping through the makeshift bandage.
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” she said. “We should really get that checked out.”
I wasn’t sure whether this step was optional. Whether this was a suggestion or a requirement. What the rules were when you found yourself inside the orbit of a dead body. But I didn’t object.
This house would tell a story if she knew what to look for, and I didn’t want her to see some other possibility hidden underneath. I wanted her out of the house.
I wanted us both out, and far away from all of this, as soon as humanly possible.
TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEWS COMPILED AT SEARCH HEADQUARTERS
OCTOBER 19, 2000
PAMELA CROUCH: They weren’t doing enough. It was obvious. We know the difference between a rescue and a recovery.
CHARLIE MENDOZA: If we don’t do it, who will? That girl’s mother is watching. That girl is still out there somewhere.
WILLIAM HARRIS: It’s math. Get enough people and divide the area up. We’ve got enough people now. They’re coming in from everywhere.
ANITA LAFAYETTE: I heard there are divers coming.
CHARLIE: Heard they’re gonna drill down in some areas where they think there might be air.
PAMELA: I heard there are even more people coming. Volunteers from other states.
ANITA: The high schools are bringing some of their portable field lights. We’ll keep searching. We’ll keep at it until she’s found.
WILLIAM: They’re using infrared now. Got those from a hunting club, a group of concerned citizens. Like I said, it’s math. Get enough people, enough gear, and it’s just a matter of time.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, 4 a.m.
I WASN’T ACCUSTOMED TO THE night shift at the hospital—the flip side to my day. There was extra security; a staff I wasn’t completely familiar with. Nina Rigby led me through the ER entrance, not realizing I was an employee.
I filled out the paperwork with the least amount of information possible. My insurance, my name, my date of birth—the usual. Nothing that required a medical professional to dig any deeper into my personal history: I was always aware of where that could lead. I wasn’t sure how much information was tied to my new name, how much had transferred, how much each system was connected—but the less I provided, the less likely anything would be questioned.
It was a cut on my leg. That’s all. Nothing else was relevant.
Except I knew what would be available and easily accessed right now, shared on this very system: my recent visit with Dr. Calvin Royce.
Even without the details, the visit itself would imply something.
I hoped no one saw it and mentioned it. Not in front of the police.
The waiting room was full, with some noticeably sick children ahead of me, including one with an audible wheeze who, thankfully, got called back first. But having the police escort must have bumped me up the list. After I’d checked in, Nina Rigby went up to the reception desk, showed her ID, and said something to the woman that I couldn’t understand—but the woman peered up at me for a split second, and we didn’t have to wait long to be called back, vitals taken by a nurse I vaguely recognized. She must’ve filled in for someone on the day shift in the past.
I was glad for the loose pajama pants, and pulled the material up to my thigh, so the wound could be cleaned and assessed.
The nurse spoke with a soothing smile, and I couldn’t tell whether she recognized me, either—or at least recognized my name. Eventually, she left us in the semi-private curtained area, me in the single bed, Nina sitting in the single visitor chair against the wall.
Nina Rigby was practiced in stillness, it seemed, and it was making me anxious, and restless. All I could do was stare at the gap between the curtains, keeping watch for the doctor and trying not to think of the events that had led us here.
The buzz of Nina’s phone made us both jump, and she distracted herself for a while texting someone on the other end. Her face gave away nothing.
“The body was found on Mr. Aimes’s property,” she said. “That’s the primary crime scene, though they may have to expand it once we get a better look in the daylight. Okay if they