Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,47
her not to call here ever again. I love you, Mal.”
“No matter what?” I asked, feeling the tears spill over then, my fear of his answer loud like drumbeats in my head.
“No matter what,” he said, pulling me back to him, tucking me in the crook of his arm.
He let me cry on his shirt, and he kissed the top of my head.
Then he said quietly, almost murmuring, as if he thought I wouldn’t hear, “I wish I knew how to make you believe me.”
I wish I did, too.
Chapter 18
Michael
Casey and I passed the night together in the kitchen, neither of us willing or able to sleep.
While Casey was still thawing out in the tub, I’d abandoned the idea of driving all night toward Cleveland, feeling too tired and scattered to focus, afraid I’d end up crashed on the side of the road, compounding tragedy with rash, pointless action. The Cleveland police were looking, the Grand Rapids police checking out the phone and e-mail records. That was their job.
Yet the idea of sleeping in my warm bed felt like a betrayal, not knowing where my son was, whether he was safe and warm himself. I kept returning to the missing children stories I’ve reported and read over the years, and wondered anew how the parents survived it. At least Dylan checked in once, at least we’re pretty sure he left on his own.
How could you ever go on with your life, the mundane things like eating, showering, mowing the lawn? Yet people do, especially if they have other kids depending on them. Birthday parties, school plays. All the while, not knowing.
We didn’t speak, Casey and I, the whole night. What else was there to say?
We moved in restless circles like hummingbirds from the kitchen chair, to the office chair, to the counter by the phone, steering clear of Mallory on the living room couch.
I eventually changed out of my work clothes, grabbing some sweatpants in the dark of the room.
The sun rising behind the cloudy sky provided no beautiful views, just a gradual erasure of darkness.
The phone shrills at 7:30, and I run for it.
“Mr. Turner? It’s Detective Wilson.”
My throat is frozen. I cough out, “Yes.”
“We got the information from the cell phone and e-mail companies. The phone and e-mail are both registered to a Harper household in Cleveland. We called the number and also talked to the Cleveland police.”
I grip the countertop. “And?”
“Ed Harper, the owner of the phone and computer in question, has also reported his daughter, Tiffany, missing. This should be some sort of relief for you, sir, as we’re satisfied that he is indeed with a girl as he believes.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Thank you. What now?”
“Mr. Turner, we’ve alerted Cleveland police to be on the lookout for your son and the girl, but I’m afraid that’s all we can do at this time.”
I close my eyes, put my head in my hand. “Running away is not illegal,” I mumble.
“Sir, may I suggest you contact the National Center for the Missing? They are set up to help parents in your situation. I’m sorry, I wish we could help you, but we simply don’t have the manpower to chase runaways.”
I hang up, forgetting to say good-bye to the officer.
The wood floor creaks as Mallory comes into the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket. Casey stands just where she was when the phone rang. She’s wrapped her sweater tight around her, and her eyes are big as she watches me. She bites her knuckle.
“Well?” shrills Mallory, her hair matted from sleeping, a jagged sleep wrinkle down the side of her face.
“The good news is, he apparently is meeting a girl. A real girl, who is also missing. The bad news is, now that the police are satisfied they are runaways, they’re not going to chase them anymore.”
“Oh, my God,” moans Mallory, sinking into a kitchen chair. “He’s never coming home.”
“We don’t know that,” I hasten to say, back to the exhausting job of reassuring, propping up.
Casey moves around in my peripheral vision, and as I join Mallory at the table, Casey plunks a coffee down in front of her.
“I need some cream,” Mallory says, taking the cup without looking at Casey. Like she’s a waitress.
I remember suddenly that it’s Friday. I’m supposed to be at work. Late at night I’d let a call from Kate go to voice mail and never did listen to it. I should have, it was probably about that staffwide meeting.