Wherever She Goes (ARC) Read online

  A sharp boyish yelp of surprise. Then, “No!”

  I burst into a run as a man’s low voice says, “Get in,” and “Stop that.”

  The boy shouts, “No! Let me go!” Then he screams “Mama!” at the top of his lungs as I run full out.

  A door slams shut, muffling the boy’s cries.

  An engine revs.

  I grit my teeth and will my body to go faster, just a little faster, damn it.

  The SUV takes off, speeding through the lot, and all I see is that damned roof rack.

  Faster! Harder! I hear my father’s bark. Dig deeper. Work harder. You can do better, Bree.

  You can always do better.

  The SUV has stopped at the roadway, engine idling as it waits for a break in the heavy traffic. If I can just get past the next row of cars, I’ll be able to get a plate number.

  I jog across the lane. A solid flow of traffic still blocks the exit. I can do this. Twenty feet more, and I’ll have a clear sight line to the SUV, and there is no way it can pull away before that.

  Get my phone out to snap pictures. Even if I can’t see the license plate, I can enhance the photo.

  The SUV is just ahead. I lift my phone while fumbling to turn on the camera. It’s fine. Steady traffic. I have time. I—

  A horn blasts. A long, solid blast.

  Tires squeal.

  The SUV cuts into traffic and roars off.

  I race toward the road. No time for a photo. Just get a look at the license. The SUV is pulling away, the rear bumper visible, the license . . .

  The license plate is mud-splattered and unreadable.

  The vehicle then. Stop squinting at the plate, and get the vehicle make and model—

  The SUV cuts into the next lane before I can see the emblem. It’s a large SUV. Dark blue . . . or black . . .

  Not good enough. Not good enough at all.

  I keep going, but the SUV is already at the next light, turning left and . . .

  And it’s gone.

  I inhale and look down, feeling the weight of the cell phone in my hand.

  Uh, yes. Cell phone?

  I hit numbers as I head back toward the park.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Kidnap—” I struggle for breath, like I’ve run a marathon. “Kidnapping. I witnessed a kidnapping.”

  “Slow down, ma’am, and repeat that please?”

  “I just witnessed a kidnapping. I saw a boy pulled into a car—an SUV. A dark-colored SUV on . . .” Street. What is the street? “On Cliff View. Near Grant Park. The children’s playground. There’s a parking lot off Cliff View into Grant Park, right next to the playground. It happened there. Just now.”

  “You witnessed a young man—”

  “Boy, child, maybe four or five years old.”

  “A child being pulled into a dark SUV in the parking lot . . .”

  The dispatcher continues rhyming off the information, and I want to shout, Yes, yes to all of that, now just get someone here.

  When the woman finishes, I say, calmly, “Yes, that’s right. Please hurry. They just left.”

  “I’ve already dispatched a car, ma’am. Can you remain on the scene, please?”

  “I’ll be here. In the playground. I know what his mom looks like. I’m going to find her. You can reach me at this number or just tell the officers I’m wearing a gray sweat suit, and I have a dark brown ponytail. My name is Aubrey Finch.”

  The dispatcher signs off, and I’m on the move again.

  I pass two mothers leaving with children and I can’t help wishing they could have been five minutes sooner, extra witnesses who might have seen more.

  Someone must have seen more. There will be a CCTV camera or a street passerby or maybe even that guy who pestered me about my “form”—he can’t have gone far.

  Someone will have seen something.

  I reach the playground and scan it for the boy’s mother, expecting to see her anxiously searching. She must have turned her back, maybe talking to another parent or engrossed in a book.

  It only takes a moment.

  Just last month, in the mall, I let go of Charlotte’s hand to adjust my shopping bag, and she disappeared. It only took two seconds to spot her dark curls bobbing toward the pet shop, but even as I raced toward her, I imagined showing up at Paul’s doorstep and saying, “I lost her.”

  I lost our baby.

  Now I am about to inflict that hell on another woman.

  I saw your baby get taken. I know, you only looked away for a moment.

  But it only takes a moment.

  I can’t see the boy’s mother. The playground is even busier now. I spot a blond woman reading a book and take a step her way, only to have her look up and reveal the face of a grandmother.

  Another blond woman stands at the side, but she has a baby carriage.

  Another blonde, heavyset and tending to a girl Charlotte’s age.

  I spin, skimming faces as they blur before me.

  “Are you okay?” a voice asks.

  I look into the concerned face of young dad. I nod and walk away, searching the crowd.

  Then I spot her. Off to the far side by that patch of forest, a woman with a blond ponytail hurries from tree to tree as she calls for a child.

  As I jog over, I rehearse what I’ll say.

  Should I be the one to do it? The police will be here any second.

  No, I’m a fellow mom, and we’ve met, if briefly. The news should come from me.

  I take a deep breath and walk up behind the increasingly frantic woman. I open my mouth and—

  “Found me!” a little girl squeals as she launches herself from behind a bush.

  The woman scoops her up. “Don’t ever take off on me like that, Amber.”

  “I was hiding.”

  “You need to tell me you’re going to hide. You can’t—”

  The woman nearly crashes into me. I murmur, “Excuse me,” and she continues past, still scolding the child.

  “Ms. Finch?” a voice says.

  I turn to see a uniformed officer. He’s nearing retirement age. Bulldog-faced, his eyes and jowls and belly drooping, like someone who’s been pulling double shifts all his life and has resigned himself to permanent exhaustion. His nameplate reads COOPER.

  Three younger officers follow—two men and a woman—but they stay back as Cooper approaches me.

  “Oh, thank God,” I say. “I can’t find the boy’s mother anywhere.”

  “It’s okay, ma’am. We’re here now. You said you saw a boy taken from the playground?”

  “No, the parking lot.” I point. “He was on the swings and wandered that way.”

  I explain. Slow and relaxed and careful. Step by step, despite the voice in my head screaming that they need to find that SUV, find it now.

  This is how they will find it. By me staying calm and explaining.

  When I finish, Cooper says, “So you saw him here with his mother, and she didn’t follow him when he walked off.”

  “No, I only saw her on Sunday, when I spoke to them both.”

  Cooper’s brows shoot up. “You were jogging through the park Sunday and saw them then, too?”

  “I was here with my daughter on Sunday. I jog on my lunch hours. I work nearby.”

  “Describe the boy, please,” he says to me. “In as much detail as possible. We’ll ask around, see who saw him, figure out where his mom is.”

  “He’s school age, but just barely. About this tall.” I motion. “Thin. White. Short blond hair.”

  He pauses. When I don’t continue, he says, “Anything more specific?” He points to another boy, fair haired, about the same age. “How would he be different from that kid? Taller? Thinner? Hair darker, lighter, shorter, longer?”

  “Thinner in the face. Maybe a bit taller.”

  Cooper points to another child, who also looks similar. In this neighborhood, towheaded white kids are as common as German-built cars. As I struggle to remember
distinguishing features, my heart hammers. What if it wasn’t the boy from Sunday? I only saw him from a distance today, and several of the kids Cooper points out do look like him.

  That doesn’t matter. A child is still missing. Just limit my description to what I remember of the boy I saw today.

  “What’s he wearing?” Cooper asks.

  I pull up a mental picture, and . . . it’s blank.

  Stop that. I saw him. I chased him. Surely I can remember—

  “Jeans,” I blurt. “Jeans and sneakers and a T-shirt.”

  Cooper casts a pointed look at the playground, where nearly every child is in jeans and sneakers, and at least half are in tees.

  “The shirt was blue. A medium shade. Like that.” I point to a woman’s blouse.

  “And his mother?”

  “Young, early twenties. She’s blond and wears her hair in a ponytail. Well, she did Sunday and . . .” Deep breath. “Just focus on the boy, please. Even if it’s not the same child, I did see a child get pulled into an SUV.”

  Cooper nods. “Okay.” He turns to the officers. “Don’t let anyone leave before speaking to you.”

  As they walk toward the playground, he says, “You mentioned being on a lunch break. Are you late for work?”

  “Yes, but I can stay—”

  “We have this. I’ll take your contact information and be in touch.”

  “I just work over at the library. It’s a few blocks away. If you need to stop by, I’m there until five.”

  “A phone number and home address will be fine, Ms. Finch. Thank you for your help. We’ll take it from here.”

  The police don’t show up or call during my shift. I have to grab a few groceries on the way home, but I keep it quick, in case they stop by. As I enter my building, I’m well aware of how it will look to Officer Cooper. My apartment is affordable. Very affordable. I could do better, even with my part-time job, but I want a down payment on a condo before I fight for Charlotte, so I took a cheap downtown apartment while squirreling away the extra.

  I do have money, from before, but I can’t access much of that. Not without raising questions I don’t dare answer.

  I’ve lived in worse places, and I’m comfortable here. There are a few veterans on disability that I run errands for, while cursing the system that put them into this situation.

  Once inside, I tidy my apartment. It’s never bad—I grew up fixing my bed the moment I rolled out of it. But I want to make the best impression possible, overcoming any left by the old building itself.

  I’m washing the breakfast dishes when a knock comes at the door.

  I open it to find Officer Cooper and the female coworker who was with him earlier. I invite them in and offer refreshments. They don’t accept the latter. We sit in the living room, and Cooper looks around.

  “Is your daughter here?” he asks.

  “She lives with her dad.”

  I catch their reactions and wince. I need to stop saying that. I really do. She’s with her dad today. That’s the way to phrase it. Otherwise, I get this—both of them looking up sharply, like I’ve just confessed to armed robbery.

  Cooper’s brow furrows, as if the concept of a three-year-old living with her father confuses him. The younger officer—Jackson—compresses her lips.

  When Jackson’s gaze scans the apartment again, I say, “Yes, this isn’t the sort of place I want my daughter full-time, which is why she’s with her dad on weekdays. It’s a recent separation. I’m saving up for something better.”

  Her expression judges me for my decision. I bristle at that. Kids do live in this building. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.

  I do, though. I live here—and bring my daughter here—voluntarily.

  “Have you found the boy?” I ask.

  “No one is missing a child,” Jackson says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Some parents said they saw boys matching your description,” Cooper says. “They just didn’t see one wander off.”

  “Because it was busy. A packed playground with plenty of kids who look like him.”

  Jackson opens her mouth, but a look from Cooper stops her.

  “I know what I saw,” I say.

  “A boy pulled into an SUV,” Cooper says.

  I relax. “Yes.”

  “You heard someone call to the boy from an SUV. He ran to it. Willingly ran to it. Yes?”

  “Right, but then he freaked out. He shouted ‘no’ and began screaming for his mom as a man dragged him into the vehicle.”

  “Is it possible . . . ?” He shifts on the sofa. “You have a little girl. I’m sure you’ve needed to carry her to the car once or twice, when she’s overtired, overstimulated, kicking and screaming bloody murder.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Kids love the playground. They hate to leave it. There can be screaming. A good parent doesn’t drag their kid into the car like that. Unfortunately, questionable parenting isn’t illegal.”

  “That’s not what it looked like at all. Are you sure no one saw anything?”

  “A couple of parents saw you,” says Jackson. “They noticed you jog past. With a man.”

  “What? Oh, right. I wasn’t with him. He was just . . .”

  “Just what?” Jackson says when I trail off.

  Hitting on me. That’s what I was going to say. Then I realize how it sounds. Yeah, so this guy told me I was stretching wrong and running wrong, but I’m sure he was just coming on to me. Really.

  These officers already think I’m delusional. That won’t help.

  “He was talking about stretches,” I say. “I was busy watching the little boy, so he took off.” I stop and look at Cooper. “He would have seen the boy. He must have. He said he jogs through the park at lunchtime, too. I could—”

  “Parents said they see you there quite often,” Jackson cuts in. “Hanging around the benches, watching them, watching their kids.”

  That throws me, and it takes me a second to recover and say, “Yes, like I said, I work nearby, and I jog through the park. I do my stretches near the playground. At the benches.”

  “There are other benches in the park, Ms. Finch.”

  I cut off a snippy reply and say, evenly, “I used to be a stay-at-home mom, and I miss being with my daughter all day. Stretching in the playground helps me cope.”

  I’m baring more of myself here than I like . . . and it doesn’t cut me one iota of slack with Jackson, as her eyes narrow.

  “You make some of the other parents uncomfortable,” she says.

  “What?” I’ve misheard her. I must have.

  “How would you feel, if you took your kid to the playground, and you kept seeing this woman there, hanging around, with no child in tow.”

  My cheeks blaze. “It’s not like that. I stretch near the playground sometimes. That’s all.”

  “And you watch the kids.”

  “I . . . I guess I do. While I stretch. I just . . . I enjoy seeing kids play.”

  “Do you know how often we hear that, Ms. Finch? Every time we question a pedophile for hanging around a playground.”

  My heart slams into my throat. “Wh-what? No. I have never—”

  “No one’s accusing you of that.” Cooper glares at his young partner. “We’re just pointing out how it could look.”

  “And that if you were a man, this would be a very different conversation,” Jackson says. “Personally, I don’t think gender should play a role in how we handle these complaints.”

  “There was a complaint?” My voice squeaks.

  “No,” Cooper says. “A couple of people mentioned it, but we all know parents can be overly cautious. You might want to run somewhere else, though, in future.”

  Humiliation swallows my voice, and it takes a moment for me to say, “Yes, of course.”

  Cooper continues, but I don’t hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. I always figured I was invisible, just a jogger stretching at a bench. It never occurred to me that
anyone would notice, let alone remember me from one day to the next.

  I made other parents nervous.

  They saw me as a threat.

  Did they talk about me? Whisper warnings to each other?

  Have you seen that woman with the dark ponytail? She comes by every lunch and pretends to be stretching, but she’s watching us. Eavesdropping on our conversations. Staring at our children.

  I’ll never be able to set foot in that park again.

  “Ms. Finch?”

  I struggle to refocus. This is about the boy, not me. Remember that.

  “I know what I saw,” I say. “And it wasn’t an angry dad hauling his kid into a car.”

  Jackson gives Cooper a look, as if waiting for him to respond. When he doesn’t, she opens her mouth, but he cuts in with, “Either way, we are taking it seriously, Ms. Finch. We put an alert out for the SUV.”

  “An AMBER Alert?”

  “Without a parent reporting a child missing, we cannot do that. We need to know who we would be looking for.”

  “It’s been five hours,” Jackson says. “It’s not as if Mom left the park by herself, forgetting she brought a kid.”

  “We are investigating, Ms. Finch,” Cooper says. “We wouldn’t ignore something like this.” He pushes to his feet. “If a child is reported missing, we’ll let you know.”

  After they leave, I sink into the sofa, ignoring the broken spring that pokes back. Did I make a mistake? My gut insists that I know what I saw. And what I saw was a child being dragged, screaming, into an SUV. A young child who’d been wandering alone in the park. That isn’t normal.

  Not normal, yes. But maybe like Officer Cooper said, it was just bad parenting. Charlotte has had tantrums. She’s three—it happens. Once, when she got overtired, she threw a fit in a restaurant, deciding the world was a cruel and unfair place if they didn’t have sprinkles for her ice cream. I carried her to the car while Paul quickly paid the bill. I remember hurrying through the restaurant, dodging glares. Then I got outside and heard her gasp and discovered that in trying to quiet her, I’d been pressing her face into my shoulder. Forcibly silencing her.