I am happy because we’ve achieved something less life-changing but even more important. Personal reconciliation. He knows my secrets, and yes, they have hurt him. Yet that hasn’t marked the beginning of an icy-cold post-separation wasteland, where I can no longer reach him, no longer talk to him, no longer co-parent with him. We’re returning to equilibrium, and if that’s the best I can hope for, then I’ll take it.
I think Paul was right. Zima’s goon was testing me last night. Menacing me in hopes of proving—or disproving—my story about a missing child. No one wants there to be a missing child. It’s inconvenient. If I’m the only person who says there was one, and I’ve retracted my claim, then the thug can go back to Denis Zima and say, “That chick was wrong.”
You don’t have a son, Denis. There’s nothing to see here. Let’s move along.
We’re short-staffed at the library today, so I’m doing mom-and-tot story time, which I love. I’m good at it, too—I do all the voices, and I’m definitely not afraid to be silly. I’m hoping that if I impress Ingrid, I’ll get to do more programming, especially with little ones. Now that Paul knows about my past, there’s nothing to stop me from going back to school part-time. Get a degree in library science. I’d also like to throw my tech skills into the mix. Play to my strengths and my interests, after so many years of hiding them.
God, that feels good. I don’t know if I ever truly realized the weight of those secrets. Once it’s lifted, the possibilities roll out before me like a red carpet. I can get my degree and a proper librarian job. I can use my inheritance money to buy a condo. I can openly negotiate child custody with Paul, now that I don’t have to worry about him digging into my past.
I can breathe again. That’s what it feels like. I can finally breathe.
I’m helping the little ones check out their post-story-time books when my phone buzzes. It’s under the counter, and I glance at it while the screen is lit up. It’s an incoming text from a number I don’t recognize. I’ll admit to a jolt of fear when I see that, as a million horrible scenarios run through my mind. Life is going too well this morning, and the universe will surely stomp out my joy with a text from Zima or his goon.
I whip through the checkouts. Then I surreptitiously unlock my phone. The text is a video with a still of Charlotte climbing a slide. I smile. Paul must have given Mrs. Mueller my number.
I’m about to text back a “Thanks!” when Ingrid appears from the stacks. I slide my phone under the counter, and I head out to shelve books. As I’m leaving the desk, a mother stops to gush about my story-time skills . . . just as Ingrid is passing to overhear. When I come back from shelving, she tells me several of the parents commented, and Nancy has been talking about giving up story time, and maybe I could take it over. It is the icing on my cupcake-perfect morning. Ingrid and I talk, too, really talk. At break time I grab my phone to continue the delicious sweetness of my day by watching my daughter play.
I sit in the staff room with a fresh cup of coffee and a doughnut dropped off by a patron. I hit Play on the video. I watch Charlotte and a preschooler tear through the tiny playground in their neighborhood. I smile as I enjoy the video and my doughnut. Then I see a woman holding a Chihuahua on a leash. She’s close to the girls, keeping an eye on them. This must be the neighbor—Mrs. Mueller.
I think that . . . and then I pause. If that’s Mrs. Mueller, who’s taking the video?
Maybe her spouse works from home. Or has the day off. That make sense. Except, when I start thinking about that, I notice another oddity. No one turns to the camera. No one waves at it. No one smiles over at it.
If this videographer is with Mrs. Mueller, then the kids know they’re being filmed. There isn’t a chance in hell that two preschoolers wouldn’t look over at least once.
A chill slides between my shoulder blades.
I flip to the text message and send back: Who is this?
A response comes within seconds: Are you sure you don’t know anything about that little boy, Aubrey? Maybe my video jogged your memory?
My fingers tremble as I hit Call to dial the number. No one answers. I send back a text: I told you there isn’t a little boy. I made a mistake.
The response: I don’t think you did.
Then: You have such a pretty little girl.
My heart slams against my ribs. I start to compose a response, but I can’t untangle my fingers to write anything coherent. I dial Paul’s number instead. It goes straight to voice mail. I pull up his office number from my contacts, and I call. He has a new admin assistant, but when I tell her who I am, she says Paul’s in court, and she’ll take a message. She’ll make sure he gets it on his next break. I leave a message. Call me back. It’s urgent. She promises to get it to him as soon as she can.
Next my fingers hover over Laila Jackson’s number, but it’ll take too long to explain. I go to directory assistance and begin searching for the Muellers’ number. I have the name and the street. They only moved in recently, though, so I don’t know if there’s much chance . . .
Yes! They have a home number, and it’s listed.
I call. No one answers. I leave a message saying who I am and that I’m worried about Charlotte and could they call me back right away.
“Aubrey?” Ingrid appears. “I’m going to need you to end your break early. The desk is swamped.”
“Actually, I have to go,” I say.
“What?”
I’m about to lie. Say I’m sick. But I stop myself—no more lies, not when the truth is a perfectly valid excuse.
“My daughter is in trouble, and her dad’s in court today. I need to leave.”
“All right, come help me with this, and we’ll call someone in to cover for you.”
“No, it’s urgent.” I hold out my phone. “Someone just texted me a video of her as a threat.”
“What?” Her face screws up, not in horror but confusion.
“It’s connected to that missing boy. I-I’ll explain later.” I grab my purse. “I can’t reach the sitter, so I need to go check on her.”
“If your daughter really is in danger, call the police.”
I don’t miss the way she says “if.”
“I will,” I say. “On my way there. I just need to be sure Charlotte’s okay. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“No.” Ingrid steps into my path. “I need you up front, Aubrey, and I’ve had enough of this nonsense. If you are legitimately concerned, call the police. Then do your job until I get someone to cover your shift.”
I fight the panic coiled in my gut. That video came in nearly twenty minutes ago. Whoever sent it is toying with me, and the longer I argue with Ingrid, the later I’ll be before I can leave.
“I’ll help you with the desk,” I say. “Five minutes. I’ll check people through and then—”
“I said no, Aubrey. You will stay until—”
I swing past her and break into a jog.
“If you leave this building, do not come back,” she calls after me. “I have had enough of your . . .”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already flying out the door.
On the drive, I call Laila Jackson . . . and get her voice mail. I don’t leave a message. Not yet. First I want to be sure Charlotte is okay. When a call comes in moments later, I glance at the screen, hoping it’s Paul. It’s Ellie Milano. I let it go to voice mail—whatever she has to say, I don’t need the distraction right now. She doesn’t leave a message.
I drive straight to the park. It’s nearly empty, and I can tell in a sweep that Charlotte isn’t there. I spot one of the moms I knew from before. I pull over, jog to her, and ask if she’s seen Charlotte.
She gives me this look, her eyes narrowing, and then she says carefully, “No, I haven’t.”
I wonder why I’m getting that look. Then it hits. She knows I’m not the custodial parent.
“There’s a problem,” I say. “Paul’s in court. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen her.”
She say
s no, but I can’t tell if she’s still suspicious. I hop back in my car. I have the Muellers’ address from the phone listing. It’s a half dozen doors down from Paul’s place. I pull into the drive and race to the front door.
I ring the bell. Then I knock. There’s no response to either. I call, and I hear the phone ringing inside.
The car is in the drive, and they aren’t at the park. Where—?
A child’s laugh echoes from the backyard. I heave a sigh of relief and race to the gate. It’s a chain-link fence, and I can see Mrs. Mueller through it. The dog—Pete—races at the heels of a little girl who is not my daughter. There’s no sign of Charlotte.
He’s taken her. Whoever sent those photos took her.
How could I have let a stranger care for Charlotte today? Anyone could walk up and say Paul sent them to fetch Charlotte.
Mrs. Mueller sees me running to her fence, and she looks over in alarm with a called “Hello?”
I resist the urge to leap into her yard. “I’m Aubrey Finch,” I call back. “I’m Charlotte’s mom. Where is she?”
There’s a long pause, as my heart hammers. I know what’s coming. She sees my face. She realizes there’s a problem, realizes she shouldn’t have trusted that person who said he’d come for Charlotte.
Then she walks to the fence, and I see the same look I got from the neighbor at the park. Suspicion.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your custody arrangement—” she begins.
“I just need to know where she is. Someone sent me a threatening video. I called. I left a message. Please, just tell me what happened.”
“Charlie’s napping.”
I exhale and take a few deep breaths. “Okay. Thank you. Paul’s in court, and I can’t get hold of him. I raced over from work.”
She nods. A slow nod, still wary.
“Can you wake Charlie up, please?” I say. “I’m sorry. She just . . . She shouldn’t be alone. I don’t know how much Paul told you about the situation . . .”
“Only that she couldn’t go to care today, and to let no one except him pick her up. He said there was a situation. I thought it was custody-related.”
“What? No.” Another deep breath. “Not at all, but I didn’t come to take her. I totally respect your concern, and I thank you for being careful. The problem is that I’ve found myself caught up in a police investigation, and there had been threats. Not against Charlotte, but Paul and I were still cautious. I just received a video that clearly targets her.” I hold out my phone. “It’s one of you with her in the park.”
She takes the phone, brows knitted. She presses Play and her eyes widen.
“Mommy?” The little girl runs over, dog tumbling along behind. Mrs. Mueller motions for her to come closer and says, “We’re going to get Charlie up. I think she’s napped long enough.” She opens the gate. “Come and sit on the deck. We’ll be back in a moment.”
“Thank you.”
Charlotte is awake, and Paul is on his way. His admin assistant got the message to him as soon as court ended. He called, and I said everything was fine, but he wanted to come get us.
I sit outside with Mrs. Mueller for a very awkward hour before Paul arrives. The first thing he does is apologize to her. He shouldn’t have put her in this position, and he wouldn’t have if he’d had any idea this might happen. He’s also quick to say I warned him. I appreciate that, so it doesn’t sound as if I’m the one who underplayed the danger.
We drive to his house. I check the locks before we go in, but there’s no sign anyone tampered with them. He tells Charlotte to go brush her teeth, and we’ll all go for ice cream.
“You’re telling her to brush her teeth before ice cream?” I say as she races off.
He screws up his face. “Okay, that makes no sense. I’m not thinking straight.”
He looks exhausted, as if he ran all the way from Chicago. I resist the urge to give him a hug, and I offer a smile instead, saying, “I’m teasing. You know that.”
He nods. “I do. I’m just . . .” He looks at me. “I’m sorry, Bree. You were worried about that guy, and I blew you off.”
“You didn’t blow—”
“Some thug came at you with a gun last night. Obviously, he was serious. I just thought . . .” He throws up his hands. “I don’t know what I thought. Men like that often have guns, and he didn’t pull it, so I presumed he was just trying to intimidate you.”
“If I thought Charlie was in actual danger, I’d have said so. Sending her to a sitter made sense.”
Charlotte races in, saying, “Ice cream! Ice cream!”
Paul looks at me. “I thought we’d go to Elsa’s Castle. She can play while we talk. Is that all right or do you need to get back to work?”
I had called Ingrid as soon as I got off the phone with Paul. I said Charlotte was fine, and I was just staying with her until he arrived. She coldly informed me that there was no need to come in today. Nor any need to come in tomorrow.
“I have the day off,” I say.
We sit outside at the ice cream parlor and watch Charlotte on the play equipment while we talk. She ate half her ice cream and then wanted Mommy to come play, but as soon as Paul said he needed to talk to me, she zoomed off.
“That was easy,” I say. “The last time I tried to get her to play alone, you’d have thought I was sentencing her to a year of solitary confinement.”
“She’s just happy to see us . . .” He shrugs.
“Together.” I glance over at her, and she’s climbing while smiling at us like a grown-up watching her kid on a date. “Do you think we’re giving her . . . I don’t want to . . .”
“She’s fine, Bree. Now tell me what happened.”
I do, leaving out the part about Ingrid.
“I thought it was the sitter sending the video,” I say, “or I’d have looked at it sooner.”
“Honestly, that’s what I thought too, when I first saw it.”
When I blink, he makes a face. “Sorry, did I mention I’m not running on all cylinders?” He takes out his phone. “I got the same video.”
“What?”
He shows me. It was sent a few minutes after mine, while he’d been in court. He didn’t see it until after he got my message. The text accompanying his reads: Your ex is sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Tell her to stay out of our business, and we’ll stay out of yours.
My gut twists. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’m so—”
“Stop. You did nothing wrong, Aubrey. You were trying to help a little boy, and I don’t know what Zima’s problem with you is.”
“He thinks I know more. Or his thug does. Somehow they’ve found out I’m investigating, and they aren’t buying my story that I made a mistake about Brandon.”
“Did you report the video?”
“I wanted to. I called my police contact but got her voice mail. Now I’m wondering if my contact is the one who’s telling Zima that I know more. She’s the only person who realizes I know more.” I exhale. “And I’m being paranoid thinking that, aren’t I? Suspecting a cop of being in a mobster’s pocket.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately. It’s rare, but yes, if you give me a name, I’ll run a few discreet checks.”
I give him Laila’s name and everything I know about her. Then we discuss the video itself. I’d asked the sitter if she’d seen anyone videotaping in the park. She hadn’t.
“From what I can tell,” I say, “it was taken from the east end of the park. There’s new construction there, so I’m wondering if whoever filmed it was tucked in there, out of sight—”
My phone rings. It’s Ellie Milano again. I motion to Paul that I’m going to take it, and he nods and then heads over to watch Charlotte.
“It’s Ellie Milano,” she says when I answer. “You called me yesterday about Brandon.”
She said his name. She actually said his name. Please tell me that means she knows he exists—and she’s not parroting back the name I used.
“Who are you?” she asks.
Now I hesitate. Two days ago, I’d have given my name, address and whatever else would convince her that I wasn’t some crank. That’s changed. I glance at my daughter, running to jump into Paul’s arms. That has to change. For both their sakes.
“I’d rather not say,” I say. “I’m sorry, but getting involved in this has caused trouble for my own family. I’m going to ask you to call the Oxford Police Department. I reported seeing Brandon to them. They have no evidence to corroborate my story, so they aren’t looking for him, and the fact that you told them he doesn’t exist really didn’t help.”
“Wait!” she says, as if expecting me to hang up. “I’m sorry. I’m just protecting my nephew. That’s what Kimmy wanted. It was”—her voice catches—“the only thing she wanted, the only thing she cared about.”
That catch reminds me this is a woman in mourning, and my tone softens as I say, “I’m sorry.”
She takes a deep breath. “You were trying to help. I didn’t dare admit you were right, but I should have been polite about it.”
“You were thinking about Brandon. His situation. Kim was afraid for him.”
“Terrified for him.”
“Terrified of his father. Denis Zima.”
“Is that his name?”
“She never gave it?”
“She refused,” Ellie says. “She said it was a guy she’d been with in LA, and his family was into crime.” A harsh laugh. “God, that sounds like being into fashion or the music industry. They were criminals. That’s all I know. She left him when she got pregnant, and her plan was to hide Brandon until he was school age. By then, she figured it’d be safe. He was going to school this fall, and she was so excited.” Her voice hitches in a soft sob.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 17