Every Step She Takes

by Kelley Armstrong

  “You do car-wheel,” Charlotte says to the woman. “Mommy show.”

  The woman smiles. “Not me, hon. My body doesn’t do that anymore.”

  “Can I try?” her son asks.

  “I show!” Charlotte says.

  We stand and watch Charlotte try to instruct the boy in a proper cartwheel while I give pointers. I tread a fine line here. I don’t want to seem like the new girl at school, puppy-eager for attention, even if that’s how I feel. I glance at the other woman, and then I look at the poised suburban mommies on the benches, and it doesn’t matter if I’d been one of them six months ago. I’m not anymore and, really, I never was, even when I wore the title.

  I see this young woman, with her old needle scars and her worn jeans and her shabby sneakers and the way her face glows every time her gaze lights on her son, and she’s the mother I connect to.

  Still I am careful. Years of new-kid-in-class life has taught me how to tread this line. Snatches of conversation mixed with quips and laughs as I show her son how to do a cartwheel.

  I’m holding up his legs when her phone rings. She looks down at the screen and blanches. Then she murmurs, “Sorry, I have to get this.”

  She steps away to take the call. I can’t tell what she’s saying—she isn’t speaking English—but her tone tells me enough, rising from anger to alarm.

  She keeps moving away, lowering her voice while keeping her gaze on her son.

  Finally I bend in front of the boy and say, “We should go, so your mom can finish her call. Tell her we said goodbye. It was very nice meeting you, and I hope to see you both again.”

  When I extend a hand, his thin face lights up in a smile. He shakes my hand vigorously, with a mature “Nice meeting you, too.”

  Charlotte shakes his hand as she giggles a goodbye. Then we quickly gather our things and leave.

  Chapter Three

  Two days later, I’m taking my usual lunchtime jog in the park where I played with Charlotte on Sunday. After a couple of laps, I slow near the playground and circle to a forlorn bench, too far from the equipment to be of any use to watchful parents.

  I put up my leg and begin stretching. As I do, I tug out my earbuds so I can listen to three mothers sitting nearby.

  Eavesdrop. Spy. Learn.

  As I stretch, a middle-aged jogger pulls over to do the same, sharing my bench. I keep my attention on the lesson unfolding ahead.

  I contemplate the trio of moms. They don’t seem to be watching their children at all, engrossed as they are in the scandal of another parent who let her child play with an iPad. Is that a problem? I have several educational apps on my phone, and Charlotte and I play them together. I thought that was a good thing, but—

  A child shrieks. I wheel to see two kids fighting over the slide. As I peer around for the parents, the kids work it out on their own, and I suppose that’s the way to handle it—watch and see if they can resolve it before interfering.

  The war for the slide ends, but it calls my attention to a boy swinging by himself. It looks like the boy from Sunday, the one we’d shown how to do cartwheels. I squint. Yes, that’s definitely him. His mom is nowhere in sight.

  The boy jumps off the swing and starts gazing around. Then he heads for the path. Leaving the safety of the playground. I look around anxiously, hoping Mom will notice.

  “You’re doing your quadriceps stretches wrong.”

  I jump and glance over to see the middle-aged guy who took up stretching at my bench.

  “You want to do them like this,” he says, and proceeds to demonstrate . . . with a hamstring stretch.

  I know better than to point out his mistake, so I murmur a thank-you and glance back at the boy.

  He’s still walking. Getting farther from the equipment, with no sign of anyone giving chase. So I do.

  I stay at a slow jog, no panic, just keeping an eye on the child. Mom will notice. Mom will come after him, and she doesn’t need me making her feel like she’s failed her parental duties. So I stay back, subtly watchful.

  “You hit the ground a little hard.”

  The middle-aged guy jogs up beside me.

  “You have really good form,” he says, “but you’re hitting the ground too hard. You’ll injure your knees. I’ve seen you before—we run at about the same time—and I thought I should mention it.”

  Don’t get distracted. Remember the boy.

  I turn my attention back. The child’s gone.

  Damn it, no. Where—

  He appears, walking out from behind a trash can. That’s a relief. The not-such-a-relief part? He’s heading straight for the parking lot.

  Where is his mother?

  It doesn’t matter. As much as I hate to embarrass another parent, that’s a busy lot with an even busier thoroughfare beside it.

  I kick my jog up to a run.

  “You could just say no thanks,” the guy shouts after me, and then mutters, “Bitch,” under his breath.

  Aubrey Finch, making friends wherever she goes.

  Forget him. The important thing is the boy, and in that moment of distraction, I’ve lost sight of him again.

  Tires screech, and my chest seizes as I look about wildly. A vehicle has slammed on its brakes in the parking lot, and I can just make out a roof rack over the sea of parked vehicles.

  I spot the boy. He’s still at the edge of the lot, standing on his tiptoes, as if looking for the source of the screeching tires.

  A voice calls from the direction of the vehicle. It’s a single word, but I can’t make it out. The boy hears, though, and starts running toward it.

  Seeing him dash into that jammed parking lot, I cringe and have to chomp down on a shout of warning. Fortunately, the lot is silent except for the rumble of what I can now see is a big SUV.

  Mom must have gone to fetch the car, unable to find a spot in the lot. She’s told him he could swing for a few more minutes while she brought the car around. Not the choice I’d make but—

  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 an
d 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.”

  “You’re a librarian?”

  “Library aide,” I say with a smile, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. To the average person, everyone who works in a library is a librarian, whether they have a masters in library science or not. After a while, you just stop correcting them.

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

  Chapter Four

  The police don’t show up or call during my shift. I have to grab a few groceries on the way hom
e, 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 negative one 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.