by Gayle Wilson
If she is here, she isn’t waiting for you. She doesn’t know you exist. And she probably doesn’t want to know.
Until he’d reminded her of that, Susan admitted she had unconsciously been picturing Emma as the toddler she’d been the last time she’d seen her. Her baby, with blond curls, holding up chubby arms and begging to be held. Jeb’s words had reinforced the reality that Emma was now eight years old, a child with no memory of her. And if Susan’s instincts were to be trusted, then Emma would be a student at this very school.
She had pulled into an empty space in the row of staff cars that faced the playground. For almost an hour she had sat inside her car, watching as various groups came out of the building for recess. Trying to decide if the children running out to play were the right age.
Some of them had obviously been too old; some, just as obviously too young. Judging from her limited experience with the children in her neighborhood and with those of her friends, the boys and girls who were on the playground now, however, had seemed to be about right.
Almost as soon as she’d reached that conclusion, Susan had opened her door and stepped out into the afternoon heat. A few minutes later, drawn by a compulsion she didn’t try to resist, she had been standing at the edge of the playground, her fingers laced into the chain-link fence that surrounded it.
Her gaze had moved over each of the girls in turn, searching their faces, trying to find something of Emma in any of them. And she hadn’t. There was no one here who reminded her of the baby she’d lost.
She glanced again at the teacher, an older, heavyset woman. Unlike some of the others Susan had watched, who had organized games and activities for their students, she sat in a folding chair under one of the huge, old trees that dotted the playground, a paperback novel in her hands. Occasionally she would look up at her charges, especially if there was a particularly loud shriek or if she heard the sound of an argument. Otherwise, the children seemed to be on their own.
They had divided into groups almost immediately. Actually, they’d come out of the building already aligned in those, which determined the kind of activities they engaged in.
Most of the boys were playing a game of dodgeball that to Susan’s admittedly untutored eyes seemed overly rough. A few girls were playing hopscotch on a set of blocks someone from an earlier class had drawn in the dirt. Several others were jumping rope, while one group had chosen not to play, but sat on the steps of the building laughing and talking.
A couple in that particular set could be classified as blondes, although their hair was obviously lightened by the past summer’s sun. According to his mother, Richard had been towheaded as a toddler. Susan knew from his family’s photographs, however, that his hair had darkened by the time he started school. She didn’t know if Emma’s could be expected to follow the same pattern.
Her eyes again scanned the remaining girls. One, whose long curls were a glossy ebony, she felt confident in rejecting as a possibility. And four of the girls playing hopscotch were black. That left eight or nine with hair in varying shades of brown—the color she thought Emma’s would probably be by now.
She was too far away to determine the color of their eyes, which might have helped her narrow her options. And from this distance, their features seemed indiscriminate, the unformed faces of little girls not yet on the verge of adolescence.
Despite the inattention of the teacher, Susan knew she couldn’t venture any closer, however, certainly not onto the school grounds. She wasn’t sure what the laws were here, but no matter the locale, any stranger on the premises of an elementary school would cause concern. Even watching the children, as she was, might be enough to arouse unwanted attention.
She had acknowledged all that intellectually before she’d gotten out of the car, yet she was unable to tear herself away from her vantage point. She wasn’t doing anyone any harm. And only a couple of the children seemed to be aware she was here. None were alarmed by her presence. They probably assumed she was someone’s mother. Someone’s mother…
“Are you looking for somebody?”
She looked down to find a little girl staring up at her through the chain link. Her hair was ash brown. A smattering of freckles dusted a turned-up nose below eyes that were light gray and very direct.
“I’m waiting for someone.” It wasn’t a lie. She was waiting for someone. She had been waiting for over seven years.
“What’s your name?” the child asked, small fingers closing around the holes in the wire fence like Susan’s were.
“Susan. What’s yours?”
“Alex.”
“Alex?” Susan repeated, unsure she’d heard correctly.
“It’s short for Alexandra. A-L-E-X-A-N-D-R-A. It really is a girl’s name,” she said, as if she’d made this argument countless times. “The queen of Russia was named Alexandra.”
“Yes, she was. It’s a very lovely name.”
The little girl ducked her head, but not before Susan had seen the pleased tilt at the corners of her mouth.
She was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Although both were faded from innumerable washings, they were essentially no different from the clothing the other children wore. On her feet were scuffed sneakers.
“Susan what?” the child asked, looking up at her again from under nearly colorless lashes.
“Chandler. Susan Chandler.”
“I don’t know any Chandlers. Do they go to school here?”
“Who?”
“Whoever you’re waiting for.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re waiting for them, but you aren’t sure they go to school here?”
“It sounds pretty silly when you say it like that,” Susan agreed with a smile.
“You better go ask Mrs. Perkins or you might get into trouble. There’s a sign that says visitors have to sign in.”
“I’m not really a visitor.”
“You live here? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I meant I’m not a visitor to the school. I am a visitor to Linton,” Susan hedged, deciding it was time to distract the questioner. “What can you tell me about those girls? The ones who aren’t playing.”
She held her breath, wondering how far she could go in questioning Alex without setting off an alarm. Apparently the child had not taken to heart the probably oft-repeated parental injunction about not talking to strangers, but she couldn’t know how trusting Alex would be when asked about her classmates.
The gray eyes focused on the group on the steps. “They don’t want to get dirty.” Her disdain for that was clear.
“Do you know their names?”
The direct gaze returned to her face, evaluating either her or the request. Apparently Susan passed whatever standard of trust the child had applied.
“Emily, Anna Kate, Haley and Beth. They don’t ever play.”
“And the ones jumping rope?”
“Madison, Patti, Willow and Karen.”
After those identifications had been made, the little girl’s eyes returned to Susan. They seemed almost challenging.
“And the others?” Susan asked, giving up any pretense that she wasn’t vitally interested in learning all the children’s names.
“You aren’t going to kidnap somebody, are you?”
Despite the gravity of Alex’s question, Susan laughed. “I promise I’m not. I’m really not up to anything nefarious.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Anything bad.”
“You’re just looking for somebody.”
“That’s right, but not to do them harm, I swear to you.”
As she said the words, Jeb’s warning reverberated in her head. How could she possibly know what effect her quest would have on her daughter? And since she couldn’t, how dare she make that kind of promise?
“Cross your heart,” the child commanded.
“And hope to die.” Despite that moment of self-awareness, Susan’s oath was as heartfelt as Alex�
��s demand.
“Tamika, Caroline, Lakeisha, Bethany and Mandy.”
Susan wanted to ask which group she usually played with, but some instinct prevented her. She hadn’t seen the girl mingling with any of the other children since she’d been here. Alex had come out of the building alone and spent most of the recess watching the boys’ game of dodgeball. That’s why she’d been able to approach the fence without Susan being aware of her.
“Are any of them particular friends of yours?” she asked casually, her gaze moving from the small freckled face back to the group on the steps.
“Not really. Did you recognize her name?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Whoever you’re looking for. Did you recognize her name?”
“No, but…Maybe this isn’t the right class.”
“Third grade?”
“Is that what you’re in? Third grade? How old is that?”
“I’m eight. A couple of the kids are already nine.”
Exactly right, Susan thought, her heart starting to beat a little faster. Her eyes again searched the faces of the girls Alex had identified, trying to find something—an expression or a mannerism—that sparked a memory.
Everyone had said Emma looked just like Richard, but it was impossible to see his distinctly masculine features reflected in any of those faces. They looked exactly like what they were. Little girls. None of them reminded her of Richard or of the baby she had said goodbye to that bright August morning.
“Is that the right age?” Alex asked.
Before Susan could reply, the child turned, responding to her teacher’s call. “Time to go in now, children.”
The boys ignored her, continuing to throw the ball at the victim. The girls with the jump rope allowed it to swing to a stop, giggling in response to a comment one of them had made.
“I have to go,” Alex said, quickly bringing Susan’s attention back to her. “I hope you find her.”
“Thank you.”
“You never told me her name. Maybe I know her.”
“Emma,” Susan said. “Her name is Emma.”
“Are you sure it isn’t Emily?”
“I’m sure.”
“I don’t know anybody named Emma. Maybe you’ve got the wrong school.”
“Is there another school here?”
“Not another elementary school. Not in Linton. I meant maybe you’ve got the wrong town. Maybe in Moss Point—”
“No, this is the right place. I’m sure.”
“Come on, children!” The demand was louder this time. More strident.
“I have to go, or I’ll get in trouble.”
“I know. You go on. I think I’ll just watch a little while. Is there another third grade?”
“Only us. Only Miz Perkins’s class.”
“Then maybe I was wrong about the grade,” Susan said. “It’s okay. You go on before you’re late. I’ll find her.”
“I could ask my teacher,” Alex offered.
“No, I think you were right before. They probably don’t want me to be here looking for her.”
“You could say you’re somebody’s aunt or something. A lot of the kids have aunts.”
Susan smiled, both appreciative of and amused by the child’s efforts to help her create an acceptable story. “Maybe I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Alex said, and then she turned, running to catch up with the others, who had finally begun to form a ragged line at the bottom of the steps leading into the building.
When she joined them, she looked back at Susan and waved. Raising her hand, Susan returned the gesture. As she did, Mrs. Perkins turned, too, obviously looking for the person Alexandra was waving to.
Susan let her hand fall. The teacher stared at her for several seconds before she turned back to her students, pulling Alex from the line by her elbow to ask her something.
Realizing that she had crossed the boundary of acceptable behavior, especially here, Susan began to walk back to where she had parked the car, taking care not to appear to be in a hurry. She climbed into the driver’s seat, immediately putting on the sunglasses she had left hanging over the visor.
Their darkness provided a sense of anonymity, but she knew it was too late. She had told Alex her name. Even now it was probably being reported to the principal or the security officer, if the school had one.
Still, unable to tear herself away, she sat in the car a long moment, looking out over the deserted playground. Since that first day down by the river, she had believed that Emma was here. Her instinct had been both sure and persistent.
Why then had she been unable to feel a connection to any of the children she’d watched today? She had been so sure that if she could only see Emma again…
She isn’t waiting for you. She doesn’t know you exist. And she probably doesn’t want to know.
Her fingers closed over the key she had left in the ignition, turning it with an anger that was uncharacteristic. This was not how it was supposed to be. After all those hopeless years, she had finally discovered the place where Richard had brought her daughter. Everything she’d learned since being in Linton told her that Emma must be here, too.
So close that if she had known which of those children she was, she could have reached out and touched her this afternoon. One of the little blondes on the steps? Or one of the girls playing hopscotch? The self-possessed Alex?
The notion surprised her. Even as they’d talked, she hadn’t once considered the possibility that Alex could be Emma.
I’d know her. Surely to God, I’d know her.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm the tumult of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She was here, and with all her heart, she believed Emma must be here, too.
And yet it seemed they were as far apart as they had ever been. The gap of seven long years loomed between them, not only threatening her ability to identify her daughter, but also, if she believed Jeb, her right to claim her when she did.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“THERE’S A FEW THINGS I thought I should touch base with you about before we go any further,” Wayne Adams said.
This was the first time the sheriff had called her since she’d been in Linton. Susan had immediately thought when she heard his voice that he had somehow learned of her visit to the schoolyard two days ago.
She’d been expecting someone to contact her with a formal complaint since she’d backed her car out of the teachers’ parking lot. Every time her cell phone or the phone at Lorena’s had rung, her stomach knotted.
That hadn’t prevented her from driving by the school today at the same time the third-graders had been at recess the afternoon she’d gotten out of her car. The misting rain had apparently kept the children inside, because the playground had been deserted. Its emptiness had produced a sense of loss Susan couldn’t begin to explain.
“What kind of things?” she asked, trying to keep her dread of a lecture from coming through.
“I got the final autopsy report today. And it isn’t quite as clear-cut as you all led me to believe. Despite the location of that skull fracture, Dr. Crandall isn’t ready to classify your husband’s death as anything other than an accident.”
That didn’t make sense. According to Dr. Callaway there had been no equivocation in the M.E.’s findings. Now, at least according to the sheriff, his opinion had completely changed.
“Then how does he explain the blow to the base of Richard’s skull?”
“Like I told you. All kinds of injuries can happen in an accident. I don’t mean to distress you, Ms. Chandler, but without the presence of soft tissue, there’s no way to say definitively whether your husband was struck on the head with some kind of object or if he suffered that blunt-force trauma during the car’s descent into the river.”
“I don’t understand. What does the lack of soft tissue have to do with it?”
“Because of the condition of the body, all we’ve got to go on is a fractured skull. If someone del
ivered a blow to the back of the head with a rock or a two-by-four, say, there might have been particles embedded in the scalp that would verify a weapon was used. We’ve got none of that in this case.”
The river and the passage of time had taken care of those clues. Had that been the intent of the murderer all along?
“Is it possible someone pushed the car into the river in an attempt to do away with that kind of evidence?”
“Anything’s possible. Are you asking if I think someone could manipulate your husband’s car into the river so it would lodge under that bridge? I think that’s highly unlikely.”
“But you have to admit it’s the perfect location. If the car were ever found, everyone would assume exactly what you did at first. That Richard was simply another victim of that treacherous turn.”
“That’s still my assumption,” Adams corrected.
And he was unlikely to budge from it unless he had to. After all, it made his job so much easier.
“I’d like to read the final autopsy report.”
There was a hesitation before he grudgingly agreed. “I guess you got the right to do that. You can come by the office and look it over.”
“No, I’d like a photocopy, please. I’ll be glad to pay the cost of having one made,” she added before he could refuse.
There was another, less prolonged silence before the sheriff gave in. “I can arrange that.”
“Thank you.” Susan had already taken the phone away from her ear in preparation for hanging up, when Adams spoke again.
“There’s another thing. Something that may be related to the M.E.’s report or not.”
Although she had experienced a surge of anxiety when he’d mentioned something else he needed to talk about, the second sentence didn’t sound as if this had any connection to her visits to the school. “What is it?”
“If your husband’s death was an accident, and that’s the conclusion I’m leaning to, then I think it’s possible…”
The sentence trailed. Susan waited for him to go on. When he didn’t she began to wonder if the connection had been broken.
“Sheriff Adams?”
“I think I may have discovered what happened to your baby.”