If I'm Found

by Terri Blackstock

  I turn around. “Sure.”

  He leads me into the break room. No one else is there. Leaning against the table, he rakes his fingers through his brown hair. “I just wanted to thank you again for bringing back my Bible.”

  I can’t meet his eyes. Instead, I look past him out the door to where my coworkers are clocking out. “Sure, it was no problem. I got a job out of it, right?”

  “I just wanted to ask you, though . . . if you might’ve read the note that was in there.”

  I think of lying to keep him from feeling awkward around me. But this could be life or death, so I embrace the opportunity. I take a step toward him and lower my voice. “I did. I wasn’t trying to pry. It was none of my business, but I was really glad when I found out that you hadn’t gone through with it.”

  His eyes glisten as he pushes off from the table. “Yeah, it’s a little embarrassing. I was at a really low place. It was a couple of weeks ago, right after I lost my job. I didn’t think I could bear to go home and tell my wife what had happened, so I got a hotel room, then I just sat there all night, thinking about it.”

  “Look, I know a little bit about what’s happening with you,” I say. “Someone told me and then I Googled a few articles. I’m nosy that way. I wondered if you knew that the Trendalls have done this kind of thing before.”

  “What kind of thing?” Cole asks.

  “I mean, they haven’t accused anyone else of abusing their child. Well, Tiffany Trendall did accuse her ex-husband of abusing her older children, during a custody battle. But they’ve sued a lot of people, and they’ve made a lot of accusations. They seem to live on the settlements.”

  Cole doesn’t seem surprised. “Yeah, my attorney found a few things like that too. It’s just that I’m between a rock and a hard place. If I go back at them with public accusations of my own, I’ll look like an even worse monster than I already do.”

  I stand there looking up at him, trying to see any guile in his eyes, but I don’t see any. He seems like a genuinely troubled man.

  He sighs. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay that you read the note. But I appreciate that you haven’t brought it up to my family.”

  I almost let him off the hook, but then I think better of it. “I won’t bring it up if you’ll promise me you’re not still thinking about it.”

  “I’m doing what’s best for my family,” he says. “I’m going to be there for them. I don’t want them to worry I’m going to jump off a bridge.”

  That last phrase is a little weak, but I want to believe it. I draw a deep breath. “It’s not worth it, you know. There’s always a way through it somehow. Even the worst accusations. I know, because there’ve been times when I’ve been accused of things I didn’t do.” I cut myself off, knowing I’m going too far.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he says. “I just wanted to break the ice, get the awkwardness out of the way. If we’re going to be working together, there’s no use walking on eggshells around each other.” He reaches out a hand for me to shake. I take his hand as I hear children’s voices, and I turn to the doorway. His daughters are running through the workroom, and the five-year-old is skipping.

  “Daddy, look what I learned!”

  He laughs as he heads toward her, and I see what he must look like when he doesn’t have the weight of the world bearing down on him. “No way! You learned to skip!”

  She’s skipping toward the break room when the toe of her sneaker catches on a crack in the concrete floor, and she tumbles forward, hitting the door casing. In one step, he’s over her, gathering her up in his arms as she starts to wail.

  I stand back, watching as her mother dives toward her, checking her for injuries. There’s a red spot on her forehead, and in seconds it’s already forming a goose egg. I slip out the door, knowing I’m just in the way. I get my purse from under my workstation and glance back. The crying has stopped, and Cole is flying his daughter around the room like an airplane, distracting her completely from her fall.

  It reminds me of what my dad used to do. I remember falling off my bike as he was teaching me to ride, and my mother hovered over me with hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids, while he told me the scrape was nothing, that I could do it again and better this time. He had tried for months to get me to try, and he wouldn’t let me give up. He carried me on his shoulders back to the bike and told me that I had to show that mean old ground that it couldn’t get the best of a Cox girl. He told me there was always a crash-up before the success came.

  He had me back on that bike before I even stopped bleeding. I rode my bike without his or Mom’s hands steadying me, rode it all the way down the street, and finally managed to stop and look back. He was running after me, just feet behind me all the way, dripping with sweat and cheering as though I’d just won Olympic gold.

  Cole seems to be that kind of dad, and as I watch, I see his little girl forget all about that big knot on her head, and she’s asking if he has any gum in his desk.

  I glance at his wife, who’s talking quietly to Cole’s mother. “They say if it swells out like that, that it’s probably not serious. It’s when it swells in that there are problems. But look at it. It looks awful.”

  “Where’d she learn that skipping, anyway?”

  “They taught her that at preschool.”

  “Who would have thought? Skipping.”

  They seem like such an ordinary family, not at all like the people you would expect to be sheltering an evil child molester.

  As I go out to my car, I say a prayer for justice for Cole Whittington. But I wonder if that’s as much a pipe dream as praying for my own.

  27

  CASEY

  We’re nearing the end of a big deadline for getting an order for five hundred UpDown Seats shipped to a major department store chain, and the machines have gone quiet, when I hear loud voices in the office. “You can’t think that I did this!”

  “We just need to look over your children, Mr. Whittington. If you would show us someplace that we could go that’s private . . .”

  I look at Trey and Alice. They’ve turned toward the office and are listening.

  “But why do we have to do this here?”

  “Because you’re not at home. We went by your house and no one was there. Please get your wife on the phone and have her bring your children here.”

  Trey is the nosiest of the four of us in my department—even nosier than I am—so he walks to the doorway and peers into the front office area. He comes back a few minutes later. “I heard him on the phone with his wife. He said they’re from Child Protective Services. You were right, Alice.”

  “They want to see the kids?” I ask. “Why?”

  He shrugs, but just then, Cole comes bounding through the workroom with two female caseworkers on his heels. They go toward the break room. “I want to know who called you,” I hear him say.

  “We’re not at liberty to give you that information.”

  He stops at the break room door. “She fell right here, yesterday. She was skipping, and she slipped and hit her head right here on the door casing. There were multiple witnesses!”

  “We just need to see her, Mr. Whittington. Where is your wife?”

  “She’s on her way. I told you.”

  “And she has the children with her?”

  “Yes.”

  We all try to go back to work, but none of us can ignore what’s going on in there. This could be dangerous. Someone at her preschool must have reported to them that she had the knot, and since her father is being charged with abuse, of course they had to take it seriously. But I saw this. I know he didn’t do anything wrong.

  I abandon my work area and go to the break room, knock on the door. Cole looks up at me. “Yes, Miranda?”

  “Um . . . I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing.” I look at the CPS workers. “I just wanted to say that I was in here when his daughter hurt herself yesterday. That’s exactly what happened. She was skipping and tumbled into t
he doorway. It was no big deal. She didn’t even cry for long.”

  The women don’t look like they want to hear that. “Thank you. We’ll talk to you again if we need you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right out here.”

  In a few minutes, Cole’s wife comes in, clutching the hands of both of her daughters so tightly that her knuckles are white. Her face is ashen, and I can see the fear in her eyes. She goes into the break room, and the social worker closes the door behind her.

  We all go back to work, whispering. “They’re blaming him? They won’t even listen?”

  “Do you think they’ll take the kids?”

  “Surely not. It’s just a bump. All kids get bumps.”

  But after a few minutes, I hear Cole’s wife’s voice, rising up from the other side of the wall. “No, you can’t! Please!”

  The children start to cry, and I hear Cole begging the caseworkers. “Please, listen to the witnesses.”

  There’s an exchange of voices again, all talking on top of each other, then the door opens and each of the caseworkers comes out holding one of the screaming children.

  I stop what I’m doing and step toward them, horrified.

  “What do we have to do?” his wife cries, reaching for her children. “Please . . . who can we talk to?”

  “We’ll have to go before the judge for a shelter hearing,” one of the women says over the child’s screaming. “I’ll let you know when it is.”

  “You’ll let us know?” Cole asks, trying to block them. “This is ridiculous. These are our children. The government can’t just come in here and take them!”

  The younger daughter, the one with the knot, screams, “Mooommmmyyy!”

  Cole’s mother emerges from the front office as the caseworkers get out the door, and all three follow them out. I look through the window and see a struggle, but the women get the children into their car. I touch my chest as the sounds of their cries seem to linger in the air, even after they’ve driven away. I look out the window and see Cole’s wife collapsing in the parking lot. He picks her up and holds her. Mrs. Whittington rushes back in as if there’s someone she can call.

  “We have to go after them!” Cole’s wife screams. “We have to go get them!”

  He lets her lead him to the car, but as he gazes into the distance, I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that he’s lost all control, that his life has entered some kind of new dimension, where nothing makes sense and everything is upside down.

  I know that look because I’ve worn it myself.

  They get into the car, and Cole backs out of the parking lot and drives in the direction they went. I hope he finds someone there with common sense.

  I’m crying by the time I turn to my coworkers. Alice is weeping, too, and everyone on the floor is staring at the front door.

  28

  CASEY

  I don’t want to go back to my room when I get off work, because I don’t want to chat with Miss Naomi or Lydia, and

  I don’t want to entertain Caden. Instead I drive out of town so my phone will ping off a different tower, and I call my sister. She doesn’t answer, but calls back within minutes.

  I cry as I tell her what happened to Cole, without using names. She’s quiet as she listens, then she says, “Casey, you’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Getting involved. It’s going to get you killed. Please, just walk away from there. Don’t even look back.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m a witness. I may need to go before the judge so he can get his kids back.”

  “Go before a judge?” she says, her voice falling to a stage whisper. “Are you crazy? You can’t do that! The judge might recognize you.”

  I know she’s right, but I sit in my car clutching the phone to my ear, and grow quiet.

  “Casey, tell me you’re not getting in their business. You’re not watching them or snooping or . . . Oh my gosh. I know what you’re doing. You’re watching the family accusing him, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “You’re not everybody’s hero,” she says. “I need you to focus! I need you to clear yourself so you can get back here. I’m getting scared. Not just for you, for us.”

  I sit stiffer now. “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Because they keep coming by here, questioning me. Detective Keegan and that other man . . . Rollins . . . came yesterday. They want to know where you are, and they said they know I’ve been in touch with you. I denied it, but what if they have proof?”

  “That’s it. I’m not calling you again.”

  “No, you have to! Don’t you dare disappear on me! I can’t handle that. Already I can’t walk out of my house without reporters yelling at me. Jeff is getting sick of it and threatening to leave.”

  “Oh no. Hannah!”

  “I’m not trying to guilt you, Casey. I just want you to understand that you have to clear your name. You have to be able to come back so this can end. Mom is going to wind up in an institution if you don’t! And I might too.”

  “What about Emma? Is she feeling any of this?”

  “She does wonder why people scream at us everywhere we go. The other day we were at the grocery store and this woman started yelling, ‘Your sister is a murderer!’ at me.”

  I put my hand over my mouth.

  She’s crying now. “I didn’t mean to tell you any of this. It’s just . . . it’s not just you being accused. We have to deal with it too. You can’t distract yourself with someone else’s tragedy when you have one of your own. Oh, and Dylan Roberts caught me when I was walking the other day. He wants you to email him. He says he believes you.”

  “Did anyone see him?”

  “No, I was on the walking trail, in the trees. But Casey, let him help you. You could have told your story to someone by now. You could have gotten someone on your side. But no, you’re out there rescuing other people when you’re the one who needs rescuing!”

  “Hannah, I’m not rescuing anyone. I’m gathering evidence. I am. I’m keeping my head down and getting the proof I need.”

  “You swear?”

  “I promise. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “What happened to those children is wrong, Casey. I know that. But let their family figure it out. You have much worse things going on. I need you. You have to beat this.”

  I know that Hannah’s life must be getting unbearable if she’s revealing any of this to me. It’s not like her.

  When I get off the phone, I’m shaken. I force myself to go get something to eat, then I drive back to Dallas, to Candace Price’s street where I eat in the car. As I sit there, I wonder what I’m doing. What if she never does anything that helps my case? She has a life, and other than the old pictures on Facebook, I haven’t seen it intersect with Keegan’s. But Brent had a reason for having her name in the file.

  I can’t stop crying, so I drive away before some neighbor sees me sobbing out in my car and comes to comfort me. Or worse.

  I drive around, wasting gas, until I feel I can control myself enough to walk through the house and go to my room. I wait late enough for Caden to be sleeping. Then I walk quietly into the house and make it to my room without having to see anyone.

  It’s a good thing. When I get into my room and turn on the light, I see that I’ve cried all my makeup off. For the first time in days, I look like myself.

  But that’s the last person I want to be right now.

  29

  CASEY

  I’m having trouble sleeping tonight, so I get up at one a.m. and work on my computer, organizing the evidence I have in a format that would be easy to hand over to someone. When I put it all together in one file, I see that I don’t have that much. Not enough to convict cops of murder.

  By the time I get to work, I’m exhausted but glad for some mindless work that will get my mind off Hannah and our conversation last night, plus I hope to get an update on the kids. Surely they were returned to their parent
s by now. But Cole and his mother aren’t there, and Blake, his brother, is keeping a low profile.

  Friday morning, I see that Mrs. Whittington’s car is back. All the faces of the employees are long, and when I go in, I can tell she’s been crying all night.

  Finally, when I’m close to Cole’s mother, I gather up the nerve to ask her. “What happened with the kids? Are they back with their parents?”

  She sniffs and wipes her eyes. “No, hon. They put the kids in a shelter. They can’t get before the judge. He’s at a convention or some such. We’ve called everybody we know who has any pull, but nobody can do anything. They won’t even give them to me.” She stops and blows her nose. “Cole left Daphne last night, hoping CPS would return the kids if he isn’t in the home, but it hasn’t worked. Now I can’t find him. He didn’t come in this morning, and I don’t know where he is.”

  That shakes me. She doesn’t know about the suicide threat. Now he has even more of a reason. I try to work, but I can’t focus on it. When the machines are quiet, I hear her on the other side of the wall, leaving voice mail messages for him to call her. He never does.

  I feel nauseous, and I have to run to the bathroom. I wash my face and try to calm down, and I restore my eyeliner. When I come out, I start toward my workstation, but then I just keep walking into the front office, where Mrs. Whittington is still crying at her desk.

  “Mrs. Whittington,” I say, hating to invade her privacy, “would you mind if I go drive around and look for him?”

  She wipes her chin. “Blake and their daddy are looking, sweetie.”

  I consider telling her he mentioned jumping off a bridge when we talked about suicide, but I think better of it. “But . . . it wouldn’t hurt to have more of us. I don’t know where he hangs out, but I could look for his car around the area.”

  She finally waves me off, letting me go. I get my purse and go out to my car, then look on my phone for the closest bridge. I get to it, but he’s not there.