Mrs. Whittingham stepped closer to Jasmine, wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and said, “I know you want to hold your baby, but I’m here if your arms get tired . . . if you need me . . . for anything.”
Her words, her expression, were so warm that Jasmine wanted to cry again. Why was it only tragedy that brought people together this way?
With the lineup decided, they all turned toward the front doors. Jasmine could see the awaiting faces of the press, lingering on the steps in the sub-twenty-degree temperatures. No matter the cold, they were hungry, Jasmine knew, for the details of a missing-child story. This was always a heartbreaking event, one that made great news.
How many times had she seen this scene play out on television? How many times had she cried with the parents as she sat in the haven of her home with Jacqueline tucked safely in bed? How many times had she thanked God that nothing like this would ever happen to them because they were under His grace and His mercy and His favor?
“Wait a minute.” Reverend Bush stopped them right before they stepped through the precinct’s doors. “Where’s Mae Frances?”
“No!”
Hosea said, “Jasmine, we all need to stand together through this. We need one another.”
“No!” she exclaimed again. “Aren’t you listening to me? Don’t you get it? This is all her fault!”
“Jasmine?”
Five pairs of eyes turned to face the voice. Mae Frances stood just feet away, her mink wrapped around her, her hands trembling. It was clear that she’d heard every word.
“Jasmine, sweetheart.” Mae Frances took two steps and paused. “I love you.”
As if her son was in danger, Jasmine clutched Zaya closer to her chest, and with eyes as cold as her words, she said, “Just so we’re clear—you’re the reason Jacquie’s gone . . . and I hate you.”
Mae Frances shook her head from side to side. “Please, you can’t blame me for this. I love her, too. She’s my granddaughter.”
“No, she’s not.” Her hate gave her courage to jump right into Mae Frances’s face. “You’re not related to us. You’re just an old woman we pitied.”
“Jasmine!” Hosea grabbed her arm, but that didn’t stop her.
“We should have left you alone, left you to rot in that old apartment by yourself. Left you”—Jasmine sobbed—“the way you left Jacquie.”
“That’s enough,” Hosea said, jumping in front of Jasmine as if he could block her words with his body. “Jasmine, please.”
“I don’t want her here,” she cried.
“Okay,” Reverend Bush said. He gave a slight nod to Brother Hill, and without words, his friend gently placed his hand on the edge of Mae Frances’s elbow and, with little effort, led her back down the hall. Another nod, and Mrs. Whittingham followed Brother Hill and Mae Frances, leaving Reverend Bush alone with his son and daughter-in-law.
Six
SIX CAMERAS. FROM THE THREE major networks, and from NY1, MSNBC, and CNN. Then there were the print reporters, a few holding microphones in their gloved hands.
There weren’t as many newspeople as she expected—surely, she and her husband, with his award-winning television show and his position at one of the premier churches, should have garnered more attention. But then, she remembered that Reverend Bush had pulled this conference together quickly. In a few hours, there would probably be dozens of cameramen anxiously waiting outside of their apartment building, wanting to help get out the news of Jacqueline’s disappearance.
Jacqueline’s disappearance. Those two words made her shudder.
Standing in between her husband and father-in-law, Jasmine listened as Hosea cleared his throat.
“Thank you for coming today,” he said, his voice strong as he began. “We just wanted to talk about our daughter, Jacqueline Bush, who was at the new Harlem mall this morning. Jacquie disappeared around noon from in front of the Paws Pet Shop. She was wearing a pink velour suit . . .”
Jasmine leaned closer to Hosea and whispered, “With matching ribbons in her hair.”
Hosea repeated what Jasmine told him, then continued, “And pink sneakers. She’s about three and a half feet tall, and she weighs thirty-eight pounds.”
Just hearing that description made Jasmine want to sit down right there on the steps and weep. This was surreal. This was ridiculous. This wasn’t her life.
But with a might she didn’t even know she had, Jasmine held back her tears. And then she wondered why. Maybe tears would be better. Maybe tears would be good for the person who had taken Jacqueline to see.
“We’re asking for the public’s help. Our daughter is only four, almost five. She’s a gregarious, fun-loving little girl, who’s as smart as a whip.” Hosea paused, and when he continued, his voice wasn’t as strong as it had been. “Jacquie knows her name, of course, and her address and telephone number. She knows the name of her school and her church and probably a dozen other things I can’t think of right now. So if you see her, she will be able to identify herself.”
As her husband continued, Jasmine peered into the faces of the journalists. The men and women wore the blank expressions of veterans—not a bit of sympathy, just professional curiosity.
“Here’s a picture,” he said.
The good parent, Jasmine thought, the one who always carried photos of his lovely children.
Then when he said, “Please,” Jasmine heard his voice tremble, and she couldn’t help it. She sobbed, and both Hosea and Reverend Bush put their arms around her.
“We just want our baby home,” Hosea said quickly, as if he knew that his wife didn’t have enough inside to continue standing there. “Please”—he held the picture higher—“if anyone has any information,” and then he ran out of words.
Reverend Bush jumped in. “We want you to know that we’re putting together a reward for Jacqueline Bush’s safe return,” he boomed in his pastor’s voice. “We will be announcing that tomorrow. Thank you so much for your help in getting this story out. God bless you.”
Hosea tried to nudge Jasmine away from the microphones, but at first, she wouldn’t move.
Looking straight into the camera held by the CNN man, Jasmine squeaked, “Jacquie, if you can hear me, Mommy and Daddy love you so much. And so does Zaya and Papa.” She gulped, but stayed steady. “We’re going to bring you home, baby. Soon.”
There was silence, at first, as if all were stunned by her words. This time, when Hosea took her arm, Jasmine moved. But they were just steps away from the podium when the questions, one over the other, rained down.
“Why hasn’t an Amber Alert been issued?”
Hosea paused halfway down the steps to answer that one. “Because we don’t have enough information or even a description . . . of anyone. Not yet.”
He trotted down the steps, prodding Jasmine along a bit faster. But the reporters kept up, and their questions kept coming.
“Pastor Bush, do the police have any suspects?”
“Mrs. Bush, have you been contacted by anyone?”
The barrage followed them as they moved toward Reverend Bush’s car, which was waiting at the curb. His driver had the doors already open for them.
Just before Jasmine slipped into the SUV, she was hit with one last question: “Mrs. Bush, with your history, do the police consider you a—”
She gasped, but Hosea closed the door before the word suspect came out of the reporter’s mouth.
Seven
EMOTION AND EXHAUSTION MADE EVERY bone in Jasmine’s body ache, but her eyes widened when she stepped into her apartment. The living room—the grand room—was filled with friends and members of the church. The chatter was soft, the mood solemn, the room heavy with the ambiance of a funeral.
Malik, her godbrother, hugged her first, and then Deborah Blue followed.
“I didn’t even know you were in New York,” Jasmine said before she handed Zaya to a teary-eyed Mrs. Sloss, the nanny who had been with the Bushes since Jacqueline was born. As Jasmine hugged Deborah, she thought abo
ut how glad she was to see her.
Deborah’s husband, Triage Blue, was the other host and executive producer on Hosea’s award-winning talk show, Bring It On. But Deborah was a star in her own right—a Grammy and Stellar Award–winning gospel singer, who’d just landed another number one hit with a duet with Yolanda Adams.
“I’ve only been here a couple of days. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow,” Deborah explained. “But I’ll stay, if you need me.”
Jasmine’s first thought was that of course Deborah would leave tomorrow; she wouldn’t need her friend. Surely, Jacqueline would be home by morning. With all the people looking for her, with all the reports that would be on the news, Jacqueline would definitely be right back here tomorrow.
“Thank you,” Jasmine said, this time squeezing Deborah’s hand.
Deborah looked straight into Jasmine’s eyes. “You do know that we’re going to find Jacquie, right?” She didn’t even wait for Jasmine to answer. “God is not going to let anything happen to that little girl.”
Jasmine nodded but didn’t get a chance to say anything because, in an instant, she was encircled by many more—Mrs. Whittingham, Brother Hill, other members of the church—all offering condolences, but at the same time telling her that God (and fervent prayer) was going to bring Jacqueline home.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Mrs. Whittingham asked. “There’s plenty of food.”
Over Mrs. Whittingham’s shoulder, Jasmine eyed Mae Frances, far away from all of them. She stood in front of the mantel, staring at the photographs of Jacqueline and Zaya.
Just seeing that sight made Jasmine’s fingers curl into a fist. How could that woman have the audacity to show up at their home?
But then her fingers relaxed. She couldn’t afford to waste energy on Mae Frances—everything she had needed to be saved for Jacqueline.
“Jasmine,” Mrs. Whittingham broke through her thoughts, “I’m going to fix you a plate.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve got to eat something,” the woman insisted, as if food would give her comfort.
“No!” Jasmine said, then softened when she added, “maybe later.”
A voice made them all turn to the television.
It was Hosea’s voice booming through the living room as his, Jasmine’s, and Reverend Bush’s high-definition images appeared on the forty-two-inch flat screen. Jasmine stood mesmerized as she watched a replay of their press conference. She stared at herself, and her own eyes stared back, filled with unadulterated fear. “I . . . I need a moment,” she said, already moving toward her bedroom.
They all nodded, in unison, their sadness in accord.
Deborah reached for her hand. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. Just give me a couple of minutes.” She paused and looked at everyone who’d come to bring her comfort. But she found no relief in their presence. They were a contradiction—speaking soothing words, while their faces were filled with their hopelessness. Their faces told their truth.
She closed her eyes, not able to look at anyone any longer. How could she, and still keep her faith?
Turning away, she took a step and bumped into Detective Foxx. She swayed, and he held her steady with his hands.
“Sorry,” they said to each other.
Jasmine hadn’t noticed the detective when she’d first come in, and now she saw the other man behind him, an officer she didn’t know. The headphone-wearing man sat at the edge of the room, in front of a folding card table. His fingers danced across the keys of a laptop; he never looked up, not at all distracted by the bustle around him.
When Jasmine asked, “What’s going on?” Detective Foxx reminded her that they were treating this case as a kidnapping.
“We’re here just in case,” he said.
Her legs wobbled, but his strong hands held on to her.
“This is a good thing, Jasmine,” the detective assured her. “It puts more people on the case, including the FBI. Trust me, this is best.”
“Yes,” was all she could get out before she rushed to her bedroom. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing, steady her heart.
This was where she needed to be, this room, her refuge—her pristine, bright-white haven that had been purposefully designed to bring her peace.
She looked around at the tranquil space. Not that many hours had passed since she’d packed up Jacqueline and Zaya and they’d left for a normal outing. But she’d left with two children and returned home with only one.
Jasmine whispered, “Where are you, baby?” and tried to will her mind to connect with Jacqueline’s. “Where are you?”
She glanced at the window and gasped when she saw that darkness had descended. The blackness brought new fears. Jacqueline was out there in the pitch-dark center of the night . . . alone. She wondered if her daughter was warm enough. Was she hurt? Was she scared? Was she calling for her?
Was she saying any of those prayers that the two of them said together every night? Was she singing her favorite song, about God having the whole world—and her—in His hands?
The questions were driving her mad. There was no way she could wait until morning for Jacqueline to come home. She wouldn’t make it through another hour, another minute, another second without her child.
“Where are you, Jacquie?” she cried a bit louder. Louder. And then even louder. She screamed, “Hosea!”
Quick steps approached the bedroom, and in just moments Hosea was holding her in his arms.
“I’m here,” he said, bringing her close to his chest.
But she fought to push him away. Comfort was not what she was seeking.
“We have to go out there; we have to find Jacquie,” she cried.
“We have officers all over the city,” Detective Foxx said, from the doorway behind them.
Jasmine looked up and saw the crowd standing at the edge of her bedroom, gaping at her as if she was the show. But she ignored them all and spoke only to her husband. “That’s our daughter,” she told him. “We have to go.” She pounded her hand against her chest. “We have to go!”
“All right,” Hosea finally agreed. “But you stay here. I’ll go.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Pops, Brother Hill, Malik, and I will go. You stay here with Zaya.”
She paused. “Zaya?” Then a new panic rose—she hadn’t seen her son in minutes. “Zaya!”
“He’s in his room.” Hosea tried to hold her again.
But still she cried, “Zaya!”
“Here he is.” Deborah rushed into the bedroom, cradling Zaya in her arms.
Jasmine’s cries didn’t stop until she held him herself and settled onto her bed. She closed her eyes, rocked him in her arms, and imagined that Jacqueline was sitting right there. She imagined that the three of them were playing and laughing and singing just the way they’d done last night.
Her eyes were still shut when she heard the footsteps moving away from her, the gentle closing of the room’s door. Then she felt someone next to her on the bed. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know.
Hosea whispered, “There are a lot of police out there looking for Jacquie.”
Her lips trembled as she fought to stay strong. “I know,” her voice was as soft as his, “but no one loves her like we do.”
Those were the words that made him agree. “Okay, I’ll go. I’ll take Pops, Brother Hill, and Malik with me.”
She opened her eyes and thanked him.
He said, “Detective Foxx is going to be here, but I’m going to ask Mrs. Whittingham and,” he paused, as if he knew Jasmine would need a moment, “Mae Frances—”
“No,” she said, her agitation growing again. “She needs to go. She shouldn’t be here anyway.”
“Jasmine,” he said, taking her hand, “she’s part of our family. She’s hurting, too.”
“She needs to hurt.” She spoke slowly, as if that would help Hosea underst
and. “She let Jacquie get away.”
“Not on purpose.”
“Like purpose matters.”
He opened his mouth, as if he had a lot to say, but all that came out was, “All right.” Leaning over, he kissed his son’s forehead and then his wife’s.
A new terror made her heart pound as she watched Hosea walk away from her until he disappeared from her sight. She wanted to call him back, tell him that she had changed her mind, that she wanted him to stay with her and Zaya.
But she took a breath and told herself that he would be safe; he would be back.
Jasmine laid her son on her bed, and then she rested next to him. But while Zaya slept, her eyes stayed wide open, even as she prayed.
And after she said prayer after prayer, she sang. Jacqueline’s song. Softly, “He’s got the whole world in His hands . . . He’s got Jacquie Bush in His hands . . .”
Though she prayed, and though she sang, her fears stayed.
She’d never been this afraid in her life.
Still, she kept praying. And singing. And hoping for tomorrow to come. Quickly.
Eight
“ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T want me to go back home with you?” Reverend Bush asked his son.
Hosea shook his head before he leaned over and hugged his father tight. “No, Pops. I’ll be fine. I just want you to be fine, too.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Brother Hill said from the backseat. “I’ll take care of your dad.”
Reverend Bush said, “I’ll stay with Daniel tonight, and tomorrow I’ll go home and pick up some clothes. But I’m going to stay here, in the city, until Jacquie’s home.”
“Maybe . . . ,” Hosea began, then paused. “Maybe you’ll be able to go home tomorrow,” he said with little confidence in his voice.
Reverend Bush patted his son on his back. “Even before then—that’s my prayer,” he said before he slipped out of the car.
Hosea watched as his father and godfather took weary steps to the front door of Brother Hill’s Harlem brownstone, then he eased his car from the curb. When he glanced at the clock on the dashboard, he couldn’t believe that it was just after ten. It felt more like days or even weeks had passed in the hours that he, his father, Malik, and Brother Hill had roamed through Harlem. At first, they had parked in front of the mall on 125th and wandered up and down the darkened side streets—stopping the few people who ventured out in the bitter cold night, showing Jacqueline’s picture, talking to anyone who would talk to them.
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