Micah saw Aaron Kwong’s head go up when she walked past his door, and expected him to call out to her and stop her from going any farther. He would want a report on what had happened the day before. If they had made any progress and what she had found out. But he didn’t call out to her, for which she was grateful. First, she needed to get her coffee, and second, she needed to spend at least half an hour processing what was in her inbox. Maybe an hour. Then she would be ready to face questions from her boss and the others in the team.
She quickly poured herself a mug of coffee in the kitchenette and went to her office. She shut the door, signaling to the others that she was not ready to receive visitors yet. It was only a courtesy; anyone could still interrupt her if it were urgent, but they were pretty good at respecting her space.
Micah sat down at her desk and immediately started with the items in her physical inbox, sorting them into the appropriate folders and, where necessary, adding things to her task list.
But the bulk of information and questions flowing to her came by email, not the physical interoffice distribution. Questions on past cases, current cases, what was coming down the pipeline. Interoffice politics and squabbles. Official and unofficial communications. It was a rat’s nest of topics; she was never quite sure what to expect. She went through methodically, archiving anything that didn’t appear to pertain to her or was clearly spam. She unsubscribed from a couple of mailing lists that she had managed to get herself added to. The emails she had exchanged with Kwong about taking a few hours to ride along with Deputy Bellows had been copied up the line to Amy Bradshaw, and then to the CEO. Micah doubted that he cared how she spent one day. It wasn’t like she was in the habit of disappearing and had a big backlog of cases. She was a steady, reliable employee and although, Amy Bradshaw had made some brief remarks about it not being the best time for Micah to disappear, she had not come right out to say that she was opposed or would not allow it.
There was a knock at the door. Micah swiveled around. Kwong opened the door slightly and poked his head in. “Sorry, Micah, you got a few minutes? I have a meeting in an hour, so I can’t put it off.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He entered and discussed the previous day with her. He didn’t know her personal history, so didn’t understand why she would be emotionally drawn into the case; he only knew of her interest as part of a case she had developed composites for.
“So the drawings helped identify the girl,” Kwong summarized, “and the police have been able to move the case forward. Whether or not they can find her isn’t part of our contract.”
“No,” Micah agreed. “It’s just been interesting to see how they proceed after getting the composites.”
Kwong nodded. “So you’re done with it?” he asked briskly.
“Well… yes. Bellows said that he’d call me with a summary of what he does today on the file. But I’m here. I’m working on the next files,” she gestured at the items in her inbox.
“Good, good,” Kwong agreed. “So you can close the Sweetgrass Doe—or Madro—file.”
“Well… I won’t close it until there is a resolution. If they arrest Trisha Madro.”
“You can close it now. They won’t need anything else from you.”
“I don’t expect them to. But you know how I like to do new sketches now and then to help breathe new life into a case. Freshen things up, try out a different look, maybe get a bit closer with an age-enhanced picture or a different weight…”
“But they already know who the mother is. So you can close it.”
“They won’t know for sure until they get her DNA. CFS only thinks the composite looks like Trisha Madro. There’s no guarantee that it is her until they do a direct DNA test to see if she is the mother of Sweetie.” Micah raised her brows, looking at Kwong. He knew that; she shouldn’t need to tell him.
“I suppose it will stay open until you have a confirmed DNA match,” Kwong finally agreed. “But as far as being on your active list, you can take it off, because you know who it is.”
Micah wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know who it is until there is a confirmed DNA match. Yes, the pictures of Trish Madro look a lot like our Mama Doe, but someone else could think she looks like another girl tomorrow.”
“But you won’t be pursuing other identifications.”
Micah couldn’t help digging in her heels. She would have expected that kind of thing from a non-scientific type, but anyone who understood science and logic should understand that the file was not resolved until it was resolved with hard evidence, and if she wanted to keep working on the file to refine her composite or to do a composite of the baby’s father, she would do so.
“It won’t be taking time away from other active files.”
Kwong studied her, scowling. “You need to listen to what I’m telling you. The file is resolved. Move on.”
“I am moving on,” Micah returned evenly.
He eyed her for a minute longer, then nodded and headed toward the door.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to look at it again,” Micah said, as he crossed the threshold.
Kwong paused, his hand on the doorframe, then walked on as if he hadn’t heard her.
Chapter Eighteen
Sara Thompson-Smith.
Micah studied the name on her voicemail caller ID and tried to decide what to do. Of course, the polite thing to do was to call Sara back. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to talk to Sara.
But it was hard sometimes. She and Sara were polar opposites. At least, it felt that way. Sara had gone to the same school as Micah had, from first grade to twelfth. And she had always been one of the beautiful, popular girls. One of the ones who made everything look easy and who always knew the ins and outs of popular culture, fashion, who was friends with who, and all of the other things that were as difficult for Micah as science and math were for Sara.
Opposites.
But Sara had never been one of the mean girls. She had never talked down to Micah or made fun of her. She knew who Micah was, and treated her like a real person. Not like she was invisible or a pariah. It was probably because of Sara’s attitude that Micah had survived school without being the brunt of a series of cruel pranks meant to drive her to suicide or dropping out. In later grades, a relationship had developed between the two of them that Micah considered friendship.
They had been partners in some group projects. When Sara was in charge of a group or team, as she often was, she would pick Micah near the beginning. Micah did not enjoy working in a group, but she was okay at it. She was good at explaining complex concepts to the other students. She drew pictures and diagrams and made comparisons to things they were familiar with.
When Sara had a problem with a math concept and could not do her homework, she had often sought Micah out, and Micah would explain each step to her in patient detail, working through each problem with her, until Sara could do it on her own or they had finished all of the questions.
Micah had expected the relationship to end once school was over and they had both graduated, but she continued to run into Sara or to get calls from her and the friendship became part of who they were. They were a wholly unlikely match. Micah hadn’t remained friends with anyone else from school. It was a small community, so she still saw people she knew from school, ran into them at the grocery store or the tax preparation firm. Some of them would nod to her and smile and make small talk. Others would act like they had never seen her before.
But it had been a rough week, and Micah wasn’t sure she was emotionally ready to have a personal conversation with anyone. She didn’t want to have to answer questions about how she was and what she was working on. And how her folks were. And the other things that Sara was sure to say. Micah wanted to just cocoon at home with the kitten, catching up on her reading and not having to socialize.
In the end, she opened the voicemail that Sara had left her. Not the usual breezy greeting and ‘call me back.’ Sara’s voice was low and intense.
“Micah, I need you. Can you call me back?”
No explanation. None of the usual chatter. Something was wrong. Micah didn’t know what it was or what she could do about it, but she clearly couldn’t go home and soak in the tub for half the night listening to the phone read her latest journals aloud.
She listened to Sara’s voicemail twice more, trying to analyze every inflection before she finally called back.
“Micah,” Sara’s voice was barely recognizable. Much deeper and more gravelly than usual. Micah tried to imagine what was wrong. Had Sara been using drugs without Micah knowing about it? Maybe a closet alcoholic? What had happened? “Thanks so much for calling me back, Mike.”
“Of course,” Micah agreed She wished she had gone to Sara’s house instead of calling so that she could better observe Sara’s body language and guess at what was going on. “Do you want me to come over?”
“Could you? I know it’s evening and you don’t like to go out again. You like your quiet time.”
She said it in a way that made Micah feel guilty and selfish for wanting time to herself.
“I’ll come over. You’re still in the same place?”
“Yes. You’ve been here before, right? Just ring the bell when you get here. I’ll buzz you up.”
She hung up. Micah stared at her phone for a few minutes. Sara’s behavior was so unusual. Micah couldn’t understand what was going on. But what did it matter? She had agreed to go to Sara’s apartment, so that was what she was going to do.
Without putting any real thought into it, she grabbed her keys and her purse, made sure that the kitten was occupied away from the door, and headed out to her car. Sara’s house was across town, but it didn’t take long to get there. She had an apartment in a fourplex, a modern, steel-and-glass kind of place, lots of open space and big windows. Probably cost a small fortune to keep comfortable in the summer sun. But it was later in the year; Sara would be more concerned with keeping it warm. Sunset was early and it was already dark when she got to Sara’s house. She double-checked the name beside the button and gave the button a firm push. Not too long, which might be irritating, but long enough that they wouldn’t miss it.
The buzzer sounded, and the door lock released without a word from Sara. Normally, she would have spoken to Micah through the speaker to ensure it was her before releasing the door. Micah entered the tiny lobby and went to the right and up the stairs to reach Sara’s apartment. Sara was not standing at the door waiting for her. Micah had to knock to gain entrance.
It was Gregory who came to the door.
Never Greg. Always Gregory.
Micah didn’t know him well. Enough to nod and say hello, but they’d never really had a conversation that Sara was not a part of.
“Hi,” Micah said, when he opened the door and let her in. “Is everything okay?”
Gregory gave a curt nod, unsmiling. Not very reassuring for a guy who was ordinarily laid-back and smiling, always quick to share a joke, serve the drinks, or give Sara a hug and passionate kiss even with someone watching.
Gregory ushered her into the living room. Ivory curtains had been drawn across the black windows to give them some privacy and to make the room cozier. The rest of the room was as Micah remembered it. Same furniture, same artwork. A place that looked like it had been staged by an interior decorator or real estate agent, though Micah knew that Sara had done everything herself.
Sara was sitting on the couch, a velour blanket wrapped around her. Micah gave her a quick, assessing look. She was as gorgeous as ever, her beauty apparently effortless; big, blond curls, flawless peaches and cream complexion, her features just the right proportions. She looked like a movie star. But her eyes were darker than usual, smudges beneath them that almost looked like bruises. She wasn’t smiling sunnily like she always was.
“Sara?” Micah hesitated. Normally, she sat in the easy chair across from the couch, leaving Sara alone on the couch or leaving room for Gregory to join her, if he were home. But Micah felt like that wasn’t the right approach this time. She looked at the space next to Sara on the couch, glanced over at Gregory for direction, and when he made no sign that he understood what she wanted to know, she sat on the couch next to her friend. “Sara, what is it? Are you okay?”
The smudges looked even more bruise-like close up. Micah put her hand on Sara’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Sara took a deep breath in and let it out again. She started at the beginning, with events that had happened months back. Discovering she was pregnant. She and Gregory had been trying for a while. Micah and Sara weren’t young kids anymore; it was harder to conceive. Micah nodded, listening without interruption. Things had progressed normally, or they had seemed to. But then… something had gone wrong. The doctors couldn’t tell her what it was. Sometimes these things happened, especially with a first pregnancy. They had lost the baby.
There was no reason they couldn’t try again. Give her body a few months’ rest, and then give it another go. The second time would probably be the charm. Or maybe the third. There was nothing wrong with her; she was in good health, didn’t use drugs, alcohol, or tobacco. It would work better the next time.
Micah kept nodding, but she was confused as to why Sara was telling her the story. Surely it was between her and her doctor. There was nothing Micah could do to help. She knew genetics, little about obstetrics. Unless Sara thought there was something wrong with her baby genetically. Maybe the two of them carried some recessive gene and Sara wanted to know if they should try again. Or the baby had a random mutation and Sara didn’t believe her doctor when he told her that it wouldn’t happen to them a second time.
Sara stopped talking. She dabbed at her eyes with the insides of her wrists, sniffling. Micah didn’t know if she should take Sara’s hand or say something that would make her feel better. What could she say or do that would make her friend feel better? She had suffered a huge loss. Maybe the doctor didn’t think it was anything. Just a fetus that had not made it to term. But to Sara, it was a big thing.
Sara was silent, too overcome to say anything more. Micah waited. Gregory took over. He walked to his wife’s side and rubbed her shoulders and stroked her hair. He didn’t tell her that everything was okay or that she was being silly over a spontaneously aborted pregnancy.
“Sara wanted to know if you would draw her a picture,” Gregory said.
Micah looked at Sara, looking for confirmation and some more details. Sara nodded but didn’t speak.
“We want something… a memento of the baby,” Gregory explained, his voice rough and full of emotion. “We don’t have anything. They… did a procedure. They said that it was just tissue. That they didn’t have anything to show us. Nothing to… remember.”
Micah nodded. There was a lump in her throat. She had so many questions, but she was afraid to ask any of them. Afraid it would hurt or offend Sara more.
“I know you can do these things,” Sara said, voice shaky. “I figure… you can look at us. Gregory and me. And you can… make a picture of what the baby might have looked like, if he hadn’t died. It’s not exactly what you do. I know that. But… do you think you could? It would… give me something to look at. Something to remember, other than… the procedure room. It was so cold and clinical and… I couldn’t mourn my baby. They took him away, and they couldn’t give me any kind of comfort. Just ‘Try again. Better luck next time.’”
Micah wiped her eyes, trying to keep from breaking down at the pain in Sara’s voice. How could someone like Trish abandon her newborn, alone in the cold and dark, when there were others like Sara and Gregory, their hearts breaking over a lost pregnancy?
She nodded and tried to form the words. “You just want me… to look at the two of you. To try to… imagine…?”
Sara and Gregory nodded. It might have been an easier job if they provided her some of the baby’s DNA, but then she would have to explain it to EvPro to use their proprietary technology, and baby portraits weren’t exactly what
they’d hired her to do.
Chapter Nineteen
Micah looked at the pictures she had produced for Mama Doe, who they now believed was Trisha Madro. She opened the email from Deputy Bellows with the picture of Trisha. She scrutinized the photo for anything that didn’t fit the DNA profile. Until they found Trish, they couldn’t match her DNA against the profile they’d pulled from the baby and were only going from the social worker’s identification. Identification based on a composite picture was by no means certain. They could be completely wrong.
She studied each line and contour of Trisha Madro’s face, but she couldn’t find anything that would indicate she was not Mama Doe. Everything matched up, from the skin tone to the nose to the unattached earlobes. The age, smoker’s lines, and thinness of her face all matched what the epigenome had told her.
Micah picked up her phone and called Deputy Bellows. He answered almost immediately.
“Sheriff’s.”
“Frank, it’s Micah.”
Bellows grunted. “So it is. How are you doing?”
“Better. I just wondered whether you’d had any luck tracking Trisha Madro down.”
“I didn’t send you a summary; you said you’d let me know if you wanted it.”
“I know. I wasn’t ready until now. If you don’t have time, you can drop me an email later.”
“Not much to tell you at this point. We’ve been canvassing, trying to find girls who knew her, resources she might have accessed. There are free clinics, prenatal, housing options for pregnant or new moms, etcetera.”
“But no luck?”
“No. Unfortunately, nothing there.”
“If it was Trisha, she might not want to access any of those programs while she was using.”
“True,” he agreed.
“And you couldn’t find any other girls—young women—who knew her?”
“They are keeping pretty close-mouthed. We’ve been checking with homeless, addicts, hookers. I’m sure some of them probably knew her, but we haven’t been able to confirm.”
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