Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [48]
Michael flicked his eyes over at me. Was that guilt? It sure wasn’t a loving gaze.
“I should go,” he said. “I’ll see you at work.” He hung up and turned to me, and I could see him searching for explanations.
“Go then,” I spat. “Go have a drink with your little slut.”
“She’s not a slut, she just—”
“Oh, it’s perfectly normal for a single girl to call up a married man while his wife’s stitches are still healing from labor to ask him out for a drink? Go then, don’t let the ball and chain stop you.”
“She just doesn’t know how it works, she’s practically a kid.”
“She wouldn’t have called here if she didn’t think you might go. So is that who you have lunch with every day? And a drink? Is that why when I call you at the office I can’t reach you?”
“No! I’m not interested in her, okay? Not in the least.”
“Bullshit, you’re not. You’d have to be blind or gay not to be.”
He scooted closer to me. “I don’t want you to be upset. I will tell her not to call here ever again. I love you, Mal.”
“No matter what?” I asked, feeling the tears spill over then, my fear of his answer loud like drumbeats in my head.
“No matter what,” he said, pulling me back to him, tucking me in the crook of his arm.
He let me cry on his shirt, and he kissed the top of my head.
Then he said quietly, almost murmuring, as if he thought I wouldn’t hear, “I wish I knew how to make you believe me.”
I wish I did, too.
Chapter 18
Michael
Casey and I passed the night together in the kitchen, neither of us willing or able to sleep.
While Casey was still thawing out in the tub, I’d abandoned the idea of driving all night toward Cleveland, feeling too tired and scattered to focus, afraid I’d end up crashed on the side of the road, compounding tragedy with rash, pointless action. The Cleveland police were looking, the Grand Rapids police checking out the phone and e-mail records. That was their job.
Yet the idea of sleeping in my warm bed felt like a betrayal, not knowing where my son was, whether he was safe and warm himself. I kept returning to the missing children stories I’ve reported and read over the years, and wondered anew how the parents survived it. At least Dylan checked in once, at least we’re pretty sure he left on his own.
How could you ever go on with your life, the mundane things like eating, showering, mowing the lawn? Yet people do, especially if they have other kids depending on them. Birthday parties, school plays. All the while, not knowing.
We didn’t speak, Casey and I, the whole night. What else was there to say?
We moved in restless circles like hummingbirds from the kitchen chair, to the office chair, to the counter by the phone, steering clear of Mallory on the living room couch.
I eventually changed out of my work clothes, grabbing some sweatpants in the dark of the room.
The sun rising behind the cloudy sky provided no beautiful views, just a gradual erasure of darkness.
The phone shrills at 7:30, and I run for it.
“Mr. Turner? It’s Detective Wilson.”
My throat is frozen. I cough out, “Yes.”
“We got the information from the cell phone and e-mail companies. The phone and e-mail are both registered to a Harper household in Cleveland. We called the number and also talked to the Cleveland police.”
I grip the countertop. “And?”
“Ed Harper, the owner of the phone and computer in question, has also reported his daughter, Tiffany, missing. This should be some sort of relief for you, sir, as we’re satisfied that he is indeed with a girl as he believes.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Thank you. What now?”
“Mr. Turner, we’ve alerted Cleveland police to be on the lookout for your son and the girl, but I’m afraid that’s all we can do at this time.”
I close my eyes, put my head in my hand. “Running away is not illegal,” I mumble.
“Sir, may I suggest you contact the National Center for the Missing? They are set up to help parents in your situation. I’m sorry, I wish we could help you, but we simply don’t have the manpower to chase runaways.”
I hang up, forgetting to say good-bye to the officer.