when we locked eyes?
The sun was passing overhead, and the sweat under my shirt itched at my skin like millions of tiny bugs. I unbuttoned the shirt, my hands shaking and struggling, and pulled it off. I walked the rest of the way in my sticky wet T-shirt.
My phone rang. Liann. “Tom, where are you?” she asked, without even a hello.
“I just saw Caitlin in the park,” I said, also not bothering with pleasantries.
“What?”
“I saw Caitlin. I mean, it might have been Caitlin. It was a young girl, and she looked like Caitlin, but when she saw me she ran off and I couldn’t catch her.”
“We don’t have time for this now, Tom. Listen. The police, Ryan-they’re having a press conference right now. They’re releasing the sketch.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. You need to get down there. They need a parent, a human face, to give the story more impact.”
“Why didn’t he call me?” I looked down at my sweaty T-shirt, the dust on my shoes. No shower. I probably looked crazed. “I don’t think-”
“You need to go, Tom. I’m coming to your house now. I’ll see you in three minutes.”
I managed to mostly button my shirt by the time I slipped into Liann’s car, and I looked at myself in the mirror on the passenger side, smoothing my hair down with the aid of spit applied to my fingers. Liann was all business. She barely looked at me when I entered the vehicle, and drove across town like a New York cab-bie. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” I asked.
“Just stand there, be a presence. Answer reporters’ questions. They need to see the toll this is taking on you. You need sympathy.”
“Should I call Abby?”
Liann made a dismissive noise deep in her throat. “You can do this alone. We don’t need her.”
“I look like shit.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second, giving me a quick glance. “Even better. You look more desperate.”
We entered the square and approached the station. My right hand clutched the door handle so hard my fingers hurt.
“How did you know about the press conference?” I asked.
“I know people in the department. I talk to people every day.”
“Why didn’t Ryan call me about it?”
“I’ve seen the police do this before,” she said. “If they think a parent is a loose cannon or too distraught.”
“He thinks that about me?”
“Please, Tom. Look at yourself.” Liann stopped the car behind a news van. I expected more. Liann undid the locks and made a shooing gesture toward me. “Go on. Go. You’re late.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“You’re better off without me. Go.”
“What about the girl I saw at the cemetery?”
“Our minds can play tricks on us, Tom. Now go.”
I stepped onto the sidewalk and into the sunlight. As soon as I shut the door, she drove off, leaving me alone.
The police spoke to the media in a small conference room near the back of the station that felt small and cheap. The out-of-date wood paneling needed to be replaced. The bookshelves they used as a backdrop were covered with dust. But it played well on TV. When they placed a police official-either in uniform or wearing a suit and tie-in front of that backdrop, addressing a bank of microphones, it brought instant credibility and authority. I’d stood there on more than one occasion when Caitlin had first disappeared. Abby and I were asked to step forward, blinking against the burning glow of the TV lights, and plead for Caitlin’s return. I imagined we looked like any other victims of tragedy-stunned and weary and desperate enough to make the viewers at home say to themselves,
I told the uniformed officer at the front desk who I was and asked to be allowed back. For a moment, he hesitated, studying me in the way only cops can, as though I were giving off a scent he recognized, some combination of fear and desperation. He reached for his phone.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “Detective Ryan told me the time, and I forgot. Ever since my daughter disappeared. .”
I tried to look helpless. I wasn’t above using my status as the parent of a missing child to get something if I needed it. This cop didn’t seem particularly moved. He picked up his phone, dialed an extension, and then spoke in a voice so low I made out only a few words.
He nodded and hung up.
“Someone’s coming to take you back.”
“I know the way.”
He shook his head. “Someone needs to take you.”
I drummed my fingers on his desktop. I looked around. There were hard plastic chairs and copies of
“Can you get the news on there?” I asked. “Are they showing the press conference?”
“Not live,” he said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“Can’t I just go back? I know the way-”
“Sir, you have to wait.”
“Why aren’t they showing it?”
But the cop ignored me. I looked back at the TV. The host of the show threw a bunch of money up in the air, and it fluttered to the ground while contestants grabbed handfuls. The phone on the cop’s desk rang. He listened, then nodded, looking up at me.
“Okay,” he said into the phone and hung up.
“Was that about me?”
“Someone’s coming to take you back now.”
“You said that already.”
“Sir. .”
The heavy steel door to the side of the desk opened. A uniformed female officer held the door for me and jerked her head down the hallway, indicating I should step through.
“Thanks,” I said.
“They’re wrapping up,” she said.
The door shut behind us as we walked down the hall. Fluorescents glowed overhead and watery blue paint covered the walls.
“Wrapping up? I missed it?”
“We can’t go walk in right in the middle,” she said.
I knew the way and walked ahead of the cop. I turned right and then right again and saw the conference room door. A uniformed officer stood outside, a cell phone to his ear.
“I’ll just slip in,” I said to no one in particular, but the cop with the phone held up his hand like he was directing traffic. I felt another hand on my arm.
“Just wait here,” the female officer said. To make sure I did, she kept her hand in place, and we stood there, waiting for what seemed like another eternity.
Finally the door of the conference room opened. A few people began filing out. I didn’t recognize anyone, and
