“I was at the church, working, and then Ryan called me.” She was looking at the floor. “I knew something bad was happening, something about Caitlin. I wasn’t expecting this today, Tom. This just comes out of nowhere.”
“It’s not a bad thing, Abby.”
“Why did you say such awful things about me?” she asked, raising her head.
“Are you looking for an apology? Because I’m not offering one.”
“Do you really think I don’t deserve to be here?”
“It’s not about you, Abby. Your feelings have nothing to do with this day.” I stood up. “But I can tolerate the idea of you being along for this. I’m willing to put up with that. . for Caitlin. But I’m also not going to wait for you. They should be ready for us now, so get up and let’s go.”
Her upper body tilted forward, then back, and she slowly rose to her feet. She stood there for a second, looking like an unsteady drunk, one who didn’t trust that the world wasn’t about to tip over and throw her to the floor.
“Tom?”
“What?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You can’t-?”
“I can’t do it. I can’t go see her.”
“Oh, Abby. Come on.”
“Don’t push me, Tom.” She held her hand out. “Don’t give me some guilt trip about how I’m some kind of bad mother because I don’t want to. .
I looked to the door, my anxiety rising.
“Why don’t you want to go back there? Tell me.”
“I’m scared, Tom. Okay? I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of what I might see. Of what Caitlin is going to be like now. Of what she’s been through. We’ve talked about a lot of things since she’s been gone. Is she still alive? Who took her? We never talked about what we’d do, what it would be like, if she did come back. I never really thought about it. Not in detail. And now. .”
I went to her and crouched down, so we were at eye level.
“Abby, this is what we wanted. This is what we’ve been waiting for. You should go back there.”
She didn’t move.
“Abby?”
“I just need more time.” She looked away. “Give me more time.”
Ryan stuck his head in the door, looking like a giant turtle emerging from its shell.
“We’re ready,” Ryan said.
I straightened back up.
“Abby’s going to take another minute while I go back.”
Ryan’s eyes shifted from me to her and back to me again. He looked uncertain, but went ahead.
“Whatever works,” he said, holding the door open for me. “Let’s do this, Tom.”
I took one last look back at Abby, expecting her to change her mind. But her head was down, and she didn’t look at me.
Chapter Twenty-one
Even though I’d spent a lot of time in the police station, it still felt like an incomprehensible maze of hallways. We passed small rooms with closed doors, the brass finish on their knobs rubbed off to reveal the darker metal underneath. Two uniformed cops sat in a small office, one that overflowed with paper. They laughed as we approached and then, seeing us, lowered their voices. They continued laughing after we’d passed. Ryan didn’t speak. He walked in front of me, his head bobbing with his movements, his broad shoulders and thick middle nearly filling the entire hallway.
Something like adrenaline burned through me. Every pore and hair follicle in my body tingled with anticipation. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. And I resisted the urge to reach out, shove Ryan to the side, and charge ahead to the room where they were keeping Caitlin.
Finally, Ryan stopped in front of a metal door.
“Okay,” he said. “Take your time. But remember, she does have to go to the hospital at some point.”
I nodded.
“Did you work things out with Abby?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll cover for her.”
Ryan opened the door and made a gesture into the room. I couldn’t see who was in there, even as I stood on my toes and craned my neck to see around Ryan’s big body. A female police officer came out. She nodded at me as she passed, and Ryan pushed the door open wider.
He turned to me. It was time.
“You can close the door behind you for privacy,” he said.
How many times does a life turn in a moment? For me, twice in four years. Once when Caitlin disappeared, and then again, right there, when she came back.
I moved through the doorway. It was a small, cramped room, a kind of lounge or break area for the employees of the station. A round table with four chairs sat on the left, the morning’s newspaper scattered across it. Along the back wall, there was a percolating coffeemaker and a refrigerator covered with handwritten notes and newspaper articles. And then on the right, a long, low couch, where a teenage girl sat holding a mug of coffee.
I pushed the door shut behind me.
I’d imagined this moment many times, but I could never allow my brain to work through the scenario completely. I could picture a young girl, that twelve-year-old who’d vanished while walking Frosty, squealing and jumping into my arms. As time passed, I couldn’t update it, couldn’t conceive of what she might look or act like. So I left it blank. But now, here I was, being considered by the cautious eyes of a teenage girl who was supposed to be my daughter.
Was she? Really?
Ryan’s words and observations had promised it. But a lot of people bore scars. The fingerprint evidence wasn’t back yet. .
“Caitlin? Honey?”
Her eyes looked large, as always-just like Abby’s-but this was accentuated by how thin she was. She looked sickly, like someone recently recovered from a long illness. Her skin was pale, her cheeks almost without color. Caitlin always wore her hair long, but this girl’s hair was cut short, almost chopped, as though someone who wasn’t a professional had used a pair of household scissors to whack it off. She wore a loose, baggy NCPD sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, and her shoes were scuffed and dirty.
She didn’t say anything. She watched me with those big eyes, white and blue orbs that tracked me from across the room.
I watched her, too. Studied her. The facial features, the shape of her nose, the set of her jaw. I saw Abby in that face, as always. My mother, too. And, yes, a touch of me somewhere.
It was her.
It was Caitlin.
“Caitlin?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course I remember you.”
Her voice was flat, emotionless, as though I were a passing acquaintance. And the voice was huskier, more raw. Not the voice of a little girl but that of a postpubescent young woman.
I approached the couch and sat down next to her. She eyed me a little suspiciously, but didn’t pull away or
