Without a Trace

Dammit.I’ve lost Lily, and no one can help me save her. Not even the police.

An Amber Alert wasn’t issued. The cops wouldn’t return my calls.

What else can I do?

Wiping the back of my mouth with my robe sleeve, I drifted down the hallway and back to my bedroom. Suddenly, I felt sober again. Dark shadows danced on the walls. I stared at one; it looked just like the dark silhouette of a man.

Panic slammed against my chest as I flipped on the bedroom light.

Nothing. No one is in my room.

I yanked the covers off the bed, my cell phone smacking the floor as it fell out of the crumpled blanket.

I stared at the screen, squinting sleep and drunkenness from my eyes, willing Martin to call me…to give her back…

I’d searched the woods and wandered around the property today, feeling helpless. But I couldn’t look for long because every time I tried to go outside, invisible walls came crushing in and I couldn’t breathe…

But hunger is a disgusting thing—after a while, it supersedes all rational thought. I’d barely eaten in two days, so I’d gone out to the supermarket at dusk. I’d ran up and down the aisles, like a madwoman, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, finally settling on some booze and peanut butter.

I thought that by the time the sun went down, Martin would call or show up.

But he never called. He never came.

I couldn’t protect Lily in Tennessee, and I can’t protect her now.

Martin wouldn’t give her back unless he wanted to, and they were probably long gone by now.

Maybe I’m like mama and I never should have had a kid in the first place. At least not until I had a partner better than Martin.

The tiny black phone in my hand was foreign. My white iPhone I’d left behind was larger, and much more capable. I squinted down at the tiny screen. No missed calls, but there was one text message. My heart leapt as I clicked on it, praying it was from Martin.

My eyes stung with tears as I saw who it was from. Al.

Al: You told me to wait at least 24 hours before texting you on this number. I hope you’re okay…I’ve been so worried about you.

I laid back down on the bed, clutching the phone like an old friend. A message from Al was like salve on an open wound. I typed out a message in response, then erased it.

What if it’s not really Al? What if it’s Martin trying to trick me?

Al and I had been talking for almost a year, but we hadn’t communicated over text until now. Usually we just chatted online. But I’d confessed I was leaving Martin and had texted my new number. I’d warned Al not to message me on it until I was far away from Granton.

Martin frequently looked through my cell phone and checked my internet history. He checked my emails daily, too, although no one ever emailed me anymore.

Knitting was my one hobby he seemed to support—probably because his own mother used to knit—and he never minded when I looked up ideas or asked for advice in my knitting chat room. That’s where I’d met Al. I didn’t really care much for knitting, but it was the one place I had a friend.

And now, seeing a message from my friend on my cell phone, I was overcome with relief.

I typed out another message, clicking send before I could change my mind.

Me: I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared. He found out where I am. When I woke up this morning, Lily was gone. He took my bunny away.

I stared at the phone, nibbling on a hangnail as I waited for a response. Al was the only person who knew my situation, who understood what this getaway meant for me and Lily.

Suddenly, the phone started ringing, the sound of it so shocking, so surreal. I saw Al’s name flash up on the screen. After a year of only talking online, I was about to hear Al’s voice.

I took a deep breath then answered. “I-Is that r-really you?”

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3d7de8fe-27f4-5099-82d8-ca9b74cd426d)

The Cop

ELLIE

Barbara James was a worrier. Not only did she worry about me, but everything. I’d tried to stay quiet, sneaking around my bedroom like I was fifteen years old again, but it was only a matter of time before she realized I was still awake.

“Shit.” I clenched my teeth as she rapped on my bedroom door. The light was off, but the computer was emitting a low stream of light that could be seen from under the door.

“Are you awake in there?” The knob rattled and groaned. And then, “Why did you lock your door?” Her voice was muffled on the other side.

She sounded hurt. The pang in her voice triggered a distant memory: the first time I’d lied to her. My best friend Priscilla and I had snuck bottles of cheap alcohol into my room after our seventh grade Valentine’s dance. My mother suspected we were drinking, but I swore to her that we weren’t. Only a few days later she found a bottle of Boone’s Farm stuffed under my bed. Why did you lie to me? Who are you, Ellie? she’d asked. I’d never forgotten that look of disappointment on her face; it cut me to the core. But it wouldn’t be the last time I disappointed my mother…

I got up and opened the door, half-expecting a younger version of her—soft brown curls around her face and smile lines sprouting from her nervous eyes…

But this older version was wearing a frilly button-down nightgown. Her now-thinning, now-white hair was in rollers, her face scrubbed and cleaned to perfection. She didn’t look seventy, but the lines around her eyes had deepened and there were spidery crinkles around her mouth.

“I thought I heard typing in here,” she said, making it sound like an accusation.

“Yes, mother. I’m working. Remember my job? When I agreed to keep living with you, I didn’t agree to a curfew.”

She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I know that, honey. I was just worried. Are you working on something important? I’m not very tired. Perhaps I could help…” She glanced over my shoulder, squinting at my desk screen even though I knew she couldn’t read it from here without her glasses.

“No…you should get your rest.”

“Oh, come on, Ellie. Your ol’ mom loves a good mystery. I was a big fan of Nancy Drew when I was a girl. Now I can tell something’s on your mind. You barely ate anything at dinner.”

Too tired to put up a fight, I said, “Okay.”

Talking through the case with someone else suddenly seemed like a good idea. I sat down in my computer chair and mom sat down on my bed. I scooted up closer to the screen, rubbing my sleep-filled eyes.

“Okay. There’s this new woman in town, renting out the cabin on the Appleton Farm. She called us in this morning because apparently, her husband kidnapped his own daughter.”

Mom’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up. “Really? How old is the daughter?”

“Four. And that’s what’s bothering me. The mom says he’s abusive and so she and the daughter ran away from him. But as soon as she got settled into her new place, he came and took her back.”

“Well, maybe he just took her back home. That doesn’t mean he hurt her. It sort of sounds like this woman is the one who ran off with her in the first place. Why not just divorce the man and do things properly?” Mom sniffed the air, looking around my room as though this case had become considerably less interesting.

But I knew that wasn’t the real reason. My dad never beat up my mom, but he’d been verbally abusive toward her for as long as I could remember, up until the day he died. Although she was too proud to admit it, she knew a thing or two about dysfunctional marriages.