Where the Road Ends

Johnny? Are you up there? Help.

The Butler served great steaks, a neon sign told her as she drove past to the ferry.

And the Bayside Inn had suites with fireplaces.

A worn wooden sign proclaimed the existence of the Singapore Yacht Club. The deserted facility did not deliver the promise of its expensive-sounding name.

The bandstand by the ferry was completely desolate. Forlorn-looking. Not even the ducks were venturing out in this cold.

Maybe the ferry would follow. Maybe it, too, would remain inactive, not operating on such a bone-chilling day.

Of course, Amy wasn’t that lucky. As the cold seeped through her jeans, she stood by the dock and waited while the elderly ferry worker thought back over his morning.

“No, miss, we’ve only had a couple of families and a few business travelers today,” he told her when she inquired about the day’s passengers.

“You’re sure you haven’t seen a green Grand Am? Or a woman who looks like this?”

She showed him the weathered snapshot again, just to make sure his old eyes really saw the woman depicted there. Her fingers were shaking, though from the cold penetrating her body or the stress consuming it she had no idea.

He held the photo close to his face.

“I’m sure,” he finally said, still studying Kathy’s image. “I haven’t seen her.”

Amy’s cheeks hurt as she broke into a grin. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and half skipped back to her car. This time no was a good answer.

Brad called. Three of his investigators were covering western Michigan. One was behind her. One in front of her. And one was taking the off-shoot roads. Amy was relieved to hear the news, but she couldn’t rest.

She did, however, take the time to scout out the elementary school in Saugatuck after her visit to the sheriff’s office turned up nothing. Or rather, the elementary school in Douglas, Saugatuck’s neighboring town. They split educational responsibilities; Saugatuck had the high school, Douglas, kindergarten to grade six.

If Kathy was living nearby with Charles, he might, at that very moment, be in Douglas Elementary. Learning to read. Or to do simple math.

Maybe playing in the schoolyard.

Amy hoped Charles had a warm coat with a hood. He’d always been prone to ear infections during the winter months.

But then, Kathy would know that. She was the one who’d taken Amy’s son to the doctor, picked up his prescriptions and more often than not, administered them. It had usually been Kathy—or Johnny—who was up nights, walking with the crying toddler, soothing him, while Amy got a few hours sleep before having to face another day of high-pressure meetings with powerful men who frequently tried to get the best of the young woman doing a man’s job.

Her father’s job.

William they’d trusted. With Amy, during those first two years, they’d withheld judgment until she’d proved herself worthy of their confidence. William’s Amelia had always been respected, but more because William thought the sun rose and set on her than because of her MBA.

From the time of her mother’s death in a car accident when Amelia was less than a year old, the child had been a regular at the Wainscoat offices. She and William had been closer than most fathers and daughters, enjoying each other’s company, sharing each other’s vision of life, the world and, of course, the business. When he died so unexpectedly, Amelia might have died, too, if not for Charles. And Johnny. And the sudden responsibility that had been thrust on her—to run the company her father had spent his life building.

Amy looked at the Kid’s Stuff Park across the street from Douglas Elementary. Not a soul in sight.

The school, a one-story brick building that took up almost an acre, was on Randolph, right off Blue Star Highway. Two white mobile units were the first thing she saw as she pulled into the almost full parking lot. Friday morning, nearly eleven. Too early for lunch. School would still be in session.

Cut-out snowflakes adorned the classroom windows. They upset her. She was missing out on all the art projects made by tiny hands.

Please, God, don’t let Charles be missing out on them, too.

The playground behind the school was as empty as the bandstand had been. Empty, cold, unfriendly.

Hoping she wouldn’t be stopped, Amy parked and headed into the building like the CEO she was. As though she had every right to be there. As though she’d never been told no in her life.

With a competence born of habit, she scanned the hallways, determined the school’s layout and then quickly peeked into the classrooms on both sides of the corridor. It didn’t take her long to locate the kindergarten. Or to see that her son was not among the children there.

It took her a lot longer to dispel the heavy darkness descending on her as she smiled at a passing administrator and made her way back to her car. Leaving her gloves off, she started the engine.

Why did she let her hopes rise every single damn time? Why couldn’t she just wait until she found out the results before she even thought about celebrating? Why, whenever she came to a new town, did she have to envision her reunion with her son? Play it out in glorious detail so that each time the dream died, it was that much more painful?

But Amy knew why she didn’t stop, why she let her hopes build. Because as soon as she quit hoping, her life might as well be finished.

It was those images of Charles’s little arms wrapped around her that got her out of bed every morning. That kept her eyes open and her mind clear while she continued, day after day, to venture into the unknown for something that might not be there.

She had to believe.

It was that or die.

4

She made it onto Randolph before she had to pull over. Cold though she was, her body was sweating, her head light. She found it hard to think. The cycle of hope and disappointment got to her sometimes, jeopardized her equilibrium, her ability to go on. Or at least, during moments like these, it seemed that way.

Where was her phone?

Amy looked down at the console, fumbling in the general vicinity of where she’d left her cell. Finally her little finger grazed the plastic.

With her head resting against the seat, she felt the keypad with her thumb, pushed a speed-dial key and hit the call button.

“Hi,” she said softly when Cara answered.

“Amelia! Where are you, love? How are you? Do you have any news?”

If she’d had the energy, Amy would have smiled.

The vent was pointed directly at her face, a blast of heat hitting her on the left cheek. Irritated and hot, she thought about moving her head, the vent, something.

“I’m in Douglas, Michigan,” she said, thankful that she didn’t have to hide the weariness that was swallowing her up. Cara would see past any attempt she made to pretend. Her friend had been there last month, when Amy was pretty much catatonic for the days it had taken to get through Christmas. Cara had tried, forcing Amy to go to Christmas Eve service, insisting on the traditional turkey dinner, buying Amy a gift—a beautiful, one-of-a-kind mohair coat from Amy’s favorite designer.

The coat had brought tears to Amy’s eyes, the only evidence of emotion she’d shown the entire five days she’d been home.

She thought of that coat, tucked away, unworn, in her closet at home. Amy Wayne had no use for a mohair coat. “I found Kathy this morning, but—”

“You what!”

Cara’s shriek resounded in Amy’s aching head.

“I saw her leave a parking lot this morning. I was in a diner and apparently all she needed was the five minutes she had on me. I haven’t seen her since.”