Emory
“I don’t count my sit-ups; I only start counting when it starts hurting because they’re the only ones that count.”
—Muhammad Ali
I CAN SEE the moment Detective Helmer decides he agrees with me.
The realization sends whatever hope had been fluttering at the center of my chest, plummeting. Despair erupts from its ashes, and I am mortified by the tears I cannot control.
I do not want his pity, but it’s clear that he feels it, whether he wants to or not. “Ms. Benson, Dr. Benson,” he corrects, “we have some great cops working on your sister’s case. It’s early hours yet. We’re combing camera feeds in areas around the festival. We’re going door to door within a one mile radius, asking for information from anyone who might have seen anything at all suspicious. I know the waiting is the unbearable part, but give us a little time. We’ll do everything we can to find them.”
I want to believe him. I need to believe him. But I think of all the horrible cases I’ve heard about—on television, in books and movies—and terror is all I can manage to feel.
He must see this despite my effort to hide it because he says, “The moment I learn anything at all, I will let you know.”
He stands then, adding, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“Only that I can’t imagine my life without Mia. Please find her. Please.”
He pulls a card from his shirt pocket, walks closer to hand it to me. “My cell number is on there. If you think of anything else, call me at any time.”
Our gazes hang for a moment. Something passes between us. I feel its current-like electricity, and I wonder if, under other circumstances, we might be drawn to each other. But then I recall my predictions about him, feel certain I’d been right, and I know he’s not a man I could ever be drawn to. My search in life is for stability, predictability, the opposite of out-of-the-blue middle-of-the-night phone calls that wreck an entire existence.
My only hope for anything from Knox Helmer is that he will help bring back the only thing that can ensure that life will make sense again: my sister, Mia.
~
ONCE DETECTIVE HELMER leaves, I let Pounce out of Mia’s room. He trots behind me into the kitchen, sitting like an observing statue in the doorway while I empty the dishwasher and wipe the countertops. Once that’s done, I clean out the refrigerator, throwing away leftovers I should have thrown away weeks ago. I fill a trash bag, take it out to the can at the door off the side of the kitchen and then come back inside to find Pounce still staring at me.
He meows a protesting yowl and trots into the living room. I hear a clatter and leave the kitchen to find that he is standing on the keyboard of my desktop computer. His tail swishes in agitation, and I swear it’s as if he is asking me to do something.
Whether it has anything to do with him or if the prompting is purely coincidental, I realize I cannot fill my hours with cleaning and rearranging. I take the chair in front of the computer, lifting Pounce from the keyboard and depositing him on my lap. I hit the space bar on the keyboard, the screen lighting up.
Pounce’s tail stops swishing, and he folds himself into a comma, his chin resting on my left knee.
I have no idea where to start, so I offer the search engine the most obvious thing that comes to mind: missing girls Washington, DC.
The first results shock me. A screenshot of the Metropolitan Police Department Twitter feed reads: Critical Missing. Two Teenage Girls. Mia Benson. Age 17. Grace Marshall. Age 17. Last seen at Spring Jam Festival.
Their physical info is given, their photos displayed along with information on how to contact the Youth and Family Services Division or the Command Information Center with any possible leads.
I stare at my sister’s smiling face. It’s the profile photo she used for her Facebook page, and I realize they must have pulled it from there.
Tears well in my eyes, and her smiling face blurs before me. Grief explodes from my chest, and I put my head on the desk in front of me, sobbing until the sorrow begins to be replaced with rage.
Pounce puts his paws on my shoulder, kneading my shirt the way he does his favorite pillow. I hear him purring, turn around and swoop him up against me, squeezing him so tight against me that he lets out a protesting yelp.
I loosen my hold but don’t let him go, and he doesn’t want me to. He tucks his face against my neck, and we sit that way until my angry crying drains me into silence.
I tap the space bar on the keyboard and back out of the current page to my original search findings for missing girls Washington, DC.
Washington DC Police locate missing 12-year-old girl
Nov 11, 2015 – WASHINGTON, D.C. – Police were searching for a missing 12-year-old girl.
7 facts about missing children in the DMV | WUSA9.com
May 25, 2016 – 1. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, there are 140 missing children in the Washington, DC, Maryland; and …
11-Year-Old DC Girl Missing Since Friday | TBV3 Washington
I exit the screen, unable to read more.
Overwhelm hits me like a cascade of rocks, and I fall back against the chair, Pounce still clinging to me.
We sit there in the middle of our living room, shipwrecked passengers who have washed up on an island they have never seen before and have no idea how they will exist on.
But we have no choice other than to figure it out. We have to be here for Mia when she comes home. And she will come home. Anything else is unthinkable.