Emory
“It takes half your life before you discover life is a do-it-yourself project.”
—Napoleon Hill
I WAKE TO the realization that it’s Day Three since Mia disappeared.
Three days.
I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand by the bed, tap the screen to see if there had been any messages during the night.
No notifications. No texts. No calls.
I hurl the phone to the foot of the bed and stare at the ceiling, frustration churning in my stomach like acid.
How did this happen? How can I be lying here in my bed when Mia is . . . I don’t know how to finish that.
Because I don’t know where she is. How she is. If she’s alive or . . .
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I can’t. It’s too unbearable to even think.
Pounce meows from the open doorway. I pat the side of the bed, and he trots over and sails up beside me. He’d slept in Mia’s room again last night.
I rub his soft back, and he arches against my leg, meowing softly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, picking him up and wrapping my arms around him. Pounce is not a cat who likes to be hugged by anyone but Mia. This morning, though, he seems to know that I need it as much as he does. I press my forehead against his neck, and the sobs that rise up out of me will no longer be denied. I cry until I have no more tears to cry. God love him, Pounce tolerates my grief, and I rub my hand across his tear-drenched neck.
I have never in my life felt so helpless. I have no idea what to do. Who to turn to. How can I do nothing? Go in to work as if my life has not been upended and my baby sister will be home anytime?
I can’t.
I know my residency is at stake, but I cannot return to life as normal.
I decide then that I will call Dr. Maverick as soon as I’ve had a decent cup of coffee and cleared the anguish from my voice.
What else? What else can I do?
I glance at the stack of papers I left on the nightstand the night before. I pick up the paper on top and glance down the list of recommended things to do when a loved one has gone missing. I’ve done all but the last one: hire a detective.
Is it time for that? What if the police find out I’ve hired someone? Will that lessen their efforts to find Mia?
My stomach drops at the thought. But I can’t leave this box unchecked.
How do you find a private detective?
I have no idea.
My phone rings. I jump to a sitting position, grabbing it from the foot of the bed. Pounce yowls and leaps to the floor, prancing out of the room with his tail straight in the air.
I don’t recognize the number and answer with a question in my voice. But I recognize the caller’s voice immediately. “Detective Helmer.”
“Sorry if I’m calling too early.”
“No,” I answer quickly, and then more frantic. “Have you found Mia?”
“Ah, no,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s not that.”
I release a sigh of incredible disappointment. “Do you have any leads?”
“As of yesterday, no. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to let you know that another detective will be handling your case starting this morning.”
“What? But why won’t you be working the case?” I think of the time a new detective will need to get up to speed, and a fresh wave of despair floods through me.
“I’m going to be on leave for six weeks.”
Something about this statement strikes me as odd. “Personal leave?”
“Of a sort.”
I realize then it must not be voluntary. “Oh.”
“I wanted to let you know.” He hesitates. “I didn’t want you to think I just walked off and left the case.”
I try to process everything he’s said. All that he knows about the details of the disappearance of Mia and Grace and how frustrating it is to think of throwing it out the window. And then I remember the private detective box I haven’t yet checked. “Detective Helmer?”
“Yeah?”
“Since you have six weeks of free time on your hands, would you be willing to work for me? Privately?”
If his silence is any indication, I have shocked him. “I’m not licensed for private work, Dr. Benson.”
“Would it have to be official?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I found this list of things to do when someone you love goes missing, and I did all of them yesterday except the last one. Hire a private detective. When you called, I was just trying to figure out where to start, how to find someone. The phone rang, and it was you. Surely, that must mean something.”
“Dr. Benson . . .”
“It’s Emory. And please. Detective Helmer, you already know as much or more than anyone involved. To think of someone else starting over when she’s already been missing . . . this is day three.” I start to cry then. I don’t want to. I want to plead with him from a point of strength, but my reserves are at rock bottom. I try to speak again, but a sob is stuck in my throat, and I make this awful choking sound.
“Hey,” he says.
“I can pay you,” I say quickly. “I still have some of the money our parents left us. They would want me to spend it on finding Mia.”
Silence hangs from the other side of the phone, and I am wondering if he has hung up when he finally speaks. “I can’t take money from you, Dr. Benson, Emory. I’ll follow through on the leads I was working on my own. But I can’t promise you anything. I would be doing you a disservice if I told you anything other than the truth.”
“And that is?”
“We’re going on seventy-two hours. And every hour that passes lessens the likelihood that your sister will be found.”
Rage bubbles up inside me, and I want to scream that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I know that he does. And so I force my voice into a neutral tone when I say, “Please. Can you start this morning? Now.”
He’s silent for another string of moments, and then he says, “I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.”
This part surprises me. But I don’t let him hear that in my voice when I say, “I’ll be ready.”