Wherever She Goes(9)

“Nine. Like I said, I can get her to daycare.”

He passes over Charlie’s bag. “Why don’t we meet up for breakfast first. Charlie would like that. And we can . . .” He shrugs. “Talk.”

Does that mean he has heard about the incident today? Or does he really just want to talk? I would love that. I really would, and I should be able to look at his expression and tell whether this is a “we have a problem” talk or just an invitation to breakfast. But we never developed that bond, the kind where couples finish each other’s sentences. I loved him. Still do. Yet there had been a surface quality to our marriage. My monsters lurk in the depths, so I swim in shallow waters, and if I insisted on staying there, I couldn’t dive deeper with him.

I do want to talk to him about the boy. I want his advice so badly. Yet if he doesn’t know, should I tell him? What if he uses it against me in the custody battle, as proof that I’m not quite stable?

I cannot take that chance. The boy is important, but my daughter is more important. I will not jeopardize my future with her to enlist Paul’s help.

“I take it that’s a no?” he says as his smile fades.

“I—”

His phone rings. He glances at it. “My client. Probably wondering where I am. I should go.”

I open my mouth to say breakfast would be fine, and yes, let’s do that. But he’s already saying goodbye to Charlotte and then walking around the car, without another word to me.





Chapter Six





I circle the daycare lot, waiting for a spot. Two have cleared so far, only to have other drivers whip in while I was figuring out which of us had been there first. Evidently, not me.

I check the car clock. Five minutes to drop Charlotte off, twenty to drive to work, five to get at my post. Exactly enough time . . . if I find a parking spot in the next ten seconds.

“Mommy? I has cough. See?” Charlotte gives two quick—and obviously fake—hacks. “I stay home with you?”

I wish you could, baby. I really wish you could.

“Mommy works now, remember, Charlie?”

There! A spot. I start turning in . . . just as a toddler darts from between parked cars. I hit the brakes so hard I slam into the seat belt. The car stops twenty feet from the child, but I still squeeze my eyes shut, catching my breath as my heart pounds.

Careful. Always be careful.

It only takes a moment.

Another car ducks into the empty spot.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“Dammit,” Charlotte chirps. “Dammit!”

“No, baby. That’s not a good word. Mommy—”

Spot!

I snag it. Out of the car in two seconds. Two more, and Charlotte is on my hip as I sprint for the door.

An exiting father holds it open. I race through with thanks.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I’d been stressed over the missing boy. After a night of tossing and turning, I’d woken early to go online, hoping for news that a child . . .

Hoping for news that a child was missing? That sounds horrible. Of course I hope to see he’s been found. That’s the ideal situation. A boy was temporarily missing, but now he’s home. Yet if that wasn’t the case, then yes, I hoped for proof that an investigation had been launched.

When I didn’t find it, I kept searching, digging deeper, calling on skills I hadn’t used in so many years, cursing my crappy computer as I hunted.

No, no, Paul, I don’t need a fancy laptop. I can barely use email.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

I searched online until the last possible moment before getting Charlotte up. I managed to get her outside with just enough time to drop her off and get to work. Then, as I buckled Charlotte into her gazillion-point car seat . . . I realized she’d dropped Matt in the apartment hall.

For one moment, I had wondered if I could just go grab it. Leave her locked in the car and run back inside. The impulse only lasted a second, shut down by a wave of horror, but the memory still shames me.

I jog down the daycare hallway, ignoring the looks from other parents. Someone has jacked up the building’s heat. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the smell of a loaded diaper makes my stomach regret that wolfed-down breakfast muffin.

As I run, Charlotte giggles on my hip. When I plunk her onto the floor, though, her giggles evaporate.

“I has cough.” Big brown eyes look up into mine. Two more fake hacks.

“You shouldn’t bring her if she’s sick,” a mother says as she walks by.

“She’s not really—”

The other woman is gone, judgment rendered.

Charlotte’s hand reaches for mine. “No go, Mommy. Please.”

A dart of frustration, quickly squelched. If I’m running late, that’s on me.

I bend. “Charlie, if you really are sick, then I will stay home. But I’ll have to cancel our princess tea tomorrow, and we’ll do it another time, just to be safe.”

She straightens. “All better.”

I ruffle her hair. “Excellent. Then we shall have tea tomorrow. Mommy and Charlie in their new princess dresses.”

I take her hand. Then I spin and say, “Oh, wait! You don’t have a princess dress.”

“Yes!” Charlotte squeals. “Blue like Princess Buttercup. We buy.”