Page 49 of Operation Rescue
She wanted to believe this meant Ethan, that he was picking up the scent Rafe had made certain he knew. And surely if it had just been the scent of whatever food had been in the bag, the dog would have tried to take it, to see if there was more food, or maybe lick that grease that had stained the bottom?
But Cutter did none of that, only pawed at it and looked up at Blaine. And once more let out that whuff, as if to be sure he’d gotten the message. And Blaine, being Blaine, understood.
“I got it, boy. It’s his. Thanks.”
“How can you be sure? It must smell like food to him.”
“If Cutter says Ethan’s scent is on this, it is. Rafe said trust him. And I trust Rafe.”
Once he would have said that to you. Until you proved to him you didn’t deserve his trust.
He stroked the dog’s head, and then dug into the bag. When he pulled out the narrow white strip of paper, her pulse gave a sudden kick. A receipt. Which would be dated.
“Saturday,” he said.
She smothered a gasp. That had been the day she had broken and called Blaine. That day, Ethan had still been that close? If she’d been more thorough, if she’d thought about this little place as a shelter, if she’d—
“Stop.” Blaine’s voice was sharp. “Quit blaming yourself.”
“But it’s my fault—”
He reached out and grabbed her hand. A jolt went through her at the contact. “Erin, think. Does it really matter a damn right now whose fault it is? What matters is finding Ethan. Nothing else. There’ll be time enough when he’s home safe to blame yourself from here to Alaska if you want to. But now, you need to—”
“Get over myself,” she finished for him.
He grimaced. “I wasn’t going to say quite that.”
“I know. You’re too kind to. Which is why I said it for you. Because you’re right.”
She dug down deep, tried to remember how she’d gotten through those awful days four years ago—when she’d gone from sitting at his bedside waiting for those infernal machines to send out that hideous sound that meant his battered body had surrendered, to watching him win every challenge of his recovery, then fight his way through rehab and therapy until now, when you’d never guess what he’d been through, if you didn’t know. He looked…normal. Strong. Moving as if nothing had ever happened. That pilot’s gaze as sharp as ever.
That gaze that rarely missed anything. Except it had missed how little sand there was in her, how little courage.
But she knew she’d been right about that: she could never go through that again. But surely she could use what it had taught her about perseverance and never giving up? What Blaine had taught her, just by watching him never give up? For the sake of their son, she could—she would—find whatever was left of that strength and pour it into finding him.
They walked for another two hours, Cutter finding nothing more of interest other than another dog out for a walk with his kid. The passerby was about a quarter the size of Cutter, but with about the same amount of fur. They talked to the girl who was holding the leash for a few minutes, and found out that yeah, she’d seen some older kid hanging out near the slide house last week, but hadn’t seen him lately.
Erin quickly pulled out her phone and showed her the picture of Ethan she’d been using.
“Yeah, that looks like him. If his hair was longer.”
“He was overdue for a haircut,” she said.
Blaine’s jaw tensed for a moment, and she wondered if it was because he missed out on all the ordinary, mundane aspects of parenthood, like haircuts and nagging about homework.
“I gotta go,” the girl said. “I’m late and Mom will be worried.”
“I know the feeling,” Erin said, stifling the jab of pain as she said it. “So hurry home.”
She watched the girl and the ball of fluff hurry on, until they turned up the sidewalk leading to the house on the corner opposite the one they’d stopped on before.
“So she lives in a good spot to see the place,” Blaine said quietly, as if he was thinking out loud.
“Yes.” Something belatedly struck her. “And if it truly was Ethan, then…he didn’t go to those kids, the wannabe gangsters, right away.”
The slightest of smiles curved Blaine’s mouth, then vanished. A brief flash of hope. She’d been afraid to even name the emotion.
“No, he didn’t,” Blaine said softly. “So it wasn’t his first thought. He didn’t leave to join them. He joined them after he’d left. And maybe didn’t know what else to do.”
