Page 24 of Swerve
“Enlighten me.”
“Your sister is probably lucky to have you looking for her.”
She doesn’t expect this, and he watches her previous desire to decimate him dissolve and fade away. “Thanks,” she says, her voice now barely audible. “But I have no idea what to do other than trust that you and your department will do everything possible to bring her home.”
“Tell me about the friend. Grace?”
“Yes. They’ve known each other since elementary school. Mia is the leader in the friendship. Grace would like to get off track sometimes, but Mia has always been able to steer her back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wanting to try things. The normal teenage stuff. Drinking. Cigarettes.”
“Is it possible she could have convinced Mia to run away?”
“From what? They both have very good lives with their futures planned in the fall. They’re going off to college. They don’t do drugs. Why would they run away?”
“I don’t always know why teenagers do some of the things they do. I just know they do them.”
“Not these two. It would be out of character.”
“So what do you think happened to them?”
The question is direct, again catching her off guard.
“If I knew, would I be sitting here taking this from you?”
“I simply mean, what does your gut tell you?”
Her response is instant. “That someone took them. I know my sister. That is the only possible explanation.”
He’d come here today, hoping to see evidence of something else. Something that would make him conclude this was another case of two teenage girls who had taken off on an adventure and would eventually find their way back home.
But he doesn’t. He believes Emory Benson. And in his gut, he thinks she’s probably right.
Someone did take them.
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.”
