Page 36 of Swerve
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. ButI 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.”
