Page 37 of Swerve
“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.”
Knox
“One of the most important things you can do on this earth is to let people know they are not alone.”
?Shannon L. Alder
HE NEEDS TO have his head examined.
This is what he’s telling himself when he pulls into Emory Benson’s driveway thirty minutes after their phone call. A near bark of laughter erupts from his chest, because he does have his head examined on a weekly basis with Dr. Thomason. What more proof does he need that those sessions are a complete waste of time?
He wipes the smile from his face under the realization that Dr. Benson’s psychiatric experience could be used against him if he’s sitting here smiling like a lunatic when she comes out.
She steps through the front door just then, locking it behind her and then walking to the Jeep, looking at it as if she’s surprised not to see the department sedan he’d driven here before.
She opens the passenger door and climbs in, and suddenly, he’s wondering if he should have gotten out and opened it for her. Okay, that’s crossing the line for sure.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Hi,” she says. “So where are we going?”
She’s brusque and to the point, and he pulls his thoughts back from the realization that she smells like some clean spa smell that fills the Jeep in a nice way. Her hair is wet and pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing jeans and running shoes and a light-blue, collared shirt. She doesn’t look anywhere near old enough to be a psychiatrist. Even one who’s still a resident. “Ah, I wanted to take another look at the area where you found her phone. Let’s start there with you showing me the exact spot.”
“Why?” she asks. “Surely, the police have thoroughly covered that?”
“I’d like to make sure nothing was missed.”
She stares out the window and then says, “I don’t know whether to be hopeful or discouraged by the fact that you think it’s a possibility.”
He glances in the rearview mirror and reverses out of the driveway. He stays at the edge of the residential speed limit, keeping his view straight ahead. “Here’s a fact about all investigations. They’re conducted by human beings. And human beings make mistakes. Sometimes, it’s the smallest clue that solves a case. I heard a football coach say once that you never know which play will win the game. So you play them all like they’re the winning one. I tend to look at evidence the same way.”
She visibly processes what he’s said, then nods once in understanding.
They drive in silence until he reaches the Capital Beltway.
“You’ve had cases like this before?” she asks, her gaze leveled at the windshield.
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Were they all solved?”
He hears the hope at the end of the question and wishes for a moment that he didn’t have to crush it. “Four of them.”
She swings to him, and he already knows her focus is on the one they didn’t find. “What happened?” she asks.
He settles over the memory for a moment, feeling his own reluctance to go there. “Thirteen-year-old girl waiting for the school bus. The little sister said two men in a black car pulled over and grabbed the older one. The younger sister ran back to the house to get help, but they were out of sight by the time the mother got to the bus stop.”
