Page 42 of Swerve
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to cover my right hand with his. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect that we’d find anything. But I had to look.”
I lean back on my knees, wiping my hand across my eyes. “I feel hopeless. How can someone just be gone in an instant? With no evidence of what happened to them?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “Someone knows. There are clues. It’s a matter of being persistent enough to keep looking until one of them surfaces.”
“And what determines persistence?”
“Time and money.”
“I’ll spend everything I have to find her. But what if it’s not enough?” I hear the panic in my own voice.
“Let’s just take this one step at a time. Not think about anything except the one I’m currently exploring.”
“So what’s next?” I ask, pinching my left palm hard so I won’t cry.
“The security footage for the night of the festival. I’ve seen it, but I’d like to get a copy so I can go through it frame by frame.”
“How do we do that?”
“Fortunately, I’ve got friends in high places,” he says.
~
HE MAKES A call, and I try not to listen while he talks with the person on the other end. There’s some mention of him owing the person a cold one, and when he ends the call, he turns to me and says, “We’ll need a computer to view the video.”
“We can use my desktop at my house.”
“I’ll just need to access my email so I can download the file.”
“No problem.”
Back in the Jeep, I force my eyes away from the spot where I’d found Mia’s phone, not wanting to see in my mind all the various scenarios I’ve imagined as to how it got there. I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes, thankful when music fills the interior, and I hang on each word of the Train song until calm descends enough that I can breathe.
We say nothing at all for the remainder of the drive, and he pulls up in front of the house. I get out, unlock the front door, and tell him to come in.
It’s mid-afternoon by now, and the house has lost some of its light. I flick on lamps and show him to my office where the desktop is. Pounce saunters through, greeting us with a yowl of disappointment when he sees that we aren’t Mia.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to rub behind his ears. I tap the computer keyboard, tap in my password, and the screen pops to life. And then to the detective, “Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water would be good.”
“Be right back,” I say.
I go into the kitchen, Pounce on my heels, and pull a bottle of water from the drawer of the refrigerator. I grab one for myself and walk back to the office. I hand the detective one of the bottles and open mine, taking a long sip. I watch as he opens the email, clicks on the Dropbox link, and waits for it to load. I can feel my heart pounding and wish for a moment that I could fast forward to the part where he finds something, sees someone who will have the answer.
The clock at the top of the recording indicates 5:38 p.m. I point to it. “Is that the day of the festival?”
“Yes, that’s when they began the surveillance.” He glances up at me. “This is going to take a while.”
“I can help,” I say.
“I’d like to go through it alone initially.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”
“Sure,” I say, backing up and then bending over to pick up Pounce. He lets out a meow of protest, but I tuck him under my arm and close the door behind us.
