Page 46 of Swerve
“What then?” she pleads, pressing her hand to his shoulder.
He looks up at her, sees the warring emotions of hope and despair and struggles with which one to encourage her to latch on to. “I’ll work on the hat label. I’ll look into the DC stores that might carry it. Pay them a visit and see if anyone recognizes the guy in the photo.”
Hope flares in her eyes, despite my unwillingness to build this into something more than it might end up being.
“Have you already looked up the stores?”
“I found three,” he says. “All in downtown DC”
“Can we go now?” she asks.
“Maybe I should do this on my own.”
“Please,” she says. “I want to go. I’ll go crazy if I stay here waiting to hear something.”
“It could end up being nothing,” he says.
“Detective Helmer. This is the first glimmer of even a hint at what might have happened to Mia and Grace. You don’t need to protect me from hope. I realize how fragile it is.”
He stares up at her, fully aware that he should refuse to let her go. There’s something about her that interferes with his judgment, the way police radar scramblers mix a portion of the signal with background clutter, confusing the computer inside the radar gun. He’s not sure if his own signals are strictly about the job at hand or something they shouldn’t have anything at all to do with. But as strong as the voice telling him not to take her is, he finds himself saying, “Most of the leads we follow don’t pan out. I need to know you understand that.”
“I understand.”
He picks up the images and addresses he’s already printed out and says, “Then let’s go.”
Mia
“Life is about how much you can take and keep fighting, how much you can suffer and keep moving forward.”
—Anderson Silva
SHE HASN’T EATEN since the night of the festival. What was it that she and Grace had eaten there and loved so much? They had told Emory about it when they’d FaceTimed.
It scares her that she can’t remember now.
Mia presses her hand to her stomach, noticing that it is no longer growling in complaint, as if it has finally accepted that food is not coming, and it won’t do any good to put out a request.
Her mouth is so dry she can barely swallow. It’s the water she’s missing most. The thought of food actually makes her nauseated. What she would give for a huge glass of cold water though.
But she won’t let herself touch the one sitting by the door. They have been replacing it on a regular basis, ice cubes visible through the glass, as if they know she will eventually concede and down it.
So far, she has not. Something tells her that as soon as she gives in to accepting their food and water, she is theirs.
And that is something she will never willingly be. She would rather die first.
She’s beginning to realize that might actually happen.
She tries to remember what day it is. How long she’s been here. But her brain can’t seem to figure it out. Day three. Five? Or is it longer?
She’s wearing the same clothes she’d arrived here in, and she hasn’t had a shower. Her hair feels oily, and she shrinks from the smell of her own perspiration.
What was it the man standing guard outside her room had said? “It will be much easier for you once you start cooperating. Wouldn’t you like for life to be nice again? A warm shower with lots of soap and shampoo. A hot meal of your favorite food. All you have to do is tell me what it is, and I will get it for you.”
She hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, had turned her head to the wall and refused to look at him.
She hears the door click and feels her stomach drop as it swings inward.
The same man who had abducted them stares at her from the opening. Her gaze goes to the logo on his baseball cap, recognizing the Carlos Garcia brand. She wonders if he grew up here or if he had made his way to this country with the life goal of kidnapping young girls. Or maybe the original plan hadn’t worked out and this was the result?
