stayed away this long.
With the arrival of the police, the hotel security staff stepped back, respectful, or maybe just cognizant of their place. Liz longed for the uniformed man who’d accompanied her between the gift shop and the pool. He’d seemed able to anticipate her thoughts, and his presence had served to ward off the assault of panic.
“I’m Detective Bissell.” A plainclothes officer introduced himself to Liz and Paul. “We want you to know that we were on this the minute the hotel administrator made the report. We have police officersphysically checking every room in the hotel. And two cars are searching the immediate area. An Amber Alert has gone out as well.”
Liz’s knees jogged. Paul slid a chair up behind her, and Liz sat down heavily. An Amber Alert didn’t belong in their lives. They were for movies, or other people’s stories, as cruel as that made Liz sound to herself. But she could stand to be cruel. She could stand to be anything, if only Reid and Ally were returned.
Her lips felt puffy, unable to make clear sounds. “Ally,” she said, the word breaking into particles on her tongue. “Reid.”
Paul patted her shoulder, a rhythmic, unfeeling touch, like the hand of a metronome.
“Ma’am,” the detective said to her. “We need to speak to you and your husband.”
“Yes, of course,” Paul said.
Liz looked up blindly.
“The hotel staff has made this room available to us,” the detective said, gesturing. “Would you like to step inside?”
Like , Liz heard. What does like have to do with any of this? How could they have traveled, even just to Paul’s childhood home? They’d managed without a vacation for years.
She made her way into the darkened room behind Paul. The detective flipped on a bank of lights, and a table with chairs around it was cast into bold relief. At the back of the room another table held water bottles and a carafe. In different times, maybe even later today, conferences were held in this room.
The detective indicated two seats. “Can you tell me what brought you to this part of New York?”
Liz looked at Paul.
“I’m from Junction Bridge originally,” her husband said. “We came to visit my parents. On the farm where I grew up.”
The detective jotted something down. “Have you been in touch with your parents this morning?”
“Not yet,” Paul said. “I—this just happened.”
Liz pressed her lips and looked away. Paul’s words cemented things somehow. Something had happened. They were different now thanthey had been before, and different, no matter how things turned out, from the way they would ever be again.
A sob crawled up her throat. She wanted to hold her children. It seemed impossible that they were gone. She still felt them, like a phantom limb.
She turned to her husband, whose gaze went bleak as he looked away. His words came from very far off, as if he were underwater, or she was.
“But I don’t see why contacting my parents would matter,” Paul was saying. “The farm is still almost an hour from here. It’s not like the kids could’ve hitchhiked.”
Liz sucked in a breath, and the detective looked at her.
Paul’s shoulders dropped. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m—a little tense.”
“Perfectly understandable,” the detective said without emotion. “I’m just trying to put a preliminary picture together.”
Liz hardly heard the explanation, nor did she detect Paul’s response. She was remembering something, and the realization occupied her whole mind, a storm blotting out the sky.
There was another person who had seen the children, one night and a lifetime before.
She rose, moving into the space between the two men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A t the front desk, everything was in a frenetic swirl. A busload of kids had just checked in, part of some field trip or school competition. They were older than Reid and Ally—teenagers really—but still, the sight of them made Liz feel light-headed, as if she had just stepped
With the arrival of the police, the hotel security staff stepped back, respectful, or maybe just cognizant of their place. Liz longed for the uniformed man who’d accompanied her between the gift shop and the pool. He’d seemed able to anticipate her thoughts, and his presence had served to ward off the assault of panic.
“I’m Detective Bissell.” A plainclothes officer introduced himself to Liz and Paul. “We want you to know that we were on this the minute the hotel administrator made the report. We have police officersphysically checking every room in the hotel. And two cars are searching the immediate area. An Amber Alert has gone out as well.”
Liz’s knees jogged. Paul slid a chair up behind her, and Liz sat down heavily. An Amber Alert didn’t belong in their lives. They were for movies, or other people’s stories, as cruel as that made Liz sound to herself. But she could stand to be cruel. She could stand to be anything, if only Reid and Ally were returned.
Her lips felt puffy, unable to make clear sounds. “Ally,” she said, the word breaking into particles on her tongue. “Reid.”
Paul patted her shoulder, a rhythmic, unfeeling touch, like the hand of a metronome.
“Ma’am,” the detective said to her. “We need to speak to you and your husband.”
“Yes, of course,” Paul said.
Liz looked up blindly.
“The hotel staff has made this room available to us,” the detective said, gesturing. “Would you like to step inside?”
Like , Liz heard. What does like have to do with any of this? How could they have traveled, even just to Paul’s childhood home? They’d managed without a vacation for years.
She made her way into the darkened room behind Paul. The detective flipped on a bank of lights, and a table with chairs around it was cast into bold relief. At the back of the room another table held water bottles and a carafe. In different times, maybe even later today, conferences were held in this room.
The detective indicated two seats. “Can you tell me what brought you to this part of New York?”
Liz looked at Paul.
“I’m from Junction Bridge originally,” her husband said. “We came to visit my parents. On the farm where I grew up.”
The detective jotted something down. “Have you been in touch with your parents this morning?”
“Not yet,” Paul said. “I—this just happened.”
Liz pressed her lips and looked away. Paul’s words cemented things somehow. Something had happened. They were different now thanthey had been before, and different, no matter how things turned out, from the way they would ever be again.
A sob crawled up her throat. She wanted to hold her children. It seemed impossible that they were gone. She still felt them, like a phantom limb.
She turned to her husband, whose gaze went bleak as he looked away. His words came from very far off, as if he were underwater, or she was.
“But I don’t see why contacting my parents would matter,” Paul was saying. “The farm is still almost an hour from here. It’s not like the kids could’ve hitchhiked.”
Liz sucked in a breath, and the detective looked at her.
Paul’s shoulders dropped. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m—a little tense.”
“Perfectly understandable,” the detective said without emotion. “I’m just trying to put a preliminary picture together.”
Liz hardly heard the explanation, nor did she detect Paul’s response. She was remembering something, and the realization occupied her whole mind, a storm blotting out the sky.
There was another person who had seen the children, one night and a lifetime before.
She rose, moving into the space between the two men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A t the front desk, everything was in a frenetic swirl. A busload of kids had just checked in, part of some field trip or school competition. They were older than Reid and Ally—teenagers really—but still, the sight of them made Liz feel light-headed, as if she had just stepped
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