Not Her Daughter Page 13

  “How cool is that?”

  “So cool.” She scratched her hand. “But she died.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at the television. “Why is that TV like that?”

  I laughed. “Do you mean these?” I pointed to the antennae. “Because it’s about one hundred years old.”

  “It is?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. But it’s pretty old.”

  “Can we go outside now?”

  “Sure.”

  “And I can still wear my pajamas?”

  “Of course. Do you want to go see the lake?”

  “A lake? Yes! Can we play in it?”

  I told her the same tale Ethan had told me: about the small fairies and pots of gold. Emma’s eyes widened at the possibility of actual magic in the water.

  She hopped off the couch and grabbed my hand before I offered it. I opened the back patio door and together we tumbled down the steep incline to the mouth of the lake, where we remained for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  After a day spent on the water, we loaded up on groceries and sunscreen at the market just outside of town and ate outside, under the stars. We’d had an exceptional first day—no tears, no questions about her parents, no worries at all. She ate a huge dinner, asking for a snack later, and then I let her watch one cartoon on my phone. After, she handed it to me.

  “Is it time to go to bed now?”

  I glanced at the large clock on the mantel. “What time do you normally go to sleep?”

  “Whenever I fall asleep.”

  I wondered if anyone read her bedtime stories, if she got tucked in, or if her dad or mom sang songs. Did her mother brush her hair after bath time? Was there a bath time? Did anyone tell her she was special? That she could grow up and do anything? Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them away and cleared my throat before they fell. It was pointless to wonder about such things.

  “Are you sleepy?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Want a bath?”

  “Can I? Like a real bath?”

  “Do you not take baths at home?”

  “No, Mama says we never have time, and it wastes all the hot water. Can I? Can I do it right now?”

  There was a small bathtub upstairs. “Let’s go fill it up.”

  I sat beside her as the bath filled, while she splashed and played with two Barbies we’d gotten her at Walmart. I caught up on work emails on my phone, fired off more texts, and waited until she was done playing to wash her. I folded her in a fluffy towel and carefully carried her downstairs to the bedroom. I helped her put on the same pajamas and she crawled into the tall bed.

  “Does anyone ever sing to you?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Would you like me to sing to you, or do you just want to go to sleep?”

  “Could you?” Her voice was small and curious.

  “Of course I can.” I racked the recesses of my brain for a nursery song I might still remember: “Hush Little Baby”? “Twinkle Twinkle”? “Itsy Bitsy Spider”?

  She waited and pulled the covers up to her chin. I smoothed the hair from her face and started with “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” my voice cracking in the still night.

  She let out a sigh and found my hand in the dark, winding her warm fingers through mine before pulling my entire hand to her chest.

  My voice shook with emotion as I stroked her face with my other hand. The words turned to humming as her breath deepened and she slipped under after only a few minutes.

  I finally removed my fingers from hers and watched her rib cage expand and contract in the darkness. The gravity of this little girl in a stranger’s bed took hold. I didn’t even know her and already I was falling in love. I hadn’t gone through the daily grind with this child the way mothers all over the world did every single day. But I knew that she was special; that I was supposed to meet her; that I would do anything—anything—to keep her safe and unharmed, here, with me.

  * * *

  Outside, we could hear crickets and frogs. Emma jerked wide eyes at me—a question. “What are those?”

  “What? Those sounds?”

  “Yes.” She edged closer on the log.

  “Oh sweetie, those are just crickets and frogs. They like to sing at night. Singing, singing, singing. That’s how they talk. Kind of like what we’re doing now.” I leaned forward and threw a few more sticks onto the fire.

  “I don’t like frogs.”

  “Well,” I draped a protective arm around her shoulders, “did you know that some mama frogs lay up to one hundred eggs and she carries them around on her back?”

  She burrowed beneath my arm. Her skin was hot. The baby-fine hairs of her arm pricked against mine. “Like eggs that you eat?”

  “No, like eggs that turn into babies. Can you imagine having that many brothers and sisters running around?”

  She giggled. “Tell me more about the froggies.”

  I rambled on about any random facts I could remember about frogs, digging into the bag by my feet to find a marshmallow. I stabbed one of the fluffy white cylinders with the skewer and handed it to Emma.

  “Have you ever roasted a marshmallow before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this was one of my favorite things to do when I was little. Can I teach you how?”

  Emma scooted to the edge of the log. I showed her how to stick the tip of the marshmallow and skewer into the fire, constantly rotating it so as not to blacken and char just one spot. As soon as hers was ready, I pulled out the graham crackers and thick squares of chocolate and let Emma squish the hot, sticky mess into a sweet sandwich. “Now press down.”

  Emma pressed hard, her top cracker splintering from the pressure. “Oh no! It broke!”

  “It’s fine. They always crack. See the way it’s melting now?”

  She inspected her waxy marshmallow. “Can I bite it?”

  “It might be a little hot. Let me try first.” I bit into mine, the flavors transporting me back to roaring fires and camping trips with my father. “I think if you blow on it, it shouldn’t be too hot.”

  Emma blew on her s’more and then took a bite. She squealed and pulled the sandwich away from her mouth, a long, fluffy string falling into her lap. “Look! It looks like glue!”

  “It does look like glue, doesn’t it? The marshmallows get all long and stringy.” I took another bite. “Do you like it?”

  She bit into hers again and nodded, smearing chocolate and white goo all over her chin. We chewed, the crackle of the fire disappearing into the sky, an alert that there was life out here, in the woods, if anyone was looking. That Emma, the little girl the whole world was worrying about, was safe, happy, and eating s’mores with someone who just wanted her to have a better, happier life.

  An hour later, we climbed the steps to head back inside. I made the familiar rounds to lock all the doors. I lifted a section of my hair and inhaled the pungent smell of smoke as I walked upstairs from the basement. I wondered if Emma’s smelled the same, if we’d have to scrub her hair twice at her next bath just to erase the stench. On the main floor, Emma was already curled on the couch, asleep.

  I covered her with a blanket and kissed her forehead, dropping into the rocking chair across from her. My heart started palpitating as I watched her sleep—a persistent occurrence these last few days—suddenly aware of everything ahead of me, of us.

  Those first tenuous days had turned into a week, and then two. And here we were, hidden from a world obsessed with the hunt. I’d kept up with the reports on my phone, but they were all the same. Nothing new, no specific information, no real leads yet.

  I closed my eyes, the slight squeak of the rocking chair lulling me somewhere else entirely. I’d read endless stories about unspeakable childhood tragedies, and most of those kids went on to lead happy, productive lives. It was the parents who fucked them up more than anyone; the parents who unloaded their own insecurities and hurt onto their chil
dren; the parents who taught them that the world, their world, was limiting instead of limitless; that most of their intuition was wrong, that they had to watch out for strangers, cars, and sugar; that they weren’t capable of doing what they wanted when they wanted, because the world was just one big, dangerous place. And parents knew best. Even when they laid hands on you, yelled at you, and made you feel like nothing.

  I stopped rocking and opened my eyes. Emma hadn’t even mentioned her family in the last week … hadn’t said anything about her mom, dad, or brother even once. Didn’t that mean something? Wouldn’t a child from a good home beg to go back? Was there a way to get a message out that Emma was okay, that she was safe, and to call off the search dogs? I had no way to prove I wasn’t some single, child-starved crazy person distraught from a tough breakup. No way to prove that I would never lay a finger on this girl, that those bruises—now gone—hadn’t come from me, that we just seemed to understand each other, often without saying much of anything.

  I got up, too antsy to sleep, and went into the bedroom. I fished my phone from my purse and glanced at the time: ten-thirty. I knew he’d be awake. He’d moved on with his life, and here I was, in his cabin, with a child who wasn’t my own, ready to bring him in as … what? An accomplice? A voice of reason?

  I placed the phone on the nightstand, changed into pajamas, and got ready for bed. I was beginning to miss the city sounds. Would I ever return to a normal life? Would I ever be able to get up, traipse across my home with a cup of hot coffee in hand, and gaze outside without thinking of Emma?

  Even if I got out of this without going to prison, I knew the consequences of what I’d done would mean a different life. Work would be different. My personal relationships would be different. In essence, I’d be sacrificing the life I’d built—and the people in it—for a girl I barely knew.

  * * *

  The next day, I stepped outside and listened to all ten of my voicemails. I skipped through several from Lisa and my dad, vowing to carve out time to call them back. I’d been doing as much work from my phone as I could, but I needed laptop access. Brad and Madison had each called twice. I paused on the last message.

  “Sarah, where are you? Do you know what’s happening here?” Madison’s voice hissed through my voicemail, charged with insinuation. “I was watching the news and heard about that little girl who was taken.”

  My pulse drummed in my ears.

  “There’s a little girl who got taken from that school we went to—Emma something or other? From the Montessori! So I was going through the photos from Longview, you know, to see if I could help or anything, and we have a photo of her, Sarah.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Three photos of her, actually. On our camera. And now you’re gone, and I’m freaking out, and I need you to tell me what to do. Right now. I mean it, Sarah. Call me back. Please.”

  I’d never heard Madison so frantic. I knew, left to their own devices, my team would probably hand the camera over to the police and volunteer to set up search parties for Emma, because they always wanted to help. If Madison hadn’t charged over to my dad’s house already, I was sure she would be on her way soon if I didn’t call her back. Except I wasn’t at my dad’s. I was at Ethan’s.

  I’d brought the team here once, several years ago. Ethan loved grilling burgers and bantering with Brad, who made continuous (but innocent) sexual innuendos aimed at Travis, who only had eyes for Madison. Madison, however, couldn’t take her eyes off of Ethan, and as a result, I’d felt I had to watch her a little more closely than the others. She was young, beautiful, and impressionable. Why wouldn’t she have a crush on Ethan?

  I listened to Madison’s message two more times as I moved back into the house. Did she know something? Did she suspect something? I’d never told Brad, Travis, or Madison about seeing Emma in the airport all those months ago. I hadn’t even told Lisa, even though I’d wanted to. If I had, would that have made it better or worse? I didn’t want to drag them into this, but those photos … why hadn’t I remembered to delete those photos?

  I cracked the door to the master bedroom. Emma was sprawled in bed, on her back, in a deep afternoon nap. We’d spent the morning hiking and canoeing and then we’d splashed in the shallow end of the lake, picking rocks and digging for worms.

  She had some good color on her arms—not exactly brown, but not pink either. Her hair had already lightened to a buttery gold, and she’d plumped a bit in her arms and cheeks. It made me wonder what she ate in Longview.

  I stepped back outside and walked around to the rocks, the water glittering and warm. I played with my phone, spinning it around in my hands before punching in Madison’s cell.

  “Sarah. Christ! Where are you? Where have you been?”

  “Hi, Madison.” I tried to keep my voice calm, though my feet were tapping madly against the dirt. “I got your message. Sorry. I don’t have great reception where I am.”

  “At your dad’s, are you?”

  I could hear the sarcasm in her voice, and I imagined her manicured nails squeezing her Gucci belt as she paced her office.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because I called your father. We know you’re not there.”

  “Oh.” I shifted on the rocks and squinted into the sun. “You’re right. I’m not there.”

  “Then where are you? What’s going on? I mean, we go to this school in Longview and then there are these photos, right?—photos that I took—and then this girl goes missing a week later? What do I do? I’ve never seen that girl in my life, I swear, and what if they think … what if they think I had something to do with it? The parents—these parents seem like they are the worst, by the way, you should see them—they don’t even have a current photo of their daughter. Who, in this day and age, doesn’t take photos of their children? They don’t have Facebook. They don’t even seem to be real! But I have these photos, and if someone has her, I can help, right?”

  Madison was spinning, her thoughts vomiting directly into my ear. I knew her well enough to know she needed to get them all out, to let them loop around each other like a rubber band bracelet.

  “Madison, take a breath.”

  I could hear shuffling in the background, the closing of a door. “Okay. I’m breathing.”

  “I want you to sit down. Are you sitting?”

  “I am now.”

  “Listen to me. Do not contact the police or her parents. Do not get involved with this at all, do you understand me? It’s too complicated. You could end up becoming a suspect.” I cringed as I said it, but it had to be threatened. All Madison had to do was imagine herself in an orange jumpsuit, stripped of her wardrobe and her lattes, and that would be enough.

  “Sarah, are you there?”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear. I had a measly two bars of reception. I stood and walked back to the house, the connection becoming clearer. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yes. You just kind of cut out for a second. Where are you?”

  “I’m … I’m at the lake house.”

  “Ethan’s lake house? As in Ethan, your ex we all hope contracts an infectious disease and loses half his face—that Ethan?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You’re there? With him? Oh my God, now this all makes sense! You’re back together! You’ve gone off the grid because you reconciled. I’m sorry for going on and on about all of this. You’ll have to tell us everything when you get back. At least we know you’re okay. God, wait until I tell Brad and Travis. They will be so ha—”

  “Stop. I’m not here with Ethan. We’re not back together. I just … I just needed space. And I knew he wouldn’t be here. So I came.”

  “But why? You could get space anywhere. Why there? Isn’t that … I don’t know, painful or something?”

  “It’s the right place to be. For me. For now. Look, I need you to promise me you’re not going to do anything with those photos.”

  “I promise. I’ll tell Brad.”


  “You told Brad?”

  “Well, yeah. When I couldn’t get you, I had to tell someone.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said what you said. He doesn’t want to get involved in this, either.”

  “Look. Just delete the photos. I need you to take care of the business—to focus solely on the business—and I will be back soon, I promise. My schedule has been grueling, and I just needed to unwind and take the vacation that I never take. Okay? I’ve got some new ideas brewing.”

  “Ooh, awesome!” I could hear Madison perking up, the thought of new creativity almost an excuse for my absence or poor behavior. “Take all the time you need, boss lady. We’ve got it covered. Though you might want to give Brad a call. He’s freaking the eff out.”

  I laughed at her inability to curse. “Just tell him not to get his panties in a wad and enjoy the run at being the boss. I’ll keep in better touch, I promise. I just need a bit more time to myself, okay?”

  “Okay. So everything’s okay.” It wasn’t a question, more of a Madison pep talk. I could see the assurance falling into place, like her hair—smoothed, spritzed, and shiny.

  We hung up, and I stepped back inside, checking on Emma again, who was in the exact position she was before. I couldn’t believe how tired she became on a daily basis. She would play for two hours and then not be able to keep her eyes open for three. I reminded myself to get some vitamin B12 and maybe even vitamin D at the market, in case she was deficient.

  I moved to the couch, plucking an old novel off the shelf. Not getting on the internet was driving me mad. I had my phone, but I hated waiting forever for pages to load and reading the tiny print. Every article said some version of the same—

  “Hello? Who’s here?”

  I bolted upright. Footsteps shuffled hesitantly from the garage to the laundry room and back again. I ran as fast as I could without making too much noise. There, with a knapsack and a vibrant blonde at his side, stood Ethan, hand outstretched as if ready to fend off an intruder, a look of deep concern carved into the lines of his face. I’d parked my car by the lake and found an old tarp to drape over it. He couldn’t see it from the drive.