bolt when we locked eyes?
The sun was passing overhead, and the sweat under my shirt itched at my skin like millions of tiny bugs. I unbuttoned the shirt, my hands shaking and struggling, and pulled it off. I walked the rest of the way in my sticky wet T-shirt.
My phone rang. Liann. “Tom, where are you?” she asked, without even a hello.
“I just saw Caitlin in the park,” I said, also not bothering with pleasantries.
“What?”
“I saw Caitlin. I mean, it might have been Caitlin. It was a young girl, and she looked like Caitlin, but when she saw me she ran off and I couldn’t catch her.”
“We don’t have time for this now, Tom. Listen. The police, Ryan—they’re having a press conference right now. They’re releasing the sketch.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. You need to get down there. They need a parent, a human face, to give the story more impact.”
“Why didn’t he call me?” I looked down at my sweaty T-shirt, the dust on my shoes. No shower. I probably looked crazed. “I don’t think—”
“You need to go, Tom. I’m coming to your house now. I’ll see you in three minutes.”
I managed to mostly button my shirt by the time I slipped into Liann’s car, and I looked at myself in the mirror on the passenger side, smoothing my hair down with the aid of spit applied to my fingers. Liann was all business. She barely looked at me when I entered the vehicle, and drove across town like a New York cab-bie. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” I asked.
“Just stand there, be a presence. Answer reporters’ questions. They need to see the toll this is taking on you. You need sympathy.”
“Should I call Abby?”
Liann made a dismissive noise deep in her throat. “You can do this alone. We don’t need her.”
“I look like shit.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second, giving me a quick glance. “Even better. You look more desperate.”
We entered the square and approached the station. My right hand clutched the door handle so hard my fingers hurt.
“How did you know about the press conference?” I asked.
“I know people in the department. I talk to people every day.”
“Why didn’t Ryan call me about it?”
“I’ve seen the police do this before,” she said. “If they think a parent is a loose cannon or too distraught.”
“He thinks that about me?”
“Please, Tom. Look at yourself.” Liann stopped the car behind a news van. I expected more. Liann undid the locks and made a shooing gesture toward me. “Go on. Go. You’re late.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“You’re better off without me. Go.”
“What about the girl I saw at the cemetery?”
“Our minds can play tricks on us, Tom. Now go.”
I stepped onto the sidewalk and into the sunlight. As soon as I shut the door, she drove off, leaving me alone.
The police spoke to the media in a small conference room near the back of the station that felt small and cheap. The out-of-date wood paneling needed to be replaced. The bookshelves they used as a backdrop were covered with dust. But it played well on TV. When they placed a police official—either in uniform or wearing a suit and tie—in front of that backdrop, addressing a bank of microphones, it brought instant credibility and authority. I’d stood there on more than one occasion when Caitlin had first disappeared. Abby and I were asked to step forward, blinking against the burning glow of the TV lights, and plead for Caitlin’s return. I imagined we looked like any other victims of tragedy—stunned and weary and desperate enough to make the viewers at home say to themselves, Thank God it’s not me .
I told the uniformed officer at the front desk who I was and asked to be allowed back. For a moment, he hesitated, studying me in the way only cops can, as though I were giving off a scent he recognized, some combination of fear and desperation. He reached for his phone.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I
The sun was passing overhead, and the sweat under my shirt itched at my skin like millions of tiny bugs. I unbuttoned the shirt, my hands shaking and struggling, and pulled it off. I walked the rest of the way in my sticky wet T-shirt.
My phone rang. Liann. “Tom, where are you?” she asked, without even a hello.
“I just saw Caitlin in the park,” I said, also not bothering with pleasantries.
“What?”
“I saw Caitlin. I mean, it might have been Caitlin. It was a young girl, and she looked like Caitlin, but when she saw me she ran off and I couldn’t catch her.”
“We don’t have time for this now, Tom. Listen. The police, Ryan—they’re having a press conference right now. They’re releasing the sketch.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. You need to get down there. They need a parent, a human face, to give the story more impact.”
“Why didn’t he call me?” I looked down at my sweaty T-shirt, the dust on my shoes. No shower. I probably looked crazed. “I don’t think—”
“You need to go, Tom. I’m coming to your house now. I’ll see you in three minutes.”
I managed to mostly button my shirt by the time I slipped into Liann’s car, and I looked at myself in the mirror on the passenger side, smoothing my hair down with the aid of spit applied to my fingers. Liann was all business. She barely looked at me when I entered the vehicle, and drove across town like a New York cab-bie. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” I asked.
“Just stand there, be a presence. Answer reporters’ questions. They need to see the toll this is taking on you. You need sympathy.”
“Should I call Abby?”
Liann made a dismissive noise deep in her throat. “You can do this alone. We don’t need her.”
“I look like shit.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second, giving me a quick glance. “Even better. You look more desperate.”
We entered the square and approached the station. My right hand clutched the door handle so hard my fingers hurt.
“How did you know about the press conference?” I asked.
“I know people in the department. I talk to people every day.”
“Why didn’t Ryan call me about it?”
“I’ve seen the police do this before,” she said. “If they think a parent is a loose cannon or too distraught.”
“He thinks that about me?”
“Please, Tom. Look at yourself.” Liann stopped the car behind a news van. I expected more. Liann undid the locks and made a shooing gesture toward me. “Go on. Go. You’re late.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“You’re better off without me. Go.”
“What about the girl I saw at the cemetery?”
“Our minds can play tricks on us, Tom. Now go.”
I stepped onto the sidewalk and into the sunlight. As soon as I shut the door, she drove off, leaving me alone.
The police spoke to the media in a small conference room near the back of the station that felt small and cheap. The out-of-date wood paneling needed to be replaced. The bookshelves they used as a backdrop were covered with dust. But it played well on TV. When they placed a police official—either in uniform or wearing a suit and tie—in front of that backdrop, addressing a bank of microphones, it brought instant credibility and authority. I’d stood there on more than one occasion when Caitlin had first disappeared. Abby and I were asked to step forward, blinking against the burning glow of the TV lights, and plead for Caitlin’s return. I imagined we looked like any other victims of tragedy—stunned and weary and desperate enough to make the viewers at home say to themselves, Thank God it’s not me .
I told the uniformed officer at the front desk who I was and asked to be allowed back. For a moment, he hesitated, studying me in the way only cops can, as though I were giving off a scent he recognized, some combination of fear and desperation. He reached for his phone.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I
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