front, the
L
being formed by an old phone box and a double-decker bus. She had probably rush-packed and bought it at some tourist shop when she arrived.
Nancy Moore said something low to the barista, who gestured that he couldn’t hear her by putting his hand to his ear. Sherepeated her order and then started fumbling in her purse for some money.
Myron stood. “Mrs. Moore?”
His voice startled her. The coins fell from her hand and landed on the floor. Myron bent down to pick them up. Nancy started to follow, but it was as though the effort was too much for her. Myron stood up and dropped the coins into her hand.
“Thank you.”
Nancy Moore stared at him for a moment. An odd look crossed her face. Was it recognition? Surprise? Both?
“You’re Myron Bolitar,” she said.
“Yes.”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Once,” Myron said.
“At . . .” She stopped. It had been at the Baldwin home, the site of the awful event, maybe a month after the kidnapping. Win and Myron had been called in too late. “You’re Win’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“And you . . . you’re the one who . . .” She blinked, looked down. “How do I even begin to thank you for saving my boy?”
Myron blew past that. “How’s Patrick doing?”
“Physically, he’ll be fine.”
The barista came back over with two coffees in to-go cups. He placed them down in front of her.
“You saved his life,” she said. There was awe in her voice. “You saved my son’s life.”
“I’m glad he’ll be okay,” Myron replied. “I hear he’s awake?”
Nancy Moore didn’t reply right away. When she did, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How much do you remember of your life before you turned six?”
He knew where this was going, but he went there anyway. “Not much.”
“And how about between the ages of six and sixteen?”
This time Myron stayed silent.
“It was everything, right? Elementary school, middle school, most of high school. That’s what shapes us. That’s what makes us everything we are.”
The barista gave her the total. Nancy Moore handed him the coins. He handed some back to her, along with a to-go bag.
“I don’t mean to push you,” Myron said. “But has Patrick said anything about what happened to him or where Rhys might be?”
Nancy Moore put the money back into her purse with a little too much care. “Nothing that would help,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
She just shook her head.
“What has he said?” Myron asked. “Patrick, I mean. Who took them? Where have they been all this time?”
“You want answers,” she said. “I just want my son.”
“I want answers,” Myron said, “because there is still a boy missing.”
Her gaze had steel behind it now. “You don’t think I care about Rhys?”
“No, not at all. I’m sure you care a lot.”
“You don’t think I know what Brooke and Chick are going through?”
“To the contrary,” Myron said, “I don’t think anyone knows as well as you do.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”
Myron waited.
“Patrick can barely talk right now. He’s . . . not well. Mentally I mean. He hasn’t really spoken yet.”
“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” Myron said, “but are you sure it’s Patrick?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
“Have you done a DNA test?”
“No, but we will, if that’s required. He recognizes us, I think. Me anyway. But it’s Patrick. It’s my son. I know it sounds like an awful cliché, but a mother knows.”
Might be a cliché. Might not. Then again, to coin another cliché, we see what we want to see, especially when we are a desperate mother hoping to end a decade of pain.
Tears started flooding her eyes. “Some maniac stabbed him. My boy. You found him. You saved him. Do you get that? He would have bled out. That’s what the doctors said. You . . .”
“Nancy?”
The voice came from behind him. Myron
L
being formed by an old phone box and a double-decker bus. She had probably rush-packed and bought it at some tourist shop when she arrived.
Nancy Moore said something low to the barista, who gestured that he couldn’t hear her by putting his hand to his ear. Sherepeated her order and then started fumbling in her purse for some money.
Myron stood. “Mrs. Moore?”
His voice startled her. The coins fell from her hand and landed on the floor. Myron bent down to pick them up. Nancy started to follow, but it was as though the effort was too much for her. Myron stood up and dropped the coins into her hand.
“Thank you.”
Nancy Moore stared at him for a moment. An odd look crossed her face. Was it recognition? Surprise? Both?
“You’re Myron Bolitar,” she said.
“Yes.”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Once,” Myron said.
“At . . .” She stopped. It had been at the Baldwin home, the site of the awful event, maybe a month after the kidnapping. Win and Myron had been called in too late. “You’re Win’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“And you . . . you’re the one who . . .” She blinked, looked down. “How do I even begin to thank you for saving my boy?”
Myron blew past that. “How’s Patrick doing?”
“Physically, he’ll be fine.”
The barista came back over with two coffees in to-go cups. He placed them down in front of her.
“You saved his life,” she said. There was awe in her voice. “You saved my son’s life.”
“I’m glad he’ll be okay,” Myron replied. “I hear he’s awake?”
Nancy Moore didn’t reply right away. When she did, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How much do you remember of your life before you turned six?”
He knew where this was going, but he went there anyway. “Not much.”
“And how about between the ages of six and sixteen?”
This time Myron stayed silent.
“It was everything, right? Elementary school, middle school, most of high school. That’s what shapes us. That’s what makes us everything we are.”
The barista gave her the total. Nancy Moore handed him the coins. He handed some back to her, along with a to-go bag.
“I don’t mean to push you,” Myron said. “But has Patrick said anything about what happened to him or where Rhys might be?”
Nancy Moore put the money back into her purse with a little too much care. “Nothing that would help,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
She just shook her head.
“What has he said?” Myron asked. “Patrick, I mean. Who took them? Where have they been all this time?”
“You want answers,” she said. “I just want my son.”
“I want answers,” Myron said, “because there is still a boy missing.”
Her gaze had steel behind it now. “You don’t think I care about Rhys?”
“No, not at all. I’m sure you care a lot.”
“You don’t think I know what Brooke and Chick are going through?”
“To the contrary,” Myron said, “I don’t think anyone knows as well as you do.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”
Myron waited.
“Patrick can barely talk right now. He’s . . . not well. Mentally I mean. He hasn’t really spoken yet.”
“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” Myron said, “but are you sure it’s Patrick?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
“Have you done a DNA test?”
“No, but we will, if that’s required. He recognizes us, I think. Me anyway. But it’s Patrick. It’s my son. I know it sounds like an awful cliché, but a mother knows.”
Might be a cliché. Might not. Then again, to coin another cliché, we see what we want to see, especially when we are a desperate mother hoping to end a decade of pain.
Tears started flooding her eyes. “Some maniac stabbed him. My boy. You found him. You saved him. Do you get that? He would have bled out. That’s what the doctors said. You . . .”
“Nancy?”
The voice came from behind him. Myron
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