Vicarious by Paula Stokes Page B

the stream of people disembark and head down the stairs, searching for any sliver of familiarity.
    â€œWinter. Let’s go.” Jesse rests a hand on my lower back and I turn away. A smooth concrete path littered with dead leaves and patches of ice leads toward the river. It’s just over the hill. What if the whole area is cordoned off with yellow police tape? What if I see Rose there, bobbing in the black water?
    â€œAre you going to be okay?” Jesse’s voice is full of concern.
    Are you going to be okay if we find her body? That’s what he means. I don’t answer.
    Jesse slips his hand in mine as we traverse the path, guiding me around the slick spots. I have to know. I repeat those four words over and over in my head like a mantra. We turn onto the street that runs along the riverbank. The frozen cobblestones glint like jewels in the sun. I don’t see any police tape or dead bodies. So far, so good.
    It’s not until we make our way down to the shoreline that I recognize the futility of our task. The river is wide, the current strong. The water is full of mud, driftwood, and litter. We’re going to be searching for Rose in a giant churning garbage dump. Even if she’s right in front of us, we might not find her.
    Jesse senses my hopelessness. “Come on,” he says. “I know where we can get a boat. Maybe things will look different on the river.”
    *   *   *
    On the river, things look even worse.
    Starting just north of the Riverlights Hotel and Casino, we cruise along the western bank in a motorboat Jesse borrowed from a guy who owns one of the riverfront restaurants.
    â€œIt’s too big to search everywhere,” Jesse says. “I’m going to stay near the shorelines.”
    â€œGood idea,” I say. “She could have crawled up onto the bank somewhere.”
    He licks his lips like he wants to say something, but finally he just nods.
    â€œDo you see anything?” I ask. The riverbanks are a rainbow of grays and tans, the water greens and blacks. Complete contrast to Rose and her red dress.
    â€œNothing,” Jesse says grimly. We hug the bank until we’re about a mile south of Riverlights, our eyes skimming the vegetation. The high grass is full of debris—beer bottles, dirty diapers, old truck tires—but there’s nothing that could be Rose. Jesse pilots the boat across the river. Water slams into clusters of rocks and driftwood in the middle, its fierce current occasionally sending a shard of broken wood tumbling downstream.
    The icy wind burns my skin and thrashes my hair against my face. I pull my hat down low over my ears. Jesse turns north and steers along the opposite bank. We’re fighting the current now, so it’s slow going. My eyes begin to water from the cold. Suddenly he yanks the wheel hard to the right so the hull is pressed up against the reeds and stops the motor.
    â€œWhat is it?” I ask. “What do you see?” I peer into the high grass but see nothing except clods of mud and a half-buried rubber tire. Wait, no. As the wind folds the vegetation away from me, I see a flash of red.

 
    CHAPTER 11
    â€œEonni!” I am over the side of the boat before Jesse even brings it to a complete stop, sloshing through the knee-deep water.
    â€œWinter, wait.” Behind me, Jesse swears loudly.
    I ignore him. I ignore the wind biting at my exposed skin and the soft mud squeezing at my ankles. Pushing my way through the high grass, I make my way toward the red.
    Desperate.
    Hopeful.
    She could be alive.
    There has to be a chance.
    But as I draw close, I see it’s not my sister.
    It’s just a scrap of cloth tangled in the reeds.
    Jesse comes up behind me. He’s wearing gray hip waders that keep him dry. “Jesus Christ. You could’ve at least waited for me to anchor the boat.” He makes his way through the high grass and reaches out with one gloved hand