“See for yourself,” he says. There’s something in his tone that perks my interest. He shows off this arrogant smile—I know something you don’t know—and adds, “It’s good.”
I lean over Colin Thatcher for a last look. He lies dead-as-a-doorknob on the wooden floors. “What did you do?” I ask discreetly, then head outside.
She’s sitting in the back of the open ambulance, being attended to by an EMT. They’ve got a wool blanket wrapped around her. They’re trying to make sure none of that blood is hers. The ambulance is quiet now, the lights and siren silenced. There’s the sound of people talking, someone laughing.
I saunter up to her. She’s staring off into space, letting the EMT take a look, though she flinches with every touch.
“It’s cold out here,” I say, getting her attention. Her hair is long, falling over her face and clouding her eyes. There’s an indistinguishable look on her; I don’t know what it means. Dried—frozen?—blood clings to her skin. Her nose runs. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and set it in her hand.
I’ve never cared this much about someone I didn’t know.
“You must be exhausted. This has been quite an ordeal. We’ll get you home. Soon. I promise. I know someone who can’t wait to hear your voice.
“I’m Detective Gabe Hoffman. We’ve been looking for you.”
I find it impossible to believe this is the first time we’ve met. Seems to me I know her more than I know half my friends.
Her eyes lift up to mine for a split second, and then find their way to an empty body bag that’s heading in. “You don’t need to look,” I say.
But it isn’t the body bag, per se. It’s the space. She’s looking off into space. The vicinity is crowded with people who come and go. They’re mostly men, only one woman. They mention Christmas plans in passing: church and dinner with in-laws; staying up late to assemble some toy the wife bought online. All in the line of duty.
Any other case I’d be slapping high fives for a job well done. But this isn’t any other case.
“Detective Hammill asked you some questions. I have questions, too, but they can wait. I know this hasn’t been...easy...for you.”
It crosses my mind to stroke her hair or pat her hand, some simple gesture that might bring her to life. Her eyes are lost. She rests her head on bent knees and doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t cry. None of this surprises me; she’s a woman in shock.
“I know this has been a nightmare for you. For your family. So many people have been worried. We’ll have you home in time for Christmas. I promise,” I say. “I’ll bring you there myself.” As soon as I’m given the okay, Mia and I will make the long drive home, where Eve will be waiting with open arms in front of their home. But first we’ll need to stop by the local hospital for a full examination. I’m hoping reporters haven’t caught on to this, that they won’t be lining the hospital parking lot with video cameras and microphones and a whole slew of questions.
She doesn’t say a word.
I consider calling Eve on my phone and letting Mia be the one to deliver the good news. I dive my hands into my pockets; where the hell is my phone? Oh, well. Probably too much, too soon. She isn’t ready. But Eve waits on pins and needles for my call. Soon.
“What happened?” her soft voice finally asks.
Of course, I think. It all happened so quickly. She’s struggling to make sense of it all.
“They got him,” I say. “It’s all over.”
“All over.” She lets the words slip from her tongue and fall to the snow.
Her eyes do a 360. She takes in the view as if this is the first time she’s seen it. Is it possible that this is the first time she’s been let outdoors?
“Where am I?” she whispers.
I exchange a look with the EMT, who shrugs. Well, hell, I think, this is more up your alley than mine. I get the bad guys. You take care of the good.
“Mia,” I say. I hear a cell phone ring in the distance. Sounds a hell of a lot like mine. “Mia,” I begin again.
She looks addled the second time I say her name. I say it a third time because I can’t think of any words to come after it. What happened? Where am I? These are the questions I planned to ask her.
“That’s not my name,” she says in a low voice.
The EMT is packing his things. He wants her checked out by a doctor, but for now she’s okay. There are signs of malnutrition. Wounds healing. But nothing of immediate concern.
I swallow. “Sure it is. You’re Mia Dennett. Don’t you remember?”
“No.” She shakes her head. It’s not that she doesn’t remember. It’s that she’s certain I’m wrong. She leans in close, as if divulging a secret, and says to me, “My name is Chloe.”
Detective Hammill passes by and lets out an obnoxious sound. “Told you it was good.” He sneers as he barks out to his guys, “Hurry up so we can call it a day.”
Gabe
After