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“Breathe. You aren’t getting fired,” I state, trying to calm her down. “Today.”
Before I can start to explain the reason for calling her in, she is spouting off excuses at us again.
“If you’re writing me up, I understand. Please hear me out, though. Morgan, she’s not one to get upset easily like that. Her sister is wild, but not stupid. She wouldn’t just disappear. And, see, Morgan has some really strange parents. Her home life, it’s not what you or I would call normal-.”
I throw my hand up to stop her. “You’re not one to bring up someone else’s home life.” I know her history. Her upbringing was far from normal. “I don’t need the autobiography of Morgan Ann Powell. I do, however, need to know what happened to her sister or, at least, what she thinks happened.”
“Honestly, I haven’t been able to get her to answer her damn phone since you ran her off. When I went by her apartment, she wasn’t there. Morgan isn’t close to many people. She doesn’t have anyone to turn to for this. I don’t know where she is now or what she’s doing.”
Everything inside me goes tight. What does Casey mean she can’t find her? I may not like the woman, but I certainly don’t want her caught up in this shit.
Tipping my head back to look at the ceiling, I wonder if anyone upstairs can answer just one question for me.
Why the fuck are women so damn frustrating?
Morgan
“Miss Powell, as we have stated previously, your sister is eighteen. It doesn’t matter that she is still in high school; she is a legal adult. We will file your missing persons report; however, understand that our priorities will be to find her, not to bring her home.”
I glance around the rundown police station in frustration, looking for somebody, anybody, that looks like they might be more compassionate and capable than this jerk. Unfortunately, I don’t see anyone who looks like they care in this place.
Several officers crowd around one desk in the back corner, laughing at something one of them has said. Another officer is sitting at his desk, playing a game on his computer. None of them are paying a lick of attention to the woman sitting in one of the plastic chairs against the wall crying. Casey was so right when she said these guys are asses.
Looking back to the balding officer whose pot belly strains the buttons of his stained uniform, I feel some of my patience snap. “Priority,” I huff the word in exasperation. “You sit here, Officer Dillard, and tell me you won’t bring her home because it’s not a priority. What I’m trying to explain to you is that this should be a freakin’ priority! I know my sister, and she wouldn’t leave like this.”
“We took your report; now move along so we can do our job,” he answers me emotionlessly.
Move along. I can’t believe this patronizing peon really just told me to move along! I can’t believe no one will help me. The fact that the man can sit there, as if he does not care one bit over a missing eighteen-year-old girl while his hand keeps inching over to that jelly donut he put down when I walked in, pisses me off.
At my wits end, I slap my hand down on the surface of his desk as I stand up to leave. Then, pointing a finger at his face, I snap, “Here’s your new priority for the day, Officer Dillard, stop stuffing your face with stuff you obviously don’t need to be eating and get up off your ass and do a better job of showing the citizens of your jurisdiction that you actually give a shit.”
I leave the police station, and a feeling of defeat overtakes me. I am not equipped to search for her. I don’t even know where to begin. Calling the hospitals has come up empty each and every day. The more time that ticks by, the more helpless I feel.
The sympathetic secretary at the police station did suggest I check the homeless shelters. With no other options presenting themselves, I make my way to the first one on the list that she gave me.
Parking my car, I stare at the medium-sized building, thinking it can’t possibly be big enough to hold that many people. As I walk inside, though, I see the people who run this place have done the best they can with their resources.
The room in front of me is large, open, and has a friendly atmosphere, despite the circumstances for why one would need to be here. There are at least a hundred cots spaced out with wool blankets and pillows on every one. Some of those cots are already full with ragged and tattered looking men, women, and children. My heart breaks at seeing some of them so obviously defeated.
