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“Of course I’ll talk to you,” Ellie said. “One at a time, though. Pass the word down the line. We’ll be here all night if we need to.”
While the news was being spread, Ellie heard several women burst into quiet sobs.
She shut the door as gently as she could. Steeling herself, she headed back to her desk and took her seat. “Sit down,” she said, indicating the two chairs in front of the desk.
“Penelope,” she said, “you can interview people, too. Just take down names, contact numbers, and any information they have.”
“Sure, Chief.” Peanut immediately headed for the door.
“Now,” Ellie said, leaning forward. “Tell me about your daughter.”
Grief stared back at her, stark as blood on snow.
Dr. Stern was the first to speak. “Our Ruthie left for school one day and never arrived there. It was two blocks from our house. I called the policeman who has been our friend in this, and he tells me this girl you have found cannot be my—our—Ruthie. I tell him our people believe in miracles, so we’ve come here to see you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small worn photograph. In it, a beautiful little girl with sandy brown ringlets held on to a bright pink Power Rangers lunch box. The date in the lower right corner was September 7, 1996.
Today, Ruthie would be at least thirteen. Maybe fourteen.
Ellie took a deep breath. It was impossible not to think suddenly of the line of hopeful parents outside, all of them waiting for a miracle. This would be the longest day of her life. Already she wanted to cry.
She took the photo, touched it. When she looked up again, Mrs. Stern was weeping. “Ruthie’s blood type?”
“O,” Mrs. Stern said, wiping her eyes and waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “So very sorry.”
Across the room, Peanut opened the door. Another couple walked in, clutching a color photograph to their chest.
Please God, Ellie prayed, closing her eyes for just a moment, a heartbeat, let me be strong enough for this.
Then Mrs. Stern started to talk. “Horses,” she said in a throaty voice. “She loved horses, our Ruthie. We thought she wasn’t old enough for lessons. Next year, we always said. Next year . . .”
Dr. Stern touched his wife’s arm. “And then . . . this.” He took the picture from Ellie, staring down at it. Tears brightened his eyes. He looked up finally. “You have children, Chief Barton?”
“No.”
Ellie thought he was going to say something to that, but he remained silent, helping his wife to her feet.
“Thank you for your time, Chief.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I know,” he said, and Ellie could see suddenly how fragile he was, how hard he was working to keep his composure. He took his wife’s arm and steered her to the door. They left.
A moment later a man walked in. He wore a battered, patched pair of faded overalls and a flannel shirt. An orange Stihl chainsaw baseball cap covered his eyes, and a gray beard consumed the lower half of his face. He clutched a photograph to his chest.
It was of a blond cheerleader; Ellie could see from here.
“Chief Barton?” he said in a hopeful voice.
“That’s me,” she answered. “Please. Come sit down . . .”
TEN
LAST NIGHT JULIA HAD TRANSFORMED HER GIRLHOOD BEDROOM into a safety zone for her and her patient. The two twin beds still graced the left wall, but now the spaces beneath them were filled to block hiding places. In the corner by the window, she’d gathered almost one dozen tall, potted plants and created a mini-forest. A long Formica table took up the center of the room, serving as a desk and study space. Two chairs sat tucked up beside it. Now, however, she realized what she’d missed: a comfortable chair.
For the past six hours the child had stood at the barred, open window, with her arm stuck outside. Come rain or shine, she held her hand out there. Somewhere around noon a robin had landed on the windowsill and stayed there. Now, in the pale gray sunlight that followed the last hour’s rain, a brightly colored butterfly landed on her outstretched hand, fluttering there for the space of a single breath, then flew off.
