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Just four words, but at least he knows she’s alive, and the heavy concrete cast around his heart that had been weighing him down has dissolved and gone away. He has replayed the message repeatedly, and each time he grows more confident. Her voice sounds tired, but not panicky. The fact that he received the message in the first place means she had access to a cell phone or a landline, either with caller ID blocked.
Which means cell-phone service or landline service.
Which means she wasn’t in some rocky gorge in Afghanistan or some desert in Syria.
A side door to the Olson Manhattan Preparatory School springs open, and a gaggle of laughing and chatting kids streams out. Broadway’s afternoon traffic is still moving and honking along nearby, and other parents are clustered near him—fellow chaperones roped in to do some volunteer work at Olson. They exchange sheepish smiles and nods, and Tom joins them as they walk through an open wrought-iron gate that allows entry into the small, iron-fenced yard.
There she is, and again he is nearly overwhelmed at the conflation of feelings that roll through him at seeing Denise, at seeing this sentient and breathing and oh-so-alive human come toward him, the offspring of him and Amy, and his feelings are a mix of love and affection and hopes and dread for what lies ahead for this eleven-year-old smart and tough little girl.
Denise’s colorful Vera Bradley knapsack is firm on her back, and her school ID dangles from a blue lanyard around her neck. She gives him a quiet, “Hey, Dad” and a drive-by hug when she comes up to him, and he squeezes her and says, “Got some good news, kiddo.”
My oh my, does that light up her face. Denise says, “Mom?”
He squeezes her shoulder again. “That’s right. Mom. She called me this morning.”
“Is she okay? Where is she? Is she coming home soon?”
He smiles at her and knows what he’s about to do is wrong, but he can’t help himself. “You know Mom,” he says. “She’s good at keeping secrets. But she says ‘hi’ and says not to worry—she’ll be home soon.”
Denise looks at him suspiciously. “How soon?”
“Soon enough,” he says. “Come along.”
There’s a bustle of kids laughing and goofing around, and a couple of the other parents try to order them into some sort of line. A sharply dressed, no-nonsense teacher from Olson stands at the head of the mobile line, holding a clipboard with a look that says some magic weapon is failing her.
In the confines of the small, fenced-in schoolyard, there’s some pushing and shoving, and then—Tom has to look hard to make sure it’s true—Denise slips her hand into his.
He gives her hand a soft squeeze.
How wonderful.
Tom doesn’t dare look down at her, thinking he might break the spell. So instead he looks beyond the yard and out to the street, and spots one of his watchers.
Chapter46
TOM CASUALLYturns his head back to the school, but there’s no doubt: one of his watchers is over there at the corner of Broadway and Cedar, one block up, this time dressed in sneakers, blue sweatpants, and an oversize T-shirt promoting some rock band. The man’s steady gaze tells the whole story.
Denise tugs his hand. “You got your computer bag with you,” she says, sounding like a prosecuting attorney. “You gonna work while we’re at City Hall?”
He moves his head again, trying to act as casual as possible.
There.
Still standing.
Damn it, this is enough, he thinks. This is way too much, too blatant, keeping watch on him and his daughter.
“Just a little,” Tom says. “When there’s a bit of talking, I’ll sit in the back and check my email.”
Denise rolls her eyes. “Working on a big story, right?”
Right,he thinks, but he’s also so happy she’s holding his hand, which makes it even harder to do what he does next.
Tom leans over, whispers in Denise’s ear, “I’ve got to run across the street, just for a second.”
“But you’re chaperoning!”
“I know, I know,” he says. “But I’ll be right back, I promise.”
