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Mr. Smith brushes by me and opens the door as if safety is on the other side. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” he says, breathlessly. “Please, please, please help us. We’re just—we’re horrified and don’t know what to do. We just want our baby back.” Mr. Smith rests his hands on the officer’s shoulders as he pleads for his help. Several other officers stand behind him for backup. I’m forced to back up to allow more space for all the officers to step inside the foyer. Each of them gives me a look as if I’m a wild animal on the loose, one who might attack them if they come too close.
“She was taking care of our children. Now, our baby is gone,” Lara cries out, pointing her finger at me.
I shake my head. “No, no, I knew nothing about a third child. She wasn’t here when I arrived. There were just the two little girls.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s take it easy,” the main officer says. He looks to be around my father’s age: gray hair, tired facial lines, and a potbelly. “Ma’am, did you leave the house with the children this evening?”
“No-no, sir. I-I-I had no reason to leave the house tonight.” I’m seeking an empathetic look in any of their eyes, finding nothing but blame.
“Miss, is that your vehicle out front?” He doesn’t have to point to the one he’s asking about. My car is the one worth less than Mrs. Smith’s dress.
“Yes, sir. But?—”
He holds up his hand. “Thank you.”
Two of the five police step out of the house and head for my car. “I-I haven’t d-done anything they are accusing me of,”I state, wrapping my arms around my waist to quell the nerve-ridden pain.
“Fallon, our daughter—shewashere when we left this evening, but now she isn’t. How is she even defending herself?” Mrs. Smith squawks.
The officer leading the questions takes a moment to scan the foyer as if there would be a hint of a missing child somewhere around us in this hollow room. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, have you checkedeveryarea of the house?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Smith shouts while wringing his hands together in despair.
“Please, check again.”
Static zings through the radio clipped to his chest. “We believe we have something. Does the family have a hairbrush for the child?”
Evidence? From where?
“Stay here,” the officer says, pointing at me as he walks around two guard-like officers at the door to meet the others outside. “Do you have a hairbrush for your daughter? One only she uses?” The officer directs his question to Mr. Smith who can’t keep himself still even after going through each room and closet of the house again.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr. Smith runs up the stairs and returns within a brief minute, reaching a white baby hairbrush with soft bristles out between the two officers standing in the doorway. One leaves the house with the brush pinched between his gloved fingertips.
The lead officer returns within a few moments, just long enough for my pulse to quicken to the point of making me dizzy. Upon his return, he steps toward me with a narrow glare. “We found a blanket and baby bottle in the back seat of your car. Do those belong to you?”
“A nursery blanket and baby bottle? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those aren’t in my car.”
“Yes, they were. We found them there just now,” he says, pointing over his shoulder toward the front door.
“But—no. No, I didn’t put them there,” I argue, my breath running ragged.
“Okay, okay. Let’s not make this any harder than it needs be.”
“I’m not,” I shout through hysteria. “I’m telling the truth!”
The officer shakes his head at me as if he isn’t listening to a word I’m saying. “Place your hands behind your back and turn around. You’re under arrest for the kidnapping of a minor.”
ELEVEN
SATURDAY, JUNE 10TH 1:30 AM
My hands are shaking as I dial Willa’s phone number. I have stored very few numbers in my memory these days with our cell phones never being more than an arm’s length away. She’s probably asleep, and she’s a heavy sleeper. God, I hope she answers.
The call connects, and the sharp ring of a landline I haven’t heard in ages rattles in my ear. My stomach twists and tightens like a sponge, one someone is wringing the water from.
“He-llo?” Willa answers, her voice croaking.
“Willa, it’s me. I need your help. I was detained and brought down to the police station for questioning?—”
