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Willa’s gaze is fixed on her laptop screen. I lean over to see what she’s looking at but she’s tapping her pointer finger gently against the keys as the cursor blinks on an empty search bar.
“Does anyone ever really know when a couple is having issues?” Willa asks. “Even on social media, we see what people want us to see, not the truth.”
“I guess not, but what are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to piece this all together.” She seems a bit defeated, matching the way I feel.
I like to think I usually know what to do in most situations. Yet, I can’t see clearly through any of what’s happening.
Two piercing alarms erupt from either side of us, making me jump from my seat. My heart lodges in my throat as I fleetingly search for the cause of panic. “What the?—”
My phone flashes on the table as the alarm repeats. I notice Willa’s phone also lighting up on the table next to the kitchen. She grabs my phone before I lunge for it then tosses her head back. “There’s the Amber Alert,” she says. “I was wondering why there hadn’t been one if a child had already been missing for almost twenty-four hours. I would have thought they’d send this out right away.”
I’m clutching my chest, all my muscles tighten and ache. I take the phone from her hand and focus on the Emergency Alert stating:
Emergency Alert
Active Amber ALERT - Abducted child
FALLON SMITH
1 year old, white, female, blonde hair, brown eyes
Unknown mode of transportation. Unknown suspects.
Last seen at: 1113 Ocean High Road, Newport, RI
Call 9-1-1 with information.
“The word ‘suspects’ is plural,” I point out to Willa.
“I saw… That’s good. That’s really good,” she says, pinching her lip while staring at me with an emotionless flat expression.
After hearing about Liam’s defining doe-eyed look earlier, there’s no other way to describe Willa’s expression… She knows her words aren’t true, but she’s looking right at me while she says them. I need honesty, not false hope.
As if she can read my thoughts, her eyes widen, and she pokes her finger into the air. “You know what…we need to get the deposition printed. Then there’s something else I think we should do.”
SEVENTEEN
SATURDAY, JUNE 10TH 5:30 PM
Police sirens ring across the county now that there’s an active Amber Alert. Everyone on the streets looks like they don’t know what to do except check the perimeter. If someone abducted a baby, they’ve had plenty of time to travel across the bridge and leave the state, but the efforts in town are apparent.
“Has a picture of the baby been posted anywhere? Do people know who they are looking for?” Willa asks as we slink through the crowds on the curb.
“Just the family portrait Corbin showed me. She was just an infant in that one,” I say. “There weren’t any portraits of her on display in the house but there were photos of the twins. You would think their third child would be in the same bunch.”
A new thought has crossed my mind. I’ve learned about women who have experienced losses with babies, and some find unique methods of therapy to heal their broken heart. Maybe Lara lost a baby in utero and kept the news private, but now wishes she had support. What other way to do this than to make a public scene? Though her friends and family would know if she had been pregnant or be questioning her story of having a fifteen-month-old child no one knew about. My scattered thoughts bring me back to looking to displace blamefor something that has gone very wrong, or right depending on her frame of mind.
The library is quiet, and the computers are all free of use. “It’ll just take me a minute to pull the file off my thumb drive and print,” Willa says, plopping down at the first computer in the row of singular tables with matching devices.
I take the seat beside her and pull up the web browser to do another search on Lara and Corbin Smith, but the same results come up each time. “Did you find the deposition in the courthouse files?” I ask her.
“Yes, and there wasn’t anything else listed with their names.” Willa stands from her seat and hurries over to the front desk.
“That will be six dollars,” the librarian says, her narrow glasses perched at the tip of her nose as she stares down at what I assume to be a screen beneath the countertop.
I reach into my purse to pull out the twenty I know I have in my wallet. “Willa, here,” I call over as I see her reaching into her purse too.
