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She pulls her head back, her eyes turning guarded. “For how long?”
“For as long as I draw breath.”
Her smile starts out slow until it consumes her whole face. “I can live with that.”
* * *
With my phone pressed to my ear, I leave the living room and go to the kitchen so I don’t disturb Aleah while she’s watching her movie.
“Detective Erikson,” I grunt.
“Spencer, it’s Wesley,” a familiar voice comes across the line.
“What can I do for you, Wesley?” I walk to the fridge and pull out a beer, then pop the top. “Did the girl come back?”
“Yes.” His breath crackles across the line. “She took more than food this time. There’s some clothes missing from the pantry, and the first aid kit was raided.”
“Hmm….” I prop a hip against the counter and bring my beer to my lips. “I take it she slipped past the security you hired?”
“They didn’t even know she was there. I don’t know how she keeps getting in without anyone noticing.”
“Living on the streets, you learn how to not be seen because it can mean life and death, or freedom and jail.” I take another swig of my beer. “I’ll send a squad out and have them do another round of fingerprints, although I don’t expect the results to be any different than the times before. I’ll stop by first thing in the morning as well and take your statement.”
“I’m getting really concerned, Spencer. Taking food is one thing, but medical supplies means she or someone she’s with is hurt. And the clothes that she took weren’t for her.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because they were clothes for a young boy.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah. Sounds like she, or someone she knows, is in trouble.”
“Agreed. I’ll talk to the captain and see what he suggests. You’ve been the only one who’s gotten a glimpse of this girl. How sure are you that she's homeless?”
There’s a creak on his side of the line like a door opening or maybe him adjusting in his chair.
“I don’t know for sure, but from what I’ve seen of her clothes, they’re pretty ragged and dirty. Between them and her stealing food, my guess would be homeless, or her home situation is not good.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her?”
“Maybe. The last time before this morning, I only got a side view of her face.” His voice turns quiet, and I don’t miss the concern in his tone. “She’s young, Spencer. I’m guessing she’s in her mid-teens.”
As much as Wesley turning to priesthood shocked most people who knew him, a small part of me wasn’t surprised. When Wesley was younger, he was boisterous and very free-spirited. He looked for adventure around every corner and nothing stopped him from having a good time. He didn’t really do things that would get him in trouble with the law, and he wasn’t a bad kid. He just didn’t let limits get in his way. He pushed them, but stopped right before they broke. Much to his parents' displeasure, he got his first tattoo when he was sixteen. He didn’t stop until both arms were covered and most of his chest. Obviously, this was before he became a priest.
As reckless as Wesley was, he cared about people, especially his sisters and their mother. He hated to see someone in pain and would give the shirt off his back if someone needed it.
One day, when he was in his early teens, he didn’t come home from school. His mother, the illness that eventually took her life already wrecking her body, freaked out, thinking something happened to him. It took five hours to find him, and when we did, his mother didn’t know whether to lock him in his room as punishment or reward him. Apparently, the day before, he came across a homeless man on his way home from school. He felt sorry for the guy, so he went back the next day with his allowance and bought the man some food. Thinking there may be more people out there like the man, he went looking for them. He came across a section of town where he found several more homeless people. He treated them all to meals, and he paid for it with his own money that he earned.
His father was gone on a business trip, which probably saved Wesley from a beating. His mother didn’t punish him, but she and I sat him down and gave him a stern talking to. When Sherry Adair saw how much it bothered her son about the homeless people, she started taking him once a week to the soup kitchen to volunteer.
Giving my head a little shake, I bring myself back to the present.
“We’ll do what we can, but if she really doesn’t want to be found, it’ll be difficult. There’s only a few spots in Silver Falls where the homeless hang out. After I stop by the church tomorrow, you and I can hit them to see if you spot her.”
“Thanks, Spencer. I really appreciate this.”
I finish off my beer and toss the bottle in the recycling bin. “Just doing my job.”
