Little Girl Lost

  I need to see you.

  I bury the phone back into my pocket and shake my head at Allison as if to say it was nothing. But it was something—something that I never in my life want to deal with.

  “Otaktay,” Allison repeats the name slowly, this time setting it to memory as do I. She was right. It does sound like pig Latin. Go figure.

  Ota points to the stack of sandwiches bleeding their sickly sweet perfume all over the room, and even my stomach growls to have one.

  Allison leans in. You can see the elation exuding from her for accomplishing that one small verbal feat.

  “Is Reagan safe?” She holds her breath as she asks the question.

  Ota looks from Allison to me with a simple twitch of the eyes, her chin still staunchly tucked to her chest, that glowering affect staunchly in place.

  “Ota?” I lower my voice, soften it around the edges, sounding every bit the loving father. “Do you know where Reagan is?”

  The little girl pulls another sheet of paper off the desk, stark white, and begins tracing out an eye, coloring in the iris a violent shade of red.

  “Is that Reagan’s eye?” Allison’s hand shakes as she bounces her fingers off the page.

  Ota lets out a quiet sigh before shaking her head. That look of perennial hatred for the two of us takes over again as she points hard to the peanut butter promise land.

  Allison scoots her seat over to effectively block her view. “Just tell me what you know about Reagan. About the people who took her. Do you know if she’s alive?”

  Ota takes the stack of artwork she’s been working on all night and all morning and begins to rip at it in a fury.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I snap up the stack and hold them over my head. “You don’t have to do that.”

  A squeal of frustration emits from her as she lunges into the art bin and begins snapping crayons in half, two and three at a time until most of them hang limp like broken candy canes.

  “Stop.” Allison clamps her hand over the little girl’s, and in one swift move Ota glides her nails over her arm, leaving behind a trail of bloody welts.

  “Shit.” Allison retracts her hand as if pulling it from an open flame.

  My phone buzzes again, and as much as I don’t want to look, I force myself to. Life isn’t about me or my ego anymore. It’s about Reagan, and every second counts.

  “It’s Rich.” I flash the phone to Allison. “He’s downstairs.”

  Allison scoops up the plate of food and the chocolate milk and begins to walk out the door. “I’ll be back, Ota. Just a few questions and you can eat as much as you like!” She tries to keep it friendly, but it comes out deranged instead.

  “I’ll be right back, kiddo.” I give her a quick pat to the head. “Go ahead and color.”

  Her tiny hand reaches out and grips me over the wrist. Her bony fingers press into my flesh quick and hard as pliers and I pull back, stunned.

  “You’re strong.” I get up and make my way to the door. “And I know you’re hungry. You will eat.” I give a little nod of assurance as I make my way downstairs.

  She will eat as soon as we get some damn answers.

  * * *

  Rich sits twiddling his thumbs with Allison while asking questions about her mother’s campaign.

  “As much as I didn’t care for her delivery, she’s been diligent about changing the posters,” Rich blinks a wry smile. “Her crew has plastered a new set around town, bigger with a larger, far more eligible font.”

  “All right, enough.” I take a seat across from them. “You’re making yourself look bad. What’s new?” I glance to Allison. We hadn’t discussed how this might go down, but I think it’s best I walk him into it.

  “Checking in on you two.” Rich has always been the nicest guy in Concordia. It’s a bonus he’s protecting the streets. “Have you heard from your dad?”

  “Yup.” I slap the back of my neck as if my father had turned into a fly and I was swatting the life out of him. Ironic when you think about it.

  A bang followed by a thump comes from upstairs and the three of us freeze.

  Allison jumps to her feet. “I’d better take care of that.”

  “Let me know if you need some help,” I offer, but she’s already at the top of the stairs.

  “Is that the old man?” Rich scoots over. There’s a level of concern on his face that got serious quick once Ally took off.

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. What’s going on? You look tense.”

  He plucks at his collar, his face turning ten shades of persimmon. “I did some research for you after you left.”

  “Nice.” I hop over and take the seat next to him. “What did you find out?”

  “Wilson did have traces of ethylene glycol in his bloodstream.”

  “Old news. What else?”

  Rich looks stunned. Old information doesn’t knock you off the pedestal the way his expression demands.

  “So did Rachel.”

  The world stops for a moment. A searing heat runs through me as a bite of perspiration erupts all over my body.

  “Rachel?” Shit. “What in the hell does that mean?”

  “Most likely whoever offed Wilson, offed Rachel.”

  “Oh my God.” My head drops between my knees as I try to hold it together. “Why?”

  “They were disappointments. That’s from my mother, not me.” He raises his hands. “I didn’t say a word about this theory. I simply asked how your dad felt about them. She offered.” He blows out a steady breath. “I want you to know there’s no way to confirm anything solid regarding your old man. At this juncture, it’s all speculation. Same with your mother.”

  “So the bastard lives free as a bird and the rest of my family rests in a prison of caskets. How’s that for irony?”

  “Terrible.” His chest pumps. “Are you sure you killed Aston?”

  My heart seizes. With everything in me I wish to God I hadn’t. “As much as I’d love to blame him, it was me holding the gun.”

  “That doesn’t mean a lot. You did mention it was your dad who made sure you cleaned your rifles before you left for your trip.” He ticks his head to the side. “As a seasoned hunter, he should have known you clean the guns after the trip.”

  “We were religious about emptying our guns.” Tears blur my vision. “My father handed me that rifle.”

  “Don’t look down the barrel.” He gave a hard wink my way, and like a moth to fire I needed to sneak a peek.

  Rich taps his foot anxious against the floor. “Between you and your brother Aston, which one do you think your father favored?”

  The words from that conversation on my father’s porch come back to me. You’re the moron who should have died that day!

  God, it all makes twisted sense.

  “It was me he wanted to kill. Only I was going to get to do the honors.” Tears roll down, fast and hot, and I’m quick to wipe them away. “What a revelation.” A dull chuckle escapes me. “I had always wanted to believe that my father treasured me—the lone child, and here he resented me for surviving.”

  Rich slaps his hand over my back, warm and comforting, just the way my mother used to. “You are family, James. You’re loved. I’ll follow your lead in this. I know you’ve got more than you can handle on your plate right now, but if you ever want to open a case, make it official, we’ll run with it. I’ll support you in whatever you decide to do.”

  “Sounds good.” I sniff back my emotions. “I think we need to let it ride until we find Reagan. God, Reagan.” I plunge my face into my hands.

  Rich knocks his knee to mine. “So what is it you’ve got to tell me?”

  I glance to the top of the stairs. Not a sound comes from the bedroom. A good thing. I think.

  “You are never going to believe this.” I start in on last night, the odd clue my father gave me about Monica. I tell him about the night games Monica and I played, the boxes upon boxes of Price family treasures I stumbled upon. The basement, the littl
e girl’s bed, and the handprint.

  “Angel?” Rich inches back a notch. “I don’t know Monica that well, but I seem to remember her parading around town with a kid a few years back. I can look into it.”

  “Yes, please do. And if you can score any pictures, that would be great.”

  “You don’t think…” Rich stops shy of letting another demon loose in the room.

  “She suggested it. She told me the baby we had died. Look, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “That’s pretty wild.”

  “Hang on to your hat. It’s about to get wilder.” I fill him in on my brief yet fucked-up history with Hailey, how the move came after the indiscretion, how Reagan got kidnapped on the heels. How this entire unholy series of events could all be traced right back to my boxers. “But that’s not the strangest thing I’ll tell you today.”

  “If you tell me you’ve got another kid, I might be moved to call psych services. I’m sensing a running theme and perhaps a transference issue blooming.”

  “In fact”—I glance upstairs one more time—“I do have another kid. I have no clue if she’s mine, but right about now, she’s as close as it gets. Ota showed up last night.”

  “Who?” He follows my gaze upstairs before his spine straightens. “Oh shit.” He jumps to his feet and I pull him back down. “When were you going to call me? Basic fucking protocol, you call the police.” Those ropes in his neck distend. Gone is the docile cousin I know. “What in God’s name are you doing with her upstairs?”

  “Allison’s trying to get information out of her.”

  “Is it working?” His eyes bug out wild. In no uncertain terms is Rich unimpressed with our need to retain one-half of the missing duo.

  “As long as she holds back those PB and J sandwiches, she’s getting somewhere.”

  “You’re starving the kid?” His body lurches once again.

  “No.” I hold out my hand like I’m trying to stop a freight train. “We’re getting her to warm up to us. She’s not speaking, but she’s nodding. It’s a start. We just need a little time. Until tomorrow at least.”

  “Tomorrow?” His voice swerves, incredulous. “Listen, I can’t keep this under wraps. Child Protective Services finds out and we’re both in trouble. They’ll take my badge. I’ll lose my house. I can’t do this, man.”

  “Then I suggest you walk back out that door, because this conversation never happened.”

  “Oh, it happened.” Rich glances out the window. “And about twelve news outlets are witness to the fact I was here. That kid starts singing and telling everyone she meets she’s been here for days, you’re going to have a problem, too.” He moves for the stairs and I bolt to block him. “Where is she, man?”

  “She’s safe.” I offer him a firm push away. “But you’re not getting to her. Back up, rewind. Give us just one more night. Believe me, we don’t want this any more than you do. But that little kid is freaked out enough. Once she sees you in all your uniformed glory, that gun you’ve got poking from your waist—she may never speak again. And child services? They’re going to hustle her out of here so fast we’ll never have access to her again. You and I both know she is our only link to Reagan.”

  “Shit.” He does a little spin in a fit of frustration. Judging by that pitch in his voice, I’ve led him right to the brink of insanity. Welcome to my world, Rich. Sanity left the station about six months ago. “Do you realize the amount of evidence that might be lying out there right now? Tire tracks, hair, clothes, fingerprints. Whoever dropped her off could have littered the place with clues that might just lead right back to wherever they’re holding your daughter! But you waited—waited to call me! I’m on your side, dude.” He snatches his keys and phone off the coffee table in haste. “I’m getting a couple guys and combing the periphery.” He moves through the kitchen and heads for the door. “I’m walking back in here tomorrow, and you are going to have one fucking surprise for me.” He takes off and the door slams with a bang.

  “Crap.” I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. One night. Allison had better get that little stray bird to sing. That kid knows something, and something useful had better vomit from her mouth.

  * * *

  In the unbearable hours of the late afternoon, with Allison and me making a mockery of ourselves in an effort to get this little whippet of a being to give up a squeak, my phone buzzes.

  “It’s McCafferty.” I frown over at my wife, who now looks only vaguely at all like herself, with her electrified hair, those dark crimson circles around her eyes, her lips chalky and cracked. It feels as if we’ve been up for a week straight. Even when Reagan was a newborn, we got more rest than in this new hellish season of our lives. We had run ourselves ragged, and now we were facing a cruel end by way of delirium. Nobody could blame us for what we would do next, whatever dark and dangerous event it might be. We had formally become unhinged, lost all of our screws and marbles at the very same time. There was nowhere to go but down. And just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, the floor gives way again. “She wants to stop by.”

  “No.” Her voice is demonically hoarse.

  Ota stares at the two of us with those dark ovals she sees the world through, her hair matted on one side from leaning against the wall. She’s still adding to her art collection, albeit slowly, and every now and again she takes a hearty bite of her crayon and chews it, pink, then yellow, then green. Neither Allison nor I say anything about it. She’s hungry and she smells that feast Allison has just out of reach. She’s bound to say something soon. Or at least she’d better.

  I text McCafferty back and let her know we’re too tired to play her reindeer games today. Try again tomorrow. If I could keep everyone at bay another twenty-four hours, I might just have all I need to get my baby back.

  Ota reaches into the crayon box and pulls out a pristine white stick of wax, miraculously unbroken from the snapping spree she went on earlier. She takes her tiny fingers and begins to work the paper off—quickly, like unwrapping a candy bar. I wonder what appeal she sees in this one. White the color of marshmallows, the color of taffy. Maybe it will have peanut butter in the center to offset that cruel craving we’ve invoked in her. God, we never even asked if she had a peanut allergy. We could have killed her and been harboring a corpse. But thankfully, she’s fit enough to eat all the peanut butter she wants and starved enough to desire it. Hell, I’m about to scarf one down myself or twelve.

  Ota gives both Allison and me a bored glance before bringing the crayon to her lips, and without offering it another thought I pluck it from her.

  She takes an audible breath, almost as good as speaking in my book. Her fingers dive back into the bin, but I swipe the box off the table and land it by my feet.

  “Just a few words, Ota.” It comes out far more stern than I had hoped it would. “Tell us where they took you. How many were there? Are they your parents? Your family? Because if they are, they won’t get in any trouble. I can promise you that.” I’m lying. I think we both know that, but for better or for worse, this little girl is as close as I’m getting to hostage negotiations for my daughter.

  Her gaze lingers over mine, angry, hesitant, but mostly I fear she’s regretful that she ever came back here. Maybe she expected us to call the cops, too.

  Allison leans in and strokes Ota’s hair back, exposing a wall of a forehead, smooth and unblemished. I hope when she’s my age this episode plays back and steals her youth like it did mine.

  “It’s okay,” Ally whispers in a soothing tone that has no basis in reality at this point. “It’s all going to be all right.”

  I’m not sure whose lies she appreciates more right now, Ally’s or mine.

  Ota brings her close-fisted hand over the table, floating across it with the grace of a cheap Vegas magician, and with a pop unfurls her fingers, exposing a broken purple crayon. There’s a defiance in her eyes, an arrogance that screams I have the upper hand, suckers. I have the ability to raise or deplete
you. After all, I’ve already defeated you.

  She plucks a crisp piece of paper from the quickly dwindling ream and proceeds to create a series of circular shapes until it becomes obvious she’s spelling something. Spelling her name. Otaktay. Then with the feathery grace and ease of a true artist, she draws an eye in each rounded letter, one in the O, one in each A.

  “Otaktay.” Allison bites down over a smile. “It looks as pretty as it sounds.” Liar. It’s bad pig Latin. We’ve both firmly established that. But Allison is willing to strip the moment of any porcine implications just to move things the hell along. And I’m right there with her.

  “Very pretty,” I echo. “How do you say it? Let me hear you say it.” For God’s sake, use those vocal cords for something. I’m beginning to think she had them removed, and for a second I imagine Reagan tied up in some barbaric lab with metal tongs reaching down her throat. The thought makes my gut wrench, my eyes water, and I shake my head hoping to evict the image.

  Allison knocks my foot with hers. “These eyes.” She touches over the first one. “There are three of them, just like there are three of us!” Her voice rises with elation at the thought. “I see you. James sees you. And you, Otaktay, you see us.”

  “Yes.” I go with it. Allison has always held an unmitigated brilliance. Deep down, I’ve always known she was the smarter one in the family. I never once believed I was pulling anything over on her. Even when I was deep inside of Hailey Oden’s body, I knew that I knew my day of reckoning was just around the corner. It was Allison’s angry eyes I saw when I closed mine all those months ago. And rightfully so. Because for the months leading up to it, while I was deep inside of Allison, I used to make myself see Hailey. Get me off a little faster, harder, and it only led to destruction. Instead of trying to fix what was wrong with what I had, I stepped in shit and smeared it over the proverbial carpet of our lives. My stench is so great it has gone over all the world. And I brought my daughter down to eat it. That’s the most damning part. In a roundabout way, this little girl too, and for a second I’m overcome with guilt and grief for what I’ve cost everyone in this room.