“Did you work things out with Abby?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll cover for her.”
Ryan opened the door and made a gesture into the room. I couldn’t see who was in there, even as I stood on my toes and craned my neck to see around Ryan’s big body. A female police officer came out. She nodded at me as she passed, and Ryan pushed the door open wider.
He turned to me. It was time.
“You can close the door behind you for privacy,” he said.
How many times does a life turn in a moment? For me, twice in four years. Once when Caitlin disappeared, and then again, right there, when she came back.
I moved through the doorway. It was a small, cramped room, a kind of lounge or break area for the employees of the station. A round table with four chairs sat on the left, the morning’s newspaper scattered across it. Along the back wall, there was a percolating coffeemaker and a refrigerator covered with handwritten notes and newspaper articles. And then on the right, a long, low couch, where a teenage girl sat holding a mug of coffee.
I pushed the door shut behind me.
I’d imagined this moment many times, but I could never allow my brain to work through the scenario completely. I could picture a young girl, that twelve-year-old who’d vanished while walking Frosty, squealing and jumping into my arms. As time passed, I couldn’t update it, couldn’t conceive of what she might look or act like. So I left it blank. But now, here I was, being considered by the cautious eyes of a teenage girl who was supposed to be my daughter.
Was she? Really?
Ryan’s words and observations had promised it. But a lot of people bore scars. The fingerprint evidence wasn’t back yet . . .
“Caitlin? Honey?”
Her eyes looked large, as always—just like Abby’s—but this was accentuated by how thin she was. She looked sickly, like someone recently recovered from a long illness. Her skin was pale, her cheeks almost without color. Caitlin always wore her hair long, but this girl’s hair was cut short, almost chopped, as though someone who wasn’t a professional had used a pair of household scissors to whack it off. She wore a loose, baggy NCPD sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, and her shoes were scuffed and dirty.
She didn’t say anything. She watched me with those big eyes, white and blue orbs that tracked me from across the room.
I watched her, too. Studied her. The facial features, the shape of her nose, the set of her jaw. I saw Abby in that face, as always. My mother, too. And, yes, a touch of me somewhere.
It was her.
It was Caitlin.
“Caitlin?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course I remember you.”
Her voice was flat, emotionless, as though I were a passing acquaintance. And the voice was huskier, more raw. Not the voice of a little girl but that of a postpubescent young woman.
I approached the couch and sat down next to her. She eyed me a little suspiciously, but didn’t pull away or get up.
I couldn’t hold back.
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close to me, crushing her against my body. I kissed her head, her cheeks.
“Oh, Caitlin, my Caitlin, my sweet baby girl. I missed you. I missed you so much. My baby . . .”
She let me hold her and hug her, but she didn’t return the gesture. She remained stiff under my touch, and I only let go when my fingers and hands began to ache.
I leaned back, taking in a full view of Caitlin’s face. The changes only accentuated her resemblance to Abby, and, in fact, the Caitlin who sat before me looked remarkably like the high school photos of Abby—slender, big eyed, not entirely confident under the gaze of the camera.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Really? Fine? Are you sure, honey? They’re going to take you to the doctor in a minute.”
“Why?”
“To check you over, to make sure you’re not hurt.”
She squirmed a little, looking uncomfortable. “They won’t find anything. I’m not hurt.”
I brought my hand up to her cheek, then cupped her chin like when she was a baby. There were some blemishes, teenage acne. I soaked her in until my vision blurred and grew watery.
Caitlin either didn’t notice or chose not to comment.
“You were gone for so long. We thought you . . . I started to think . . .”
I noticed how greasy her hair looked, a few days unwashed. Caitlin was a neat child, almost fastidious, yet she smelled a little, the rough scent of an unwashed body and stale cigarettes. I remembered the admonition to not ask questions, not to press, but my mind spun like a wheel.
“Who did this to you?” I asked. “Where were you?”
She looked away. “It’s over, I guess.”
“What’s over? No—” I said. “Where were you? Who took you?”
“Where’s my mom? Is she here?”
“She’s here.” I hesitated. Was Caitlin trying to change the subject? “She’s in the other room.”