Martin’s voice is reticent. He’s found something. I lay my hand on the balcony rail to steady myself, staring down on eight floors of nothingness that, when combined with the aftereffects of too much alcohol, make me woozy.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice discomposed. The koi, eight floors below, are little more than white-and-orange smudges in the water.
Martin says that he’s emailing me a newspaper article he found, dated the middle of March. There’s no mention of a Willow. Or a Ruby. But he says it might just be our girl.
I wait for the email to come through on my phone, my limbs numb by the time my phone vibrates the email’s arrival.
I open the article and there, staring me in the eye, is Willow Greer. Except that she’s not Willow Greer. The caption reads, Claire Dalloway, wanted for questioning in the death of an Omaha man and his wife, and for the kidnapping of an infant girl abducted March 16 from her home in Fort Collins, Colorado.
I skim the article and see that this Claire Dalloway may be armed, dangerous, that this man and his wife, Joseph and Miriam Abrahanson, were stabbed to death in their Omaha home while they slept. I read about the baby, Calla Zeeger, born to a lady named Lily and a man named Paul. In Fort Collins. Colorado. There are identifying features: the color of her eyes, the shade of her sparse hair, a close-up of a birthmark on the back of a leg. A port-wine stain, the article states, shaped like the state of Alaska.
There is a reward. For her return.
I read about Joseph and Miriam Abrahamson, Ms. Dalloway’s foster family, who graciously welcomed Claire into their home upon the death of her own parents when she was eight years old.
I read how they were murdered in their beds while they slept.
“The Abrahamsons have boys, as well,” Martin is telling me. “Two sons, two biological sons,” he adds. “Isaac and Matthew, both in their twenties. The oldest son, Isaac, has an alibi for the night in question. He works the third shift, stacking shelves at Walmart. He came home early in the morning of March 19 to find his parents dead, in bed.
“The other son, Matthew Abrahamson, is on the run. Like Claire Dalloway, wanted for questioning in the murder.”
“You didn’t tell anyone, did you, Martin?” I ask desperately.
“No, Chris, of course not. But we’ll need to,” he says. “We’ll need to turn your girl in. If she’s the one,” he says, and I think, of course, of course we do.
“Twenty-four hours,” I beg. “Just give me twenty-four hours,” and he says okay. I need to get to Heidi myself, I need to be the one to tell her.
I wonder if he means it, if Martin really will give me twenty-four hours before he phones the police.
There is a reward, I reread. For her return.
Good God, I think, telling Martin that I have to go. I must call Heidi. I must warn her. I dial the numbers, press send.
The phone rings and rings but there is no answer.
My eyes reread the words: Armed. Dangerous.
Stabbed.
Death.
WILLOW
The bus ride to Chicago was long. Over twenty-three hours to be exact, with some sixteen stops. Twice we had to gather all our belongings and move to a different bus, one that was going the same way as us. I saw more of the world than I’d ever seen: the mountains of Colorado that shrunk as we crossed the state, and became near nothingness, only cattle farm after cattle farm with so many cows jam-packed inside, it made me claustrophobic just looking at them all, fighting for food from the trough. We retraced our steps through Nebraska, crossed over the Missouri River, and were welcomed to Iowa by the people of the state, or so the sign on the side of the road said.
I chose Chicago because of Momma. There I was, staring at another big chart on the bus station wall. Arrivals and Departures it said. And I saw that word Chicago, and thought of Momma and her list of one days, and how she didn’t get to cross too much off that list before the Bluebird went tumbling down the road. I didn’t see Switzerland on that list, nor did I see Paris, but I did see Chicago, and I thought of that Magnificent Mile Momma longed to see—the one with the Gucci and Prada stores where she wanted to shop.
I thought that if Momma couldn’t see it for herself, then I’d see it for her.
The baby slept peacefully, wrapped up in the soft pink blanket on my lap. I didn’t dare set her or the suitcase down and so the three of us, we shared one seat. She slept much of the time but when her eyes were open I held her so she could see through the window, first the sunset and, later, the sunrise over the Gateway to the West, a city that used to be my home. At some gas station stop at a town called Brush, I lugged the baby and suitcase inside and purchased formula, like Momma used to feed Lily, and a plastic bottle. When the baby finally did fuss at some point in the night, I thrust that bottle in her mouth and watched her suck herself back to sleep.