My mother was still weighing whether to tell the man in front of her about the girl's body they'd found.
The timeline didn't quite match up.
Then his phone rang. An unknown number.
She went on alert instantly, signaling him in a low voice to put it on speaker.
"Dad, I'm sorry. I just realized someone stole my phone. I'm calling from a classmate's. Don't worry, I'll be home in an hour."
The man nodded over and over, tears streaming down his face.
He'd been crumpled against the wall moments ago; now he braced one hand on it and dragged himself upright.
On his way out, he bowed repeatedly. "Officer, I'm sorry for the trouble."
My mother watched him go, and the sadness in her eyes looked real. "Children are everything to their parents. Every missing-persons case—the thing I dread most is the look in those parents' eyes."
I drifted beside her, watching those eyes.
Mom, you just said children are everything. So what am I?
To you, am I nothing but something to resent?
You feel for them. Why couldn't you ever feel for me?
A full day and night of searching, and the task force had turned up nothing. Not a thread. Every face in the room looked hollowed out.
"A whole person goes missing from someone's household and nobody notices?"
"Nobody even filed a report."
"What, was she an orphan? Living on the street?"
Everyone was speculating, tossing out guesses about who I might have been.
That was when the switchboard operator knocked and stepped into the conference room.
"Captain, someone's calling in—says they'll only speak to you."
My mother frowned, puzzled, and picked up.
"Detective Donaldson? Hi—I run the company where Elisa's interning. She hasn't shown up in three days and none of us can reach her."
"Since you're her mother, I figured I'd call you directly. This counts as me reporting it, all right? Whatever happens to her from here on out, that's not on us."
The irritation she'd barely tamped down ripped loose again. "What does she have to do with me? I'm telling you right now—call this line about her garbage one more time and I will book you for obstruction."
My boss was stunned into silence. The moment he heard "book you," he stammered out an apology and hung up.
The room went quiet. Everyone knew her temper. No one dared say a word.
Uncle Arthur made some excuse about case files and pulled her into his office.
"Faye, this doesn't add up. Three days and Elisa hasn't been to work. Her great-aunt called too—can't get through to her either. What if something's actually happened?"
"I tried calling her myself while you were on the phone. Still no answer."
"Let me take a few people and go look for her."
My mother's face was hard, her voice sharp. "There's a victim lying in a freezing autopsy room waiting for us to get her justice. That killer is still out there. We don't have time to waste on her little stunts."
"She's doing this on purpose. She doesn't want to be a bridesmaid, so she's playing these childish games."
"Trust me. Give it three days and she'll show up."
She was right that, before, no matter how much she hated me, no matter what she said, I'd go to the Criminal Investigation Unit to see her every so often.
Even when she threw everything I brought her straight into the trash.
I still went.
But Mom.
This time, I was already inside the Criminal Investigation Unit.
I'd been right here beside you the whole time.
My mother didn't go home that night. She called Kate, reminded her twice to lock all the doors and windows, then slept at the office—if you could call it sleep. The hunt for Cedric Cobb had stalled, and she refused to leave the building until it broke.
She worked past midnight, barely shut her eyes before her phone jolted her awake.
Six in the morning. Calls at that hour were never good news.
She shot upright and grabbed the phone.
"Hello? Is this Elisa Walker's mother? Your daughter's rent is over a week late. I can't reach her, and you're listed as the emergency contact. Come pay it for her."
The landlady. An old woman.
She slept little and had a habit of calling people at dawn.
Because it was an elderly woman on the other end, my mother swallowed her anger. She said "Fine" in a flat, cold voice.
Then hung up fast.
She sat back in her chair, frowning. For days the victim's identity had stayed a dead end—yet somehow my name kept needling its way into every call, every loose thread, every interruption.
The irritation built until she couldn't stand it. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to my contact.
After a long hesitation, typing and deleting and typing again, she sent one line: *You have one hour to get your ass in front of me.*
The message went out instantly. A red exclamation mark appeared beside it.
Her eyes went wide with disbelief. She slammed the phone onto the bed.
"Elisa Walker—you actually had the nerve to block me."
She paced the room with her hands on her hips, fuming. The phone rang several times before she even heard it.
She glanced at the caller ID.
Walker.
That was the name she'd saved for me.
"Elisa Walker, you really have nerve. Playing these childish games with me."
"I'm warning you—you could be dying tomorrow and you'd still owe me today. You're doing your bridesmaid duties first."
"Don't think a stunt like this will make me forgive you. Let me be clear: unless you die, I will never forgive you. Not in this lifetime."
A few seconds of silence on the other end. Then a voice came through, tight and uneasy: "Captain—it's me. We found the scene. The first crime scene. This phone was picked up right here."
