himself,” I said. There was no way around the truth. “I took him to work last week and my supervisor said she’d can me if I brought him again. Officer, with so many people out of work these days, I can’t bear to lose—”
“I don’t need a lesson on employment conditions in this city, miss,” he said, eyeing me with suspicion. “Where’s the boy’s father?”
“Daniel doesn’t have a father,” I said. “At least not one who’s a part of his life.”
The officer smirked. “I see.”
I showed him Daniel’s little bear. “I found this in the snow. It belongs to my son.”
The man pulled out a notebook and scribbled a few wordsonto the tablet, nodding to himself. “A runaway,” he finally said. “He’ll probably come home. They always do.”
My stomach churned. “No, no,” I said. “You have it all wrong. Daniel would never run away. He had to be taken. I’m sure of it.”
The officer continued to smirk. “Were there any signs of breaking and entering? Was a window broken? A door? Valuables stolen?”
I stared at him blankly. “No, not that I could tell.”
He set the empty coffee cup down, then closed his notebook with a hasty flick of his wrist. “Exactly as I suspected. The boy’ll be back.” He paused to let out a raspy chuckle. “When he’s hungry enough.”
The door closed with a thud, and I buried my face in my hands. “I have to go back to the apartment,” I sobbed. “I have to go back. In case he comes home.”
Caroline shook her head. “Not with that tyrant of a landlord lurking. You’re staying here. We can ask Mr. Ivanoff to escort us over there in the morning. For now, you need to rest.”
Eva reappeared at the foot of the stairs, where Caroline was standing. “Mama!” she cried. “Did Daniel remember to button his coat? He always forgets to, and I tell him—” Caroline rushed her hand to Eva’s mouth to silence her.
Outside, the snow swirled in the air, frigid and unrelenting, and I didn’t even know if my little boy had his coat on.
Chapter 6
C LAIRE
“I love it!” Frank exclaimed after I’d told him about my angle for the feature. “Little boy lost in a snowstorm. That will tug at every reader’s heart. How much time do you need to write it?”
“At least a week,” I said. “I’d like to really dive into this one—see if I can find any relatives, friends to interview.”
Frank nodded. “I can give you the time. Keep me posted.”
Later that evening, I found Ethan in the kitchen, staring into the bare refrigerator.
“Hi,” I said, setting my keys on the table. The sound echoed into every crevice of the apartment, amplifying the pervasive silence, thick and uncomfortable.
“Hi,” he said, without turning around. “Crazy storm today, huh? Hey, didn’t we have a leftover burrito in here somewhere?”
“I threw it away,” I said.
Ethan turned around and frowned, as if throwing away takeout was a betrayal—no, a veritable act of war. “Why would you do that?” he asked, wounded.
“Because it was two weeks old and covered in green slime.”
“Oh,” he said, before heading to the couch. “Has it been that long?”
“Yep,” I said, realizing then that it might have also been two weeks since we’d had a real conversation.
“Your doctor’s office called.”
I tried to busy myself with the mail.
“You really should go in for that appointment, Claire.”
I felt anger well up inside, for the tone of his voice—distant, unfeeling—for the lunch with Cassandra today, but mostly for the pain of the past. “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Ethan,” I snapped.
He shrugged and reached for the remote control, muttering something under his breath.
I opened a box of raisin bran, poured some haphazardly into a bowl, and topped it with soy milk before retreating to the bedroom. I didn’t bother to wipe up the liquid splatter on the granite countertop.
How can he be so insensitive? So blasé?
He knew how I felt about
“I don’t need a lesson on employment conditions in this city, miss,” he said, eyeing me with suspicion. “Where’s the boy’s father?”
“Daniel doesn’t have a father,” I said. “At least not one who’s a part of his life.”
The officer smirked. “I see.”
I showed him Daniel’s little bear. “I found this in the snow. It belongs to my son.”
The man pulled out a notebook and scribbled a few wordsonto the tablet, nodding to himself. “A runaway,” he finally said. “He’ll probably come home. They always do.”
My stomach churned. “No, no,” I said. “You have it all wrong. Daniel would never run away. He had to be taken. I’m sure of it.”
The officer continued to smirk. “Were there any signs of breaking and entering? Was a window broken? A door? Valuables stolen?”
I stared at him blankly. “No, not that I could tell.”
He set the empty coffee cup down, then closed his notebook with a hasty flick of his wrist. “Exactly as I suspected. The boy’ll be back.” He paused to let out a raspy chuckle. “When he’s hungry enough.”
The door closed with a thud, and I buried my face in my hands. “I have to go back to the apartment,” I sobbed. “I have to go back. In case he comes home.”
Caroline shook her head. “Not with that tyrant of a landlord lurking. You’re staying here. We can ask Mr. Ivanoff to escort us over there in the morning. For now, you need to rest.”
Eva reappeared at the foot of the stairs, where Caroline was standing. “Mama!” she cried. “Did Daniel remember to button his coat? He always forgets to, and I tell him—” Caroline rushed her hand to Eva’s mouth to silence her.
Outside, the snow swirled in the air, frigid and unrelenting, and I didn’t even know if my little boy had his coat on.
Chapter 6
C LAIRE
“I love it!” Frank exclaimed after I’d told him about my angle for the feature. “Little boy lost in a snowstorm. That will tug at every reader’s heart. How much time do you need to write it?”
“At least a week,” I said. “I’d like to really dive into this one—see if I can find any relatives, friends to interview.”
Frank nodded. “I can give you the time. Keep me posted.”
Later that evening, I found Ethan in the kitchen, staring into the bare refrigerator.
“Hi,” I said, setting my keys on the table. The sound echoed into every crevice of the apartment, amplifying the pervasive silence, thick and uncomfortable.
“Hi,” he said, without turning around. “Crazy storm today, huh? Hey, didn’t we have a leftover burrito in here somewhere?”
“I threw it away,” I said.
Ethan turned around and frowned, as if throwing away takeout was a betrayal—no, a veritable act of war. “Why would you do that?” he asked, wounded.
“Because it was two weeks old and covered in green slime.”
“Oh,” he said, before heading to the couch. “Has it been that long?”
“Yep,” I said, realizing then that it might have also been two weeks since we’d had a real conversation.
“Your doctor’s office called.”
I tried to busy myself with the mail.
“You really should go in for that appointment, Claire.”
I felt anger well up inside, for the tone of his voice—distant, unfeeling—for the lunch with Cassandra today, but mostly for the pain of the past. “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Ethan,” I snapped.
He shrugged and reached for the remote control, muttering something under his breath.
I opened a box of raisin bran, poured some haphazardly into a bowl, and topped it with soy milk before retreating to the bedroom. I didn’t bother to wipe up the liquid splatter on the granite countertop.
How can he be so insensitive? So blasé?
He knew how I felt about
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