down. “I'll do everything I can, Hannah, but you have to calm down—”
“Calm down!” she shouted, gripping the arms of the chair. “I can't believe this!”
“Hannah—”
“My God, you've got a daughter, you should understand! You of all people—”
“Hannah!” he barked sharply. She flinched and blinked at him. “You know I'll help, but you have to calm down and start at the beginning.”
Megan watched the scene from her position by the door. The office was a claustrophobic cube of dark, cheap paneling. Certificates from the chamber of commerce and various civic groups decorated the walls in plastic frames that hung at slightly drunken angles. Nothing about the filing cabinets or battered old metal desk suggested the success or the quaint charm of the restaurant. The woman—Hannah—slumped down in the chair, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing a hand over her mouth as she fought to compose herself.
Even in her current state—crying, hair disheveled—she was a strikingly attractive woman. Tall, slim, with features that belonged on the pages of a magazine. Mitch positioned himself directly in front of her, back against the desk, but leaning forward, his concentration completely on Hannah, waiting, patient, intent. Without saying anything, he reached out and offered her his hand. She took it and squeezed hard, like someone in extreme pain.
Megan watched him with admiration and a little envy. Dealing with victims had never been her strong suit. For her, reaching out to someone in pain meant taking on some of that pain herself. She had always found it smarter, safer, to keep some emotional distance. Objectivity, she called it. Mitch Holt, however, didn't hesitate to reach out.
“I was supposed to pick him up from hockey practice,” Hannah began in little more than a whisper, as if she were about to confess a terrible sin. “I was leaving the hospital, but then we had an emergency come in and I couldn't get away on time. I had someone call the rink to tell him I'd be a little late. Then one of the patients went into cardiac arrest and—”
And I lost the patient and now I've lost my son.
The sense of failure and guilt pressed down on her, and she had to stop and wait until it seemed bearable again. She tightened her hold on Mitch's big, warm hand. The sensation only built and intensified until it pushed the dreaded words from her mouth.
“I forgot. I forgot he was waiting.”
A fresh wave of tears washed down her cheeks and fell like raindrops onto the lap of her long wool skirt. She doubled over, wanting to curl into a ball while the emotions tore at her. Mitch leaned closer and stroked her hair, trying to offer some comfort. The cop in him remained calm, waiting for facts, reciting the likely explanations. Deeper inside, the parent in him experienced a sharp stab of instinctive fear.
“When I g-got to the rink he w-was g-gone.”
“Well, honey, Paul probably picked him up—”
“No. Wednesday is
my
night.”
“Did you call Paul to check?”
“I tried, but he wasn't in the office.”
“Then Josh probably got a ride with one of the other kids. He's probably at some buddy's house—”
“No. I called everyone I could think of. I checked at the sitter's—Sue Bartz. I thought maybe he would be there waiting for me to come pick up Lily, but Sue hadn't seen him.” And Lily was still there waiting for her mother, probably wondering why Mama had come and gone without her. “I checked at home, just in case he decided to walk. I called the other hockey moms. I drove back to the rink. I drove back to the hospital.
I can't find him
.”
“Do you have a picture of your son?” Megan asked.
“His school picture. It's not the best—he needed a haircut, but there wasn't time.” Hannah pulled her purse up onto her lap. Her hands shook as she dug through the leather bag for her wallet. “He brought the slip home from school and I made a note, but then time just got away from me and
“Calm down!” she shouted, gripping the arms of the chair. “I can't believe this!”
“Hannah—”
“My God, you've got a daughter, you should understand! You of all people—”
“Hannah!” he barked sharply. She flinched and blinked at him. “You know I'll help, but you have to calm down and start at the beginning.”
Megan watched the scene from her position by the door. The office was a claustrophobic cube of dark, cheap paneling. Certificates from the chamber of commerce and various civic groups decorated the walls in plastic frames that hung at slightly drunken angles. Nothing about the filing cabinets or battered old metal desk suggested the success or the quaint charm of the restaurant. The woman—Hannah—slumped down in the chair, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing a hand over her mouth as she fought to compose herself.
Even in her current state—crying, hair disheveled—she was a strikingly attractive woman. Tall, slim, with features that belonged on the pages of a magazine. Mitch positioned himself directly in front of her, back against the desk, but leaning forward, his concentration completely on Hannah, waiting, patient, intent. Without saying anything, he reached out and offered her his hand. She took it and squeezed hard, like someone in extreme pain.
Megan watched him with admiration and a little envy. Dealing with victims had never been her strong suit. For her, reaching out to someone in pain meant taking on some of that pain herself. She had always found it smarter, safer, to keep some emotional distance. Objectivity, she called it. Mitch Holt, however, didn't hesitate to reach out.
“I was supposed to pick him up from hockey practice,” Hannah began in little more than a whisper, as if she were about to confess a terrible sin. “I was leaving the hospital, but then we had an emergency come in and I couldn't get away on time. I had someone call the rink to tell him I'd be a little late. Then one of the patients went into cardiac arrest and—”
And I lost the patient and now I've lost my son.
The sense of failure and guilt pressed down on her, and she had to stop and wait until it seemed bearable again. She tightened her hold on Mitch's big, warm hand. The sensation only built and intensified until it pushed the dreaded words from her mouth.
“I forgot. I forgot he was waiting.”
A fresh wave of tears washed down her cheeks and fell like raindrops onto the lap of her long wool skirt. She doubled over, wanting to curl into a ball while the emotions tore at her. Mitch leaned closer and stroked her hair, trying to offer some comfort. The cop in him remained calm, waiting for facts, reciting the likely explanations. Deeper inside, the parent in him experienced a sharp stab of instinctive fear.
“When I g-got to the rink he w-was g-gone.”
“Well, honey, Paul probably picked him up—”
“No. Wednesday is
my
night.”
“Did you call Paul to check?”
“I tried, but he wasn't in the office.”
“Then Josh probably got a ride with one of the other kids. He's probably at some buddy's house—”
“No. I called everyone I could think of. I checked at the sitter's—Sue Bartz. I thought maybe he would be there waiting for me to come pick up Lily, but Sue hadn't seen him.” And Lily was still there waiting for her mother, probably wondering why Mama had come and gone without her. “I checked at home, just in case he decided to walk. I called the other hockey moms. I drove back to the rink. I drove back to the hospital.
I can't find him
.”
“Do you have a picture of your son?” Megan asked.
“His school picture. It's not the best—he needed a haircut, but there wasn't time.” Hannah pulled her purse up onto her lap. Her hands shook as she dug through the leather bag for her wallet. “He brought the slip home from school and I made a note, but then time just got away from me and
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