“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“Never mind. I really don’t want to get into it right now. Tell me who that guy was.”
“I did. That’s William Jennings.”
“I got that. And I got that he’s a reporter. But what’s with him lurking around outside restaurant windows and you acting like you’re ready to pick him up and throw him through said window?”
Sam shoves a forkful of toast layered with scrambled eggs and bacon into his mouth and shakes his head.
“Jennings is from around here. You probably don’t remember him. He was a couple of years in front of me in school. Always thought he was destined for bigger and better things than Sherwood. He was big into the newspaper at the high school and interned for the local paper around here. Then he started doing little spots on the local news and eventually went off to college to study mass communication. But he ended up back here. That only lasted a couple of years before he moved into the city to chase being an investigative reporter. He’s made a pretty good name for himself, but it’s not enough for him. He wants to be bigger. More famous. More money.”
“All the glitz and glamor of death and turmoil,” I comment.
“Essentially.”
“Now that you tell me that, I think I have heard his name before. He’s covered a few bigger stories,” I say.
Sam nods. “Middle ground stuff. But if you ask him, it’s just a ramp to the big time. He’s going to get his claws in a story that rocks the country and launches him into being a household name.”
“And you think he’s angling to make this that story?”
“Been trying hard to keep media involvement to an absolute minimum. These families are already going through enough. They don’t need cameras in their faces and strangers screaming at them and vying for sound bites. This is a tragedy for them. The worst time in their lives. It isn’t something they can just wrap up into a neat little statement that sounds sexy on the six o’clock news. But that’s what Jennings is trying to make out of it. Other reporters and news stations have had the decency to respect our boundaries and stick to the press conferences and pre-arranged interviews. Not him. He takes freedom of press very seriously.”
“Why does he care where you’re having breakfast?” I ask.
“Nothing makes a news story as gut-wrenching as three children disappearing more compelling than being able to say the sheriff in charge isn’t doing everything he can to solve the case. He wants to make me out to be a failure in my post.” Sam hangs his head. “Not that I don’t already feel that way.”
“Sam, you are not a failure. I watched you on that press conference. I know how much this means to you and how hard you’ve been working to find these children. Anyone who looks at you can see it in your eyes.”
“I think you can probably see it more,” he says quietly.
I look down at my plate, so I don’t have to look at him. He’s behind me. I put him there a long time ago, and I did it on purpose. I’m not here to put him in front of me again.
“What’s happening in the investigation today?” I ask, shifting our conversation back to the path where it’s supposed to be.
“The team is going to spend some time talking with the families of the two more recently missing children. Then we’re going to plan how to release information about Eva’s disappearance. As of right now, you are the only person outside of the investigation who knows about it. We are trying to find a way to inform the community without causing panic. At this point, we also want to start being more selective about the information we release so we can identify suspects if they cross our paths.”
“How does the rest of the department feel about my involvement?” I ask.
“They don’t know,” he admits. “I didn’t know if you were going to be willing to help or how much, so I didn’t tell them.”
“Well, I suggest you make a phone call because as soon as Jennings gets to a computer, it’s not going to be a secret anymore. Dangling an FBI agent as a part of child disappearances in front of a thirsty reporter is like candy. He’s going to trot it out in front of anybody he can, to get his foot in as many doors as possible, then start collecting bids. You don’t want the rest of the department finding out that way,” I tell him.
“Are you saying you’ll help?” he asks.
“As long as you understand I’m not here in any official capacity as an agent. I can consult and act as a sounding board, but the Bureau isn’t involved.”
“I understand that.”
“We shouldn’t talk here,” I say, as more people start drifting in. “Do what you need to do today, and I’ll get settled. If you’re available later, you can give me any information you can, and we’ll get to work.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave the station, but I can let you know, and we can meet somewhere.”
“That’s fine with me,” I nod.
“Thank you, Emma.”
We finish eating in silence. I’m not sure if it’s the comfortable kind of two people who have known each other for most of their lives, or the unavoidable kind that comes from years of separation and the unspoken words that want their place.
When we get back to the station, we part ways outside the door with only a cursory nod and reconfirmation of our plans for later in the day. My car is sticky hot when I get inside. It reminds me of driving through town with my grandmother when I was a little girl. She had a long navy-blue Pontiac with leather seats and the 1970’s version of air conditioning. Which meant the windows rolled down from the first day of spring weather through until September. Sometimes later depending on the year.
The inside of that car got so hot it was like climbing into a furnace. My skin stuck to the seats, and the metal seatbelt buckles burned my thighs. During the hottest part of summer, she would drape the seats with towels, making sure the seatbelts were covered. It kept the sun off the gleaming metal so I could actually touch it when I got inside.
My air conditioner is thankfully contemporary, and by the time I turn into the grocery store parking lot, the refrigerant is pumping blissfully cold air across my face. I’m reluctant to turn the car off, but the house has nothing in it, and if I’m going to be there longer than today, I’ll need supplies.
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in the driveway, flanked by pink azaleas, staring at the concrete that used to hold the above ground pool. My father declared the pool no longer usable and dragged it away the summer I turned seventeen when duct tape and nostalgia couldn’t hold it up anymore.
I lift my eyes to the rearview mirror and see the buttery yellow house with blue shutters across the street. Janet and Paul Francis were a vibrant, energetic couple in their late thirties the last time I saw them. My grandparents had a much more open attitude toward neighbors than I do, and my grandmother had a fondness for the younger woman who shared her love of flowers and the tendency to drown them.
The result was both lawns boasting planters that bloomed gloriously for a few weeks and ended up empty by mid-summer. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the Francis’s in the times I was here, but I remember them enough to feel a hollow feeling in my chest looking at their house, thinking of a sweetly decorated bedroom with no little girl to tuck into bed.
I also remember their son. A brooding, impulsive boy who could be pleasant one minute and then fly into a rage the next. Hearing his little daughter brought a bright spot into his life was nice, but I never had any doubt he would end up exactly where he is.
I’ve stalled long enough. No matter how strong my air conditioner is, my ice cream is melting in the backseat. Gathering the bags, I pluck the key I picked up from the management company on the way to the house out of the cupholder and head for the front door.