Chapter 25 The Search
The Search
brOOKS
Ipace Meema’s living room like a caged animal, each turn sharper than the last, my shoulder throbbing in time with my racing pulse.
When I got home from rehab, I walked into an empty house—Meema not in her bed asleep, where she should be. Gus needed to be fed and let out, which Meema never lets happen.
No note, no response to my calls or texts.
Just silence and the hollow echo of my footsteps on the hardwood.
There is no way she wouldn’t have come home after treatment to go to bed.
Something’s wrong, and the knot in my gut tightens with each passing minute.
The familiar crunch of tires on gravel cuts through my spiraling thoughts, and I freeze mid-pace.
Sydney. Maybe she knows where Meema is. Maybe she has answers I don’t.
Or maybe she has more questions after her dinner with Jonah. The dinner I’ve been obsessively imagining for the past two hours, punctuated only by frantic calls to Meema’s phone. What did my best friend tell his sister about me? How much of my mess did he reveal?
I can’t think about that now. Meema is missing, and that has to take priority over whatever bomb Jonah might have dropped on Sydney tonight.
The front door swings open, and Sydney bursts in, her cheeks flushed from the cold, hair slightly windblown.
For a second, just a heartbeat, I forget everything else.
She’s beautiful, even with worry lines creasing her forehead, even with that careful distance in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning.
“Brooks?” Her voice snaps me back to reality. “What’s wrong? You look like someone died.”
“She’s not here.” The words come out scratchy. “Meema. She’s gone.”
Sydney shrugs off her jacket, which snags on the doorframe. She yanks it free with more force than necessary. “What do you mean, gone? Gone where?” She reaches down and picks up Gus.
“No idea, Syd—that’s the point.” I regret the sharp tone instantly, especially when Sydney’s expression shudders. “Sorry. I’m just—I got back from PT, and she wasn’t here. Her phone goes straight to voicemail.”
Sydney’s reporter instincts kick in. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“This morning at breakfast, when you did. Her treatment should’ve ended hours ago. I called Pam Parker, who picked her up. She’s not answering either.”
“And her meds?”
I gesture to the kitchen. “Still in their daily organizer. She never misses a dose, Syd. Not even when she’s having a bad day.”
Understanding dawns on Sydney’s face, her own concerns—whatever they might be—temporarily pushed aside by this more immediate crisis. “Have you called the hospital?”
“First thing. They said she hasn’t been admitted, but you know how that goes. I’m thinking we should just go there, check in person.” I’m already grabbing my keys, my wallet. “The oncology ward first, then emergency if she’s not there.”
Sydney doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t suggest we wait or call around more. She just nods and puts Gus down, saying, “Let’s go,” and for that moment, we’re completely in sync again, partners with a shared mission, the awkwardness from her dinner with Jonah temporarily forgotten.
We slam into my SUV, me behind the wheel, Sydney already punching in numbers on her phone. “I’ll try all the Beaver Bookies members,” she says, then adds, “Although she wasn’t really with them last night, as my mom said.”
Still. I nod gratefully, the knot in my stomach loosening just a fraction.
The drive to Beaver County General takes nine minutes on a good day. We make it in six, my SUV eating up the asphalt as Sydney works her way through Meema’s social circle, each conversation ending with a negative and a promise to call if they hear anything.
“Nothing,” she says as we pull into the hospital parking lot.
I throw the SUV into park in a spot clearly marked “Physicians Only.” Let them tow me.
Sydney unbuckles before I’ve even turned off the engine. “Let’s start at reception, see if they have any record of her.”
The hospital lobby hits me with that antiseptic smell, the one that never fails to tighten my chest with memories of my own stays—too many of them. But I push those thoughts aside, focusing.
The receptionist barely looks up from her computer when we approach, her blue scrubs matching the institutional paint on the walls. “Can I help you?” she says, the question a formality.
“Has a Maisie Kingston checked in today?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “She’s my grandmother, seventy, cancer patient. She’s missing, and we thought—”
“Who are you?” The woman cuts me off.
After Brooks shows her his license and verifies he’s family, she says, “Let me check.” The woman types with infuriating slowness. “Kingston, Maisie... no, I don’t see her in our system today.”
“Could you check again?” Sydney steps in, her voice taking on that smooth, professional tone she uses for her broadcasts. “She’s undergoing cancer treatment. She might have been admitted directly to oncology.”
The receptionist gives Sydney a look that clearly says she doesn’t appreciate being told how to do her job, but she types again anyway. “Nothing in the last twenty-four hours. If she was brought in as an emergency patient, she’d still be in our system.”
“What about people brought in unconscious, or without ID?” I press, the scenarios in my head getting darker by the second. “She could have fallen, or—”
“Sir, we have no unidentified patients at this time.” The receptionist’s voice has an edge to it. “Would you like me to call oncology directly?”
“I’ll do it.” I pull out my phone. “What’s the direct line?”
She rattles off a number that I punch in with shaking fingers. It rings four times before an automated message informs me that the oncology clinic is now closed, and if this is an emergency, I should hang up and dial 911.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving the phone back in my pocket. “They’re closed.”
Sydney places a hand on my arm, the contact brief but steadying. “Let’s check emergency anyway, just to be sure. Then we’ll figure out next steps.”
The emergency room is a study in controlled chaos—nurses moving with practiced efficiency between curtained areas, the occasional alarm beeping, worried families clustered in uncomfortable chairs. None of them are Meema.
We approach the triage nurse, repeating our questions, receiving the same negative answers. By the time we’ve exhausted all possibilities, the clock on the wall shows nearly eleven, and my panic has crystallized into something colder, harder.
“Where the hell could she be?” I say as we push back through the hospital’s automatic doors into the night air. “She doesn’t drive anymore. She wouldn’t just wander off.”
Sydney closes her eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights of the parking lot, her face pale with worry. “She could be with Pam—we haven’t gotten a hold of her yet.”
“But why would Meema not tell me? Not answer her phone for hours?” I drag my fingers across the hood of my SUV, the metal cool against my skin. “She’s compulsively responsible, always has been.”
“Then we need to expand the search,” Sydney says decisively. “If anyone’s reported an elderly woman found confused or lost—”
“She’s not confused,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. I just—Meema’s sharp as ever.”
“I know.” Sydney’s voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “I’m just covering all bases.”
We climb back into the SUV, the silence between us thick with unspoken fears and questions. As I pull onto Main Street, my phone vibrates in the cup holder where I tossed it, the screen lighting up with “UNKNOWN CALLER.”
I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it, swiping to answer without taking my eyes off the road. “Hello?”
“Kingston?” The gruff voice is instantly recognizable as Sheriff Ford, a man who’s known me since I was stealing street signs as a bored teenager. “I’ve got Maisie at the station.”
Relief floods through me so quickly I nearly miss the implications. “The station? Is she okay? What happened?”
“She’s fine.” Ford’s tone gives away nothing. “But you’d better come down here.”
Before I can ask any more questions, he disconnects. I look at Sydney, who’s watching me with wide eyes.
“She’s at the sheriff’s office.” I’m already changing course, the SUV’ tires squealing as I make a sharp turn. “She’s okay.”
“Sheriff’s office?” Sydney’s confusion mirrors my own. “What on earth is she doing there?”
“We’re about to find out.” I press harder on the accelerator, the speedometer creeping well above the limit.
The squat, brick building’s served as the county sheriff’s office since before I was born. I’ve spent more time there than I care to admit—mostly as a cocky teenager being lectured about respecting property rights, occasionally to bail out teammates after particularly rowdy celebrations.
But I’ve never come here looking for my grandmother.
We park haphazardly in the small lot, and I’m out of the SUV before the engine fully dies, Sydney right on my heels. The front desk deputy barely has time to say “Kingston” before I’m demanding, “Where is she?”
“Hold up,” he says, rising from his chair. “Sheriff wants to talk to you first.”
“I want to see my grandmother,” I insist, my voice rising. “Now.”
The deputy looks like he might argue, but something in my expression must convince him otherwise. “This way,” he sighs, leading us through a heavy door and down a corridor that smells of industrial cleaner and stale coffee.
We pass the sheriff’s office, continue past a break room, and then—my heart drops as I realize where we’re headed—turn into the holding cell block.
The metal bars and institutional lighting trigger an instinctive response, memories of my one and only overnight stay after a particularly bonehead post-championship celebration.
But this time, on the other side of those bars, it’s not a drunk teammate or rowdy fan.
It’s my grandmother, sitting primly on a bench in a county jail cell. Next to her is Pam.
“Meema?” My voice cracks embarrassingly.