Chapter 19 #2
Mr. Higgs supplied textbooks. I started reading them and never stopped.
Eventually the conversation shifts.
As it always does.
One minute we’re talking about anatomy, debating muscle groups and nerve pathways, and the next the room grows noticeably quieter.
The relaxed back-and-forth of the conversation fades. Mr. Higgs leans back in his chair, his attention centering fully on me. He removes his glasses and picks up his coffee mug.
The exhaustion of hope presses down on me all over again.
I’m not surprised considering after two years, I know exactly what comes next.
Every Wednesday ends the same way.
First the books, then the questions and finally the list.
The newest Jane Does.
The unidentified remains.
The women nobody has claimed.
The women I beg the universe aren’t Marie or Sofie.
Mr. Higgs sets down his coffee and the soft clink of ceramic against wood seems louder than it should.
I stare into my mug, watching the dark liquid stir in tiny circles.
The ceramic presses into my palms as my fingers lock around it.
Not fear, that would be easier. Hope is what wears you down.
Hope asks you to keep showing up. To keep looking.
To keep convincing yourself the next answer will be different from the last.
Two years of dead ends have taught me how heavy that can become.
I feel Mr. Higgs observing me from across his desk.
Not pushing or rushing me.
Giving me a moment to gather myself. Giving me the illusion of a choice.
Even though we both know why I keep coming back and why I’m here.
Even though we both know what my answer will be.
“Ready?” he asks gently.
I draw in a measured breath and lift my eyes to his.
For a moment, the temptation is there.
To say no.
To stand up and walk out.
To leave the answers buried where I can’t find them.
But I’ve come too far for that.
I’ve spent two years chasing every lead, every possibility, every scrap of certainty that they’re still out there.
I’m not stopping now.
I give a small nod.
“Yeah.”
For the next several minutes we go over the newest unidentified persons reports that have come through the system.
Basic information, estimated ages, physical descriptions, known identifiers, locations, dates and every detail investigators have managed to gather.
I’ve reviewed enough of them over the years that the process feels ordinary now.
There’s nothing ordinary about it.
Yet somehow, it’s become part of me.
Mr. Higgs walks me through each one methodically with skilled patience.
The way he always does. Gentle enough that I know he’s trying to spare me but honest enough that I know he won’t.
With every file that doesn’t match Marie or Sophie, two emotions arrive simultaneously.
Guilt and frustration.
Guilt because I’m grateful it isn’t them.
Frustration because it means I still don’t know where they are.
The contradiction never gets easier.
When the final file is closed, the office falls quiet.
Mr. Higgs sets the folder aside.
“No matches,” he says softly.
My eyes remain fixed on the desk.
“No.”
The word barely rises above a whisper.
Neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
The kind of silence built from years of having the same conversation and never getting the answer either of us is looking for.
Eventually, I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The weight eases from my shoulders by a fraction.
“Good.”
Mr. Higgs nods once.
“Good.”
Only the word lands differently than it should.
Good would be answers or finding them alive and bringing them home.
This isn’t good.
It’s simply not the worst outcome.
And after two years, I’ve learned those aren’t the same thing.
I’m still chasing answers that refuse to be found.
I stand and walk over to the window.
Sunlight filters through the glass.
Outside, people move through their day.
Completely unaware of how many families are waiting for someone to come home.
“I still think they’re alive.”
My voice comes out more assured than I feel.
Mr. Higgs doesn’t answer straight away.
He joins me at the window.
Then whispers, “I know.”
I blink against the sting behind my eyes.
“Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”
“I don’t.”
I lift my eyes to his.
His expression is understanding and composed.
“Why?” I ask.
Mr. Higgs considers the question, then shrugs.
“Every week for two years you’ve walked through those doors.”
I continue staring at him.
He continues.
“You haven’t given up.”
My throat becomes dry.
“And?”
“And I’ve learned not to underestimate determined women.”
A reluctant laugh slips out.
Mr. Higgs smiles warmly.
“There she is.”
I shake my head.
“You’re impossible.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
An hour later, I make my way back to the parking lot.
The afternoon sun bathes over the pavement, warm against my skin.
I stop beside my car and tip my head back, staring up at the endless blue sky.
Two years.
Two years of searching.
Two years of dead ends.
Two years of refusing to quit.
Two years of not allowing them to become just another cold case file collecting dust on a shelf.
The answers still haven’t come.
The ache of that truth hasn’t gotten any easier to carry.
But neither has my resolve.
I close my eyes for a moment and think of Marie’s laugh and Sofie’s shy smile.
I think of the lives they were supposed to have.
The futures they deserved.
A breeze stirs through the parking lot, lifting strands of hair from my face.
I open my eyes.
Marie and Sofie deserve someone who keeps looking.
Someone who won’t forget them.
My fingers curl around the car door handle and I climb into the car. Soon, the morgue is in my rearview mirror as I drive home.
The world may have forgotten them, but I haven’t.
I won’t stop until I find them.