32
Truman was calling.
Now Max remembered.
Max had finally insisted they go home to sleep, convincing Noelle that it’d be easier to focus on work and search for Ollie and Emma in the daylight after they’d rested.
He’d known her anxiety was sky-high, but she’d hidden it well.
Just the occasional quiver in Noelle’s voice and tremble in her fingers had given it away.
He suspected Truman had never gone to bed. “Truman,” he mumbled. His tongue was still asleep.
“Any news?” asked Truman.
“No. You would have been the first to know,” said Max, squinting as he quickly checked his texts and emails for anything about Ollie and Emma.
“Fuck.”
“Ditto,” agreed Max. “The sun’s up. We’ll find them today.” He paused. “How cold did it get overnight?”
“Depends where you’re at. It was anywhere from forty-five to sixty.”
“At least we’re in a stretch of above-average temps. Since the truck hasn’t been spotted by patrols, I think it’s likely they’re still with it,” said Max. “That’s a good scenario.”
Truman said nothing.
“I’ll request some more deputies—”
“You have enough on your plate,” said Truman. “Find that little girl. I’ll work on Ollie and Emma.”
He ended the call, and Max flopped back on his pillow.
“Good scenario” wasn’t the right thing to say.
“Nothing?” Noelle asked from her side of the bed, nearly invisible in the dark.
“Nothing,” Max stated, staring at the ceiling. “Sorry I woke you.”
“I’d rather be up anyway.” She flung back the covers and pushed to her feet. “I’ll start some coffee,” she said as he watched her tall silhouette leave the bedroom.
He didn’t have to see her face to know how upset she was. Emma was her baby bird, one she’d taken under the safety of her wing. Her emotional connection to Emma was nearly as strong as a mother’s to her child. And she felt as if she’d failed.
I feel it too.
Both the connection and the crushing failure to keep Emma safe.
He was still haunted by the memory of Emma’s terrified face as he’d seen it through his crosshairs as a killer ground a gun into her skull.
Two months had passed, but Max continued to have nightmares that he’d screwed up that shot.
Sometimes he dreamed that his bullet had found Emma’s head instead of the killer’s.
Sometimes the man shot her because Max had missed or waited too long, her green eyes forever extinguished.
Max thrust himself out of bed, a wave of panic forcing him to get moving or be overcome. The same type of wave that would crash into him during the middle of the night, making him leap out of bed to walk off an impending panic attack.
We’ll find Emma and Ollie today.
We’ll find Belle too. We’ll do both.
He quickly showered, got dressed, and groaned as he read an email from Evan.
Following the scent of coffee, he found Noelle at the kitchen island, peering intently at her laptop.
She wore a short silk robe, her hair pulled up in a messy knot at the back of her head.
She didn’t raise her head as he entered the room.
“What are you looking at?” Max asked.
She jerked, her wide eyes surprised. “Look at this.” Noelle turned the screen as he came beside her. It was the photo of Elise Nunevillier at the mailbox place.
Well, not Elise.
“You’re trying to figure out who stole her identity?” asked Max.
“Yes. Because every day this woman and Belle are still missing, the more I think we’re right that they’re together.”
Max felt the same. “Do you think one of the sightings of Belle with a couple could be accurate?” he asked, remembering his trip to that odd motel. “Who’s the man traveling with them?”
“Don’t know.” She pointed at the screen. “But we know from comparing this woman to the door behind her that she is petite. I’d call her build trim. The hair might be truly dark red, it could be a wig, or she could have dyed it.”
Max didn’t see where she was going with this. The parameters were too wide. “Okay.”
She gave him a side-eye. “Who else is petite and trim that we’ve encountered in this investigation?”
I interviewed her.
“Merritt Blocker.” He touched the screen, enlarging the photo as much as possible.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That could be anyone since the brim hides her face. Merritt can’t be Sydney’s missing roommate.
She lives with a guy—that counselor from her school.
And that’s definitely not her in the driver’s license photo. ”
“Shawn Nickerson is the boyfriend’s name.” Noelle looked at him. “I’m not saying she’s Sydney’s roommate. I’m saying this photo could be Merritt.”
“But . . .” Max tried to follow her thinking. “Why would Merritt open a mailbox under the name Elise Nunevillier?”
Noelle closed her laptop, resignation on her face. “I don’t know. I can’t come up with a reason either. But I woke up in the night thinking about this photo, and for some reason Merritt entered my thoughts. I wanted to see if my subconscious was trying to tell me something.”
“I’ve had that happen. It’s that weird sort-of-awake, sort-of-asleep moment where your mind seems to float and wander. I’ve had good ideas pop up.”
“Same.”
“I can’t say for certain it’s not Merritt,” said Max. “So maybe you’re onto something. I guess we could ask her, show her the photo.”
“Maybe.” Noelle stared at her coffee, a look of nausea on her face. “Dammit. For five minutes something replaced Ollie and Emma in my head, and now I feel sick to my stomach because I haven’t been completely focused on them.”
“Neither of us can let our cases slide. Nothing to feel guilty about. I suspect Truman is doing the work of ten people in the search for the kids. He’s going to crash if he doesn’t get some sleep.”
“You’re right. I’ll get dressed and we can get to work. Was there anything solid on Belle overnight?”
“I got an email from Evan. Someone put up a TikTok video last night with a brief clip of a little girl being pulled through a mall by a woman. The video is titled ‘This is her! Belle Beason!’ and it’s going viral.
Thousands of people have contacted NCMEC, local police, and the FBI about the video.
Not to mention tagging law enforcement over and over in the comments. ”
Noelle’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit. It’s fake, of course.”
“Exactly. Turns out the video is two years old and was taken in an Orlando mall. But the poster won’t take it down because of the traffic it’s getting.”
“That won’t last,” said Noelle.
“No. I suspect a knock on the door from the FBI will make him change his mind.”
“Do people not realize how much work this makes for us?” asked Noelle, fury in her voice. “And how it muddles the case? Wastes our time when we could be chasing a good lead?”
“Clearly they don’t. This case has brought out the crazies.”
“Any case like Belle’s will do that,” said Noelle. “And now it’ll be getting national attention because of that video. On one hand, the exposure is good, but on the other—”
“Even more crazies.”
How much more of our time will be wasted?