Chapter 8 Daniela
DANIELA
Disappointment is a small, petty thing compared to terror, but it still pinches.
Why didn’t Hawk stay? Or take me with him?
I breathe through it. He’s not running from me. At least that’s what I tell myself.
He’s running toward something he thinks will help. That’s who he is. Justice first. Always.
And what’s more just than bringing a child home?
I find Raven in the kitchen, clutching a mug she isn’t drinking, staring at the wall.
“I thought you went to bed,” I say.
“I tried.” She sighs. “But my husband-to-be now knows never to threaten me with a sedative again. Besides, I was on so many drugs when I was sick, I’m probably immune to the effects by now.”
Vinnie hovers at the island with his phone. “Sorry, babe. I’m just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Raven interrupts. “And don’t. Belinda means as much to me as she does to you and Dani.” Then she turns to me. “Hawk will come through.”
“I know.” And I believe it. I’m just worried he’ll do something he’ll regret.
Vinnie meets my gaze. “He’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s the one you want next to you in a foxhole.” He pauses a moment. “He’s a better man than I am.”
“Not true,” Raven says, almost automatically.
He shrugs. “I’ve done…things. Things I’d do again. But Hawk tries not to cross lines. If he does, it’s because he had no choice.”
Raven nods. “That’s all very true.”
I lean against the counter. “I can’t sit and wait. I’m going to search her room again.”
Vinnie’s eyes darken. “The cops asked us not to mess with anything.”
“They asked,” I say. “They didn’t forbid. They’re doing their job, and I’m going to do mine.” I lift my hands. “I won’t disturb anything we can’t put back. I’ll wear gloves. I’ll be careful. But there has to be something they missed.”
Raven starts to protest, stops, and swallows hard. “Take some shoe covers from the mudroom. And gloves from the pantry. All we have are those cheap plastic ones, but they’ll do.”
“Got it.”
I move. When I’m in motion I can think. In the mudroom, the house smells like lemon oil and fear. I pull the blue booties over my shoes and then put on the plastic gloves I grabbed from the pantry.
I pass back through the kitchen without looking at Raven and Vinnie and head to the foyer where I ascend the stairs.
Belinda’s room waits at the end of the hall. Her bed is made, pillow squared, curtains parted two inches like they always are.
Everything tidy.
Everything wrong.
“Hey, Bee,” I whisper to the doorway. “I’m coming in.”
I push the door open.
If I were eleven and wanted to tell someone I was running away without telling anyone I was running away, what would I do? If I were someone else, wanting to plant that story, what would I expect the adults to miss?
I don’t go near the printer.
Not yet. That’s where the note was left.
Too easy. I’ll save it for last.
I glance down at the trashcan beside the desk. It’s empty. Too empty. Belinda doesn’t keep a pristine wastebasket. She’s eleven. Phyllis only empties it once a week, and she’s been off the last few days. Yet the bag is clean, the seam still crisp.
Someone emptied it, and I know damned well it wasn’t Belinda.
I move to her vanity. Lip gloss—the only makeup Raven and Vinnie let her wear—in several colors.
A detangler brush with blond hairs curled in the bristles.
I hold the brush to the light. Tiny flecks of silver glitter cling near the handle.
I can’t help a smile. I got her the shimmery hair mist last week.
Still, nothing that screams clues.
I move to her closet. Her clothes hang by color—Raven’s system, not Belinda’s. Two hangers are bare. The gap is wrong. Shirts are pushed to either side like someone yanked something down in a hurry.
I go to the bed. Belinda makes it neatly but not like this. She tucks the top blanket under the footboard but leaves the corners slightly rounded. Now the corners are sharp hospital triangles. Military corners.
The pillow sits resolutely—too perfectly placed. I kneel and look along the edge for stray glitter or stray hair. One blond strand is caught at the bottom left corner. It’s long enough to be hers. I leave it exactly where it lies and then check under the pillow.
Nothing. No journal. No folded poems. I replace the pillow.
Desk drawers. The top one slides smooth. Pencils sharpened to dangerous points. A rubber eraser shaped like a cat. A small stack of note cards we practiced her spelling lessons with. I fan the cards, looking at them.
Felicitous.
Oboe.
Normalcy.
My chest tightens.
The next drawer catches halfway. Strange.
I wiggle until it frees and stops again, blocked by something rolled under the track.
I reach back and feel the edge of a piece of paper.
I ease it forward. It’s a page torn from a spiral notebook and folded into quarters.
Someone shoved it back too far and it slipped behind the track.
I unfold the paper carefully.
It’s a list, handwritten in block capital letters.
TOOTHbrUSH
UNDERWEAR
FLASHLITE FLASHLIGHT
MONEY (PIN?)
SNACKS
PHONE
A shiver skates under my skin. Belinda doesn’t write in block letters.
She writes in messy cursive that tilts to the right.
The word “flashlight” is misspelled at first—flashlite—and then written again over the top.
Belinda wouldn’t misspell “flashlight.” She does great at spelling. That’s why she uses flashcards.
How did the cops not find this?
I should put it in a zippered bag. Or should I return it to where I found it?
It could mean nothing. Hell, it could have been here before Belinda even got here. Who used this room before her? It’s the house Vinnie grew up in. It could have been Savannah’s room. Or their brother Michael, who passed away.
I finally decide to leave it on the desk and tell the cops about it.
I stand and orient myself at the door again.
Natalie. Belinda’s nanny and tutor.
The only one who doesn’t have an alibi for the time Belinda disappeared.
Natalie loves Belinda. Vinnie and Raven told me how she tried to help Belinda escape her abusive father. And Natalie would certainly never misspell the word “flashlight.”
But still…
Even the most trusted person can turn for the right reason. I don’t even want to think about what that reason could be.
Think, Daniela.
If you were taking a child who trusts you—even a little—how would you coax her out without a struggle? You wouldn’t grab. You’d make it feel like an adventure. You’d tell her to bring a blanket. You’d make sure there was no mess.
God, I don’t know.
I pivot to the dresser. The top drawer is underwear, and the second is T-shirts.
The third drawer won’t open at first, but when it does, I find nothing unusual.
“Belinda,” I say out loud. “Help me. Help me find what I’m looking for.”