Page 13 of Savage Row
“Wandered off where?”
Naomi shrugs. My typical cool, calm daughter appears to be in shock. “Naomi.” I take her by the shoulders. “Where was Blair when you last saw her?”
“By the Ferris wheel,” Greg motions. “You’re panicking. I told you not to panic.”
The officer holds the phone up. “Do you know her approximate height and weight?”
Greg answers him. I take off at a full sprint toward the Ferris wheel.
My eyes scan the crowds. There are so many people. So many girls wearing corduroy dresses. None of them are my daughter.
Chapter Eight
Carnivals are no place for children. Statistics don’t lie, and he knows them well. The number of accidents at carnivals across the country—the number is astronomical. This doesn’t even take into account faulty parenting. Mothers who work too much. Fathers who bury their noses in their phones.
On one hand, it pleased him to see the children so happy. On the other, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Little girls have fragile bones. They need to be kept warm and away from night air. He tells the girl about William Henry Harrison. If a United States president can die of pneumonia, a little girl hardly has much hope.
She giggled, and he could see the point was lost on her. But then she looked sad. So he bought her a hotdog, which they shared, even though he knows what’s in hotdogs, and if pneumonia didn’t kill them, that probably would.
Thank God, he was there. He can’t bear to think of what might have happened if he wasn’t.
Chapter Nine
While I toss and turn all night, Greg sleeps soundly. My mind can’t help but replay every event of the last twenty-four hours. Every scenario, everything that could have happened, shuffles on repeat until the sun comes up, and the girls’ wake, and I am forced to face the day.
Those terrifying moments when Blair was missing will not leave me. Not as I make pancakes, not when I take the girls to the park, not even when I put on makeup or do my hair, not when I change outfits three times.
It happens to most parents at one point or another, Greg swears, and the important thing is we found her safe.
Still, I can’t help but feel that something has shifted. A breach has occurred, a weakness pointed out. It’s as though the universe is shaking its finger in my face, telling me it threw me a bone, but I’d better not let my guard down again.
“You look perfect,” Greg says before letting out a shrill whistle. “I’d better keep my eye on you.”
I cock my head. He’s always had a way of reading my mind, as though we are two parts of the same whole. What he’s really saying is he’s growing impatient at my trying on clothes and can we just get on the road.
The Meyers are hosting a backyard cookout, as they do every year, the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Friendsgiving.
Same as every year before, the event is still child-free. I am hesitant to leave the girls, but at the same time, I could use a breather. I welcome the opportunity for adult conversation, and this is the closest thing Greg and I have had to a date in several months.
I have spent most of the morning calling local shelters and adding to my social media campaign to find Rocky. I’ve checked Craigslist and posted in every place I can think of. Still nothing.
The girls seem in good spirits about it. Greg’s optimism that Rocky will return has rubbed off on them, and together they make up stories about where he might be and what he’s up to. Finding him and bringing him home has become an adventure. They draw signs, and Greg prints adult versions, offering reward money we really can’t afford.
Around one, Lucy, a college-aged girl who lives down the street, arrives to take over. She’s babysat for us plenty, and I’m grateful she knows the routine, because the second she steps over the threshold, Greg is taking my hand and pulling me out the door.
The Meyers’ home is best described as a visit to a museum. Like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. In fact, I think it was featured. Maybe even twice, once when they bought the place, and again after they did their remodel. Dana changes her mind incessantly. She points the finger at Trevor. Meanwhile, he blames her. One thing is for sure, they’re perfectly suited for one another.
It’s probably for the best that the event is child-free. Trevor insists on a spotless home, which makes Dana overly nervous anytime she hosts guests. As the saying goes, a place for everything, and everything in its place.
Greg is not a huge fan of the Meyers, not that he’s ever said as much. My husband lives by the saying: Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about other people.
I like to point out that is precisely what he doesn’t like about them, even if he refuses to speak it outright. As we pulled up to the curb, I asked him if he regretted coming. He smiled and said, “N
ot yet.” Then he placed his hand on my thigh, gave it a squeeze, and told me not to overthink things.
This is what I love about him. Greg knows how to put me in my place.
Now I look on as he recants the story about losing our child at the fall festival to a group of guests, as though most of them haven’t already heard some version of it.