Page 88 of Our Elliana

Her face is pretty damn distinct due to the high quality of the security cameras installed, and I’m sure I’d know her if I ever see her again. As he loops into a different video, it displays a car that Tanya guides—or maybe shoves—Elle toward, even the license plate.

I have no doubt the police are running those plates, but I memorize the combination of letters and numbers anyway. It’s a brownish orange Chevy Cavalier, early nineties model by the looks of it and based on the sun damage of the clearcoat, it’s been sitting outside neglected. It’s the type of vehicle that blends but is also easily identifiable.

I glance at my housemates. Noah seems fit to be tied as he flexes those thick arms of his over and over while clenching his fists. Tristan’s glare as he examines the police milling around is so infuriated that if he had heat vision, the entire place would be a cinder right now. I know the chef and the kid are no more okay with us hanging out twiddling our fucking thumbs than I am.

“Who else thinks we should go to that facility in Falls Church and take a look around?”

The guys yank their chins up and down in unison, and the three of us bound back into Noah’s Toyota pickup, his tires screeching on the pavement as we hightail it out of town.

THIRTY-EIGHT: Wild Goose Chase

TRISTAN

I don’t know why I’m so taken aback by the appearance of the Virginia Heights Mental Care Facility, but I am. I guess I was picturing those horrible, dank images of early 1900s sanitoriums and asylums with windows that gape out of the structure’s façade like sunken eye sockets. The kind where patients are restrained by straitjackets as they shriek at the confusion in their heads and where descriptions like hellscape and nightmarish won’t go amiss.

Yet this psychiatric hospital is bright and airy.

Patients and hospital employees in scrubs stroll around the grounds together sedately. There are no signs of unusual behavior much less shrieking, and there isn’t a straitjacket in sight. Not that this is particularly comforting.

The woman who kidnapped Elle used to work here, so looking upon this place fondly is out of the question.

Once the kid pulls up into the circle drive that must be a patient drop-off point, all three of us scan the property. The truth is this might be a wild goose chase. There’s no evidence that coming here was the right move.

I’m sure the good detective put out an all-points bulletin for that license plate—he goddamn better have—but we won’t be notified of it even if hundreds of leads are reported. I’m feeling downright desperate to do something. Anything. To act.

The parking lot here stretches toward an assemblage of medical offices that loop around a pond with one of those man-made fountains in the middle. It looks like an upscale type of place, a higher-end locale that doesn’t mesh with the piece of shit Chevy Cavalier the security footage showed.

I have an uneasy feeling in my chest as I scrutinize the view.

Anyone who’s watched the nightly news more than twice knows that the longer someone remains unfound, the worse the odds become of their recovery. Their healthy, safe recovery. They might bring someone back alive after that, but there’s more of a chance that the person will be injured or have had God knows what done to them in the meantime.

But I can’t bear to go there. Not even for a second.

All I know is that the clock is ticking, and Elle could be anywhere.

“Think I’ll take a look inside,” I say, popping out of the passenger side, but as I enter the front lobby, a receptionist greets me.

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