Page 5 of Finding Our Reality

I’m staring at a pregnancy test.

And the two dark pink lines tell me that whoever took this test was pregnant.

My missing sister—mydeadsister—was pregnant.

I can’t even swallow. I feel like I’m going to collapse. Fighting that urge, I place the pictures and the pregnancy test back in the envelope and store them in a separate plastic baggie.

Then, I race back into Carrie’s room and rip everything apart, looking for more.

***

I open the door to the sheriff’s department and stalk across to the small reception window. They’ve remodeled since the last time I was here. Heck, they’ve probably remodeled a couple of times since I was last here. Don’t get me wrong, Marcum and I talk frequently, and I saw him every time I briefly came into town, but we stopped meeting at the station a long time ago. He’s… family. Not just for me, but for everyone—Uncle Ray, Aunt Teresa, Holt, Raylee, even Ridge, Cullen, and their parents. I don’t need to hide my love for him under the guise that he’s only an investigator working on my sister’s case. He’s so much more than that—him, Nancy, and even Nate, who’s not a toothless baby anymore.

A petite brunette greets me. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I need to speak with Detective Marcum, please. Tell him it’s Ella.”

She taps away on the computer. “I’m sorry. He’s out of the building right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

I knew I should’ve called. “That’s okay. I’ll try him on his cell.”

She smiles. “Most likely, he’ll be unable to answer. He’s conducting some interviews. Is your visit pertaining to a case?”

“Carrie Hill.” Shit. Why did I say that? I meant to keep that to myself. My nerves are just fried. I’m not thinking clearly. She’s young. She won’t even know who Carrie is.

She immediately starts typing on the computer again, and I try to politely interrupt her. “It’s okay, really. I’m friends with Detective Marcum. I’ll just leave him a voicemail to call—”

“The detective assigned to that caseisin the building, though, if you would like to speak with him.”

I square my shoulders, hoisting my purse higher. “Pardon? Marcum is the detective assigned to the case. He’s primary. Detective Leary is secondary.”

She doesn’t notice the firm unease in my voice. “Looks like it was reassigned about two years ago.”

“Reassigned?”

“Yes. Andthatdetectiveisavailable in the building. I’m showing he has an open block now, if you would like to speak with him?”

I nod, unable to formulate a verbal response.

Why? Why would Marcum not tell me this? How could he? How could he do this to me? To Carrie?

She buzzes me through the locked door, meeting me on the other side. She ushers me to the left, down the hall, and into one of the interview rooms—one of the nicer ones, not reserved for true suspects. I wish I were a suspect, because then, she would’ve taken me down the right hallway, and I would’ve passed the small office where Marcum, Leary, Colson, and Peele sit. I need to see what’s going on; I need to talk to them.

“I’ll let him know you’re here, miss. And what is your name?”

I squint my eyes, studying her and her small little body. I bet she was a gymnast in school. “I’m not ready to give that information yet.” I’m not giving any information at all until I find out what the hell is going on. I swear, if my sister’s case has been reassigned to some idiot, I’m gonna beat Marcum to a bloody pulp.

She nods and shuts the door.

I put my large purse on the table, checking it one last time for the baggies of evidence. The room has a wooden table with four chairs. There’s one small window above my head, just big enough to let in a little natural light. There’s a clock on the wall and a framed generic print of some woody landscape and waterfall. It’s meant to be calming.

It’s not doing its job.

I’m not very calm.

And every minute I have to wait for this guy gets worse. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

Twenty-five minutes in and thousands of paces back and forth, I’m one split second away from tearing out of this room when the door opens. But it doesn’t open all the way. And I’m not greeted by a full human body. Instead, it opens just a smidge, and I’m greeted by one boot, one cargo pant leg, a file folder, and small sliver of a hand. He hangs his body out the door, talking with someone in the hallway. The voices are muffled, and I can’t make out what they’re saying.

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