Page 13 of Sparking Sara

“I’d appreciate that,” she says.

“What about social media?” I ask. “Maybe we should start there.”

“Sara isn’t active except for the one app that deletes messages as soon as you send them.”

“Snap Chat?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“No Facebook account? How about Twitter or Instagram?”

“She’s not on Facebook. I don’t know about the others. I guess we could try, but in my experience, people don’t always use their real names, so I’m not sure it will be all that helpful in finding Oliver. But I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

“What about Sara’s other friends? Do you think you could contact any of them to come sit with her?”

She snorts into the phone. “Ha! Like any of them would bother. They’re way too into themselves. The circle Sara ran in, let’s just say those snooty artists aren’t exactly the caregiving type.”

“So there’s nobody?”

There’s a long silence and I can practically hear Joelle thinking.

“Well, I could try Lydia. But, to be honest, I’m not sure she’d come either.”

“Lydia?”

“They were childhood best friends where Sara grew up in Stamford, Connecticut. When they graduated from high school, they both moved to the city and took waitressing jobs. But like I told you yesterday, when Sara lost her parents, she withdrew from everyone. And then when she started living the life of an artist, everything changed. I’m not even sure Sara and Lydia are in contact anymore.”

“Still, it might be worth a try,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll reach out to her.”

“Do you mind if I sit with Sara again today?”

“You don’t have to do that, Denver. I know you must be very busy.”

“I just got off a twenty-four-hour shift yesterday, so I have a few days off now.”

“And you want to spend that time babysitting my cousin?”

“She shouldn’t be alone, Joelle. Nobody should be under these circumstances.”

She sighs into the phone. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sure you think I’m a grade-A bitch. But Sara and I didn’t have the best relationship these past few years. I know I shouldn’t hold that against her when she needs someone the most, and I’m really trying not to, but I do have other obligations with my mom and the twins. And I don’t live in the city, so the commute alone is difficult. But I promise to try and get there when I can. Maybe I can stop by later this afternoon for a few hours.”

“That would be nice,” I say. “I’ll let you know if the police find anything.”

“Thank you, Denver.”

“It’s all part of the job.”

“I doubt that,” she says. “But thank you, anyway.”

After we get off the phone, I send a text to a buddy of mine over at NYPD to see if he can get me Oliver’s contact info, and then I head out to the hospital.

The subway is only four blocks from Aspen and Sawyer’s townhouse, which is good, because even though they do have a garage out back complete with a car they keep here that they said I’m free to use, I won’t use it.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever did my job in Kansas City back when I was a cop. For a long time after my parents’ accident, the only time I drove a car was when it had KCPD on the side of it. It makes me wonder if I became a cop for the same reason I became a firefighter—to try to save people. But the thing is, I never did save anyone back then. In fact, all I did was get myself into a deep pile of shit. I was too trusting, and I paid the price. I promised myself I’d never let something like that happen to me again.

But living in New York is different. Nobody here looks at me like I’m a criminal. They don’t whisper about me behind my back. They don’t put the CLOSED sign in their shop windows when they see me coming. They don’t laugh at me when I’m down on my luck.

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