Page 95 of Five
“I still think he needs to know what we’re doing—”
Oliver stops as Jesse interrupts. “Translation, what Neve’s doing.”
Ooh.The snark is strong with this one.
“Guys—”
Remi opens the passenger door to Oliver’s car. “Let’s just get to it. Do the job and ask forgiveness later.”
“Works for me.” Cope climbs into Jesse’s passenger seat, and after a final, weighted look exchanged between Oliver and Jesse, they do the same. I slide into the backseat, behind Oliver.
“So, where are we starting?” I ask.
Remi glances at his phone. “Oz sent us a list of business neighborhoods. I think any of those might be a good starting point.”
Oliver nods. “Pick one and send a text to Jesse.”
The drive to the first neighborhood on the list is brief, and within minutes we’re parked in a public lot nearby. The block that looks back at us is a mix of refurbished and defunct buildings, many of which have For Sale signs in the windows or doors.
“Okay, so here are the rules,” Jesse begins. It occurs to me that he adopts the role of leader naturally when Oscar isn’t around but tends to defer to him when he’s present. A military thing, I suppose. “First and foremost, we’re not breaking and entering into any buildings. We’re simply identifying possibilities to cut down on the footwork for the police.”
“What are we looking for?” Cope asks.
“Broken windows,” Oliver supplies. “Loose boards that could admit entrance. Paint or metal being scraped on the locks—that means someone’s tried to pick it.”
“Everyone got it?” Jesse waits as we nod, then claps his hands together. “Great. We stay in pairs. Remi and Oliver. Me and Neve. Cope, you can pick your group.”
“I’ll hang with you guys.”
“Let’s go.”
Our first foray is fruitless. All of the buildings are buttoned up tightly, the doors securely locked, the windows closed and whole. We make our way through three different neighborhoods before Oz texts Remi, telling him he won’t be home for lunch.
I wince. That’s good, as there’s no lunch waiting for him. “Maybe we should tell him where we are?”
Cope waves a hand. “Nah. I think we’re good. We’re not making any headway, anyway.”
“Why don’t we take a break?” Remi suggests. “I could use a refuel and the GPS says the botanical gardens are nearby.”
We agree and make our way to the botanical gardens, which are part tropical forest home to many endangered animal species, and part garden, with hidden ponds and scattered concrete tables inlaid with mosaic tiles. I’m quiet as we wind our way through the paths to a shady spot where we can sit and picnic, entranced with the butterflies fluttering around our heads and the plaintive cry of tropical birds.
The natural beauty of the place is immense and visceral, and I can only wish I were here under better circumstances.
We find a table in a shady grove of palm trees, sunshine dappling the space through the fronds. Remi places a cooler on the ground beside the table and we all dig in, finding sandwiches with thick cuts of roast beef on homemade sourdough, and fruit.
Conversation is sparse as we eat, all of us seeming lost in our thoughts.
Children’s voices reach us several minutes before a group appears on the path, high-pitched and eager. They look to be a group of school kids, maybe nine or ten in age, accompanied by a frazzled teacher on a field trip of some sort. The teacher walks backwards, her eyes on her charges at all times, and gives us a sober nod as she continues onward. One of the children, a little girl with two French braids, waves shyly at us as they pass.
Damn it.
I crumple the paper towel in my hand into a ball, bending my head against a wave of sadness. Reality couldn’t have hit me harder if it had tried.
I’m trying to keep myself busy so I don’t have to think about it. Trying to distract myself with work, with doing something helpful. It’s not helping, though. That little girl…her timid little wave…it brings everything back in a heartbeat. Another little girl is missing, possibly even dead by now. Gone. Like Nicholas.
Like Oliver could have been.
I glance over at Oliver at the thought. He’s watching me, his expression concerned, and parts his lips. I shake my head a little, pressing my lips tightly together.
