Finding Emma (11 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Megan blew a wisp of hair
out of her face as she jogged home. Sweat beads dripped down her face with each jolt on the pavement. She preferred to run in the early morning, when the sun began its climb and it wasn't so hot out. But she'd slept in. When she called Laurie to join her, her best friend just laughed. By the time she managed to step out her door, it was after nine o'clock.

She jogged on the spot at a cross walk while cars whizzed by. Her house was just down the street. Her side had begun to pinch about a mile back. She'd taken a long route this morning, headed down to the beach, along the boardwalk, and then ran down to the pier before she headed back.

A black Chrysler Sebring drove past and slowed. Her palms tingled when she recognized the car. She slowed her jog down to a walk and attempted to control her breathing as she neared her walkway. Why now, of all days, did he have to come?

Detective Riley leaned against his car, his white dress shirt a stark contrast to the sheen of his black car. Megan's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to look away, to not stare, but she couldn’t. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jogging pants and placed a smile on her face.

“Detective Riley, this is a surprise.”

“Megan.” He took a step towards her and held the file folder up for her to see. “I have those sketches I mentioned on the phone yesterday.”

Megan let out her breath. She fixed her eyes on the file, hungry for a look at her daughter. She held out her hand and waited for him to place the folder in it.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Megan shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the file. It wasn't until the moment he placed the file in her hand, she raised her eyes. She met his green eyes; saw the understanding, the need to hold the photo in her hands.

“May I come in? I won't take up much of your time. I'd like to go over the pictures with you, if that's okay.”

Megan looked towards her house. If Peter found out ... but she couldn't say no. She glanced down at her outfit, at the damp spots on her shirt from her run. Why did I have to sleep in?

“Of course. I just need to ...” she gestured with her free hand towards her clothing, “and then I'll put on a pot of coffee.”

She walked past him, unlocked her front door and waited for him to join her. Once he entered the house, she took off upstairs and called down to him over her shoulder.

“Just give me a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

A nervous flutter took root in her stomach. She yanked her top off and then pulled off her running pants. She glanced at the clock. Her pulse raced. She tried to convince herself that it was the thought of seeing Emma's picture, of what she would look like now, that caused it.

Her new sundress, the one Peter had just bought her, hung on the back of the bedroom door
.
She pulled it on and ran her hands over the dress to smooth out the wrinkles. She yanked the elastic out of her ponytail and took a good look at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes sparkled. She looked at her dress, marveled at how well it fit over her hips. She shrugged her right shoulder. I was going to wear it anyway. It's not as if I'm wearing it for Riley. Megan shook her head. Detective Riley, Megan, it's Detective Riley.

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee met Megan as she neared the bottom of her stairs. Detective Riley was bent over the table, his arm outstretched as he placed the sketches of Emma on the table for her to view. He looked up as she stood in the doorway.

“I made coffee. I hope you don't mind.”

Megan thought back to the days when Emma had first gone missing. Riley had become a fixture in their house. This wasn't the first pot of coffee he'd ever made here.

“Of course not...”

She headed to the table and stared at the images of her daughter. Her hands shook as she gripped the chair in front of her. Detective Riley walked towards her. She kept her gaze directed to the table, until his hand rested beside hers on the chair. She looked up at him, his gaze gentle.

Megan swallowed. She took a step backwards, and lifted her hand off the chair.

“How is the walking program going?”

Megan knew his attempt at small talk was to put her at ease. She wasn’t sure it worked.

“I have a meeting this week to finalize the program at a new school. That makes three in total. It’s been a slow go, but the program is expanding,” Megan bit her lip at the thought of the frustrating months of attending unending meetings with the school boards. You’d think they would jump at the opportunity to protect the children in their care.

“Good, good. What about those other meetings? The family support ones. Are you still going?”

Megan glanced up in surprise.

“I do. Not every week anymore, but I do go.” It hurt to go.

Earlier on, when Emma had first gone missing, Megan couldn’t attend enough of the small group meetings. To be in a place with other parents who understood what she was dealing with, it soothed her hurting heart. There were no sympathy glances, no awkward silences. But as time passed and families she knew experienced reconciliation, Megan felt alone. She knew that she needed to move on, to move forward and to do more than just attend meetings to talk about how to cope. Megan needed to do something. So she started the Walk Home Alone program.

Detective Riley nodded and pointed.

“Why don't you sit down and I'll explain the process of these pictures to you.”

Megan's face burned red as he pulled the chair out for her. She shook her head, sidestepped the table and headed towards the coffee maker instead. Seriously, you need to calm down. She grabbed on to the counter with both hands, closed her eyes and counted to five. Slowly.

“Let me pour the coffee first. Still like yours black?” She pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and poured. Coffee splashed over the counter. She set the pot back in the machine, took another breath and placed his mug on the island. She hated herself for remembering how he liked his.

“Here you go,” she said as she faced the fridge and opened it. She grabbed her creamer, fixed her coffee and headed back to the table. All the while refusing to look at the man who filled her kitchen with his presence.

Megan grabbed one of the pictures and studied it. This is how Emma looks today. Her curly hair in a cute bob, chin length. A pink ribbon with a bow was in her hair. Her big blue eyes sparkled with life, while the dimples in her cheeks looked more pronounced. She didn't look like the two year old Megan loved. This was a little girl ready to enter kindergarten. A soft smile settled on her lips. This is my baby. She laid the picture back down on the table and went to grab another one when a hand stopped her.

“Let me explain the pictures first. There is a forensic artist who works with police departments all across North America. What she does is provide sketches of suspects and missing persons. She's very talented, has done this for years and knows what she's doing. I heard she was in Seattle for a few weeks working with the department there on a case, so I contacted her and asked if she could create some aged-progressed sketches of Emma for us.”

“What's her name?”

Megan placed her fingers on the photo of Emma with the pink bow. With her index finger, she caressed the image.

“Elana Stokov.”

“She's very good.” Megan never altered her gaze. This was the only image she had of her daughter as she was now. Happy. Older. Alive.

“That picture you're holding is how Emma would look today if she were here at home, or with someone who was taking good care of her.” Detective Riley pointed to the picture she held in her hand.

Megan couldn't read the expression on his face. She placed the photo back down on the table and picked up another.

“And this?”

The picture in her hand didn't look like Emma. The face in the picture was narrow, her cheekbones protruded out and her eyes were a dull blue. The stringy hair was past the child's shoulders, the curl non-existent.

Tears welled up in Megan's eyes as she stared at this picture. She prayed to God that Emma didn't look like this. Not like this.

“If Emma were being held captive somewhere and being mistreated, this is how we believe she would look.” He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “I'm sorry.”

Megan forced herself to keep hold of the picture. It was a reality she never wanted to comprehend. Not with Emma. She would rather her daughter be dead than to be held captive by a monster who hurt her. She memorized the picture, took in every detail as a deep anger bubbled up inside of her.

“This isn't Emma.” The harsh sound of her voice shocked her.

She placed the picture back on the table. Everything in her screamed to rip up the picture, to demand that it could never be real, that it wasn't Emma. But she knew better. Two years of silence, of imagining the worst and praying it would never come true.

She picked up the last imagine and gasped.

“Who is this?” Her voice choked on the words.

Detective Riley cleared his throat. He opened a file and sorted through the papers.

“Riley, who is this child?” Megan held the photo out in front of her.

“In some reported cases, a child's image is altered to avoid detection. If this happened in Emma's case, it's possible that she is being made to look like a boy. As in the photo, her hair would be cut short, she would wear boys clothing and be treated like a boy. A form of disassociation for the captors. If she can be made to look like a boy, to act like a boy, then no one would be looking for her with them. They would be looking for a girl, not a boy. I'm sorry to say that this happens quite a bit with kidnappings.”

Megan stared in horror. Her daughter would look like a boy?

She picked the photo up again. Megan drew curls with her finger along the cropped hair line, imagined the dimples in the cheeks and the sparkle in the eye. She grabbed the first photo she looked at and held it side by side. Her hands shook from welled rage as she compared them.

The front door opened. Heavy treads filled the entryway. Megan winced when the door slammed shut. Before she could say a word, Peter appeared. His eyes danced between Megan to Riley and back to Megan. She knew what he was thinking. She could read it in his eyes.

Megan closed her eyes. Peter. She could have kicked herself. After last night, she should have respected Peter more. She should have called him while she was upstairs getting dressed? Better yet, she should never have invited Riley in.

She turned her face and waited for him to enter the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat when he did. His eyes, cold with fury, met hers. The tick in his cheek stood out against the red flush on his face. His lips pursed together before he dropped his briefcase on the floor.

“What's going on here?”

Megan didn't say a word. She couldn't. She stared at the photos in her hands instead.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Detective Riley stand. Fantastic. Her husband stood at one end of the table while Riley stood at the other. And she sat in the middle. As usual.

“Mr. Taylor, I'm glad you're here. I wanted to show you some aged-progressed sketches of Emma that were created by a leading forensic artist.”

Megan looked from Peter to the detective. Peter's gaze had dropped to the table. She followed his gaze and noticed he was looking at the picture of Emma, the one that illustrated what she would like if she was being mistreated. She looked back to his face. Anguish filled his eyes.

She held out the photo of Emma with a smile on her face.

“Peter, this one.”

Her voice was low, laden with the tears that continued to fall. She waited for him to look up. When he did, he reached across to where she sat and took hold of the paper, wrenching it from her grasp.

“Why are they so different?” Peter's eyes jumped from one picture to the other. Megan could almost read the thoughts tumbling through his mind. They would be the same as hers.

As Riley explained the sketches to Peter, Megan took a sip of her coffee. She wished she could block out the words and the pictures. She wished she could press rewind and start the day over.

Better yet, rewind back to the day Emma walked out the front door. She'd make sure that door was locked. She'd make the girls go around to the back of the house. Maybe she'd take them out for ice cream instead of having a picnic in the yard. She wished ... She wished wishes could come true, that the past could be erased. But wishes were only disillusions, places to wander in the mind when reality proved to be unfaithful.

“So why the pictures? Why did you need to bring them over? Why couldn't this have waited until tonight when we were both home?”

Megan winced at the sharpness of Peter's voice. Nice one. Nothing like airing the dirty laundry. She bit her lip to keep from saying anything.

“You're right. I should have.” Detective Riley held his hands out before him, palms towards Peter. “My mistake. I wanted to show you the pictures and explain them before you saw them personally. The missing children's website has been updated with Emma's new sketches, and she is slated to appear on the next batch of milk cartons.”