The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  The detective speaking to Eric puts his notepad away. “Sit tight, Mr. Talcott,” he says. “We’ll put out an Amber alert immediately. The best thing you can do is stay right here, just in case Sophie finds her way back.”

  I watch him radio in the information we have given him, I hear distant sirens. Was this how my mother felt, when she realized I was missing? As if the entire core of her had been removed; as if this planet suddenly seemed much larger than it had ever been before?

  I can’t trust the police to find my child. I can’t trust anyone.

  I wait until the detective has gone to speak to the neighbors; and then I whistle for Greta. “You ready to work, girl?” I croon, and I rub her between the ears.

  Eric stands up. “Delia,” he says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Instead of answering him, I slip on Greta’s harness. I don’t care about stepping on the toes of a police administration I do not know; I don’t care about the detective’s instructions to stay put. All I know is that I was the one who screwed up, by falling asleep. This is the seminal difference between my own mother and myself: I will search for my daughter longer, and harder, than anyone else.

  At the promise of a search, Greta’s whole body starts to quiver. “I’m her mother,” I say to Eric, because in any perfect world, that ought to be explanation enough.

  * * *

  If Sophie was taken away in a car, I am not going to get very far. A scent will only carry if, by chance, the window was rolled down. But when I find Sophie’s pillow and scent Greta off it, she takes off immediately. She circles around the front yard, where Sophie has played for a month. She sniffs the cacti Sophie painted under Ruthann’s direction. She casts in widening circles, and then she finds a path that takes us out of the trailer park.

  As Greta works, her nose pressed to the pavement, I think about everything that might go wrong: the desert wind, scattering the scent cones; the spongy, scorching asphalt that might mask Sophie’s smell with its own bitter black one; the onrushing cars and exhaust that might interrupt Greta’s careful track. The dog is heading toward the highway, the same way we came home from court today, and although I am trying hard not to think about it, I’m wondering if Greta is picking up that old scent instead.

  I try to remember all the statistics: how many kids disappear every day in America; how, exponentially, the chance of finding a missing child decreases after a certain amount of time missing; how long a person can survive in the desert without water.

  Greta and I have been searching for only a half hour when she cuts behind a shopping center and then doubles back. She takes off at a run, and I race after her. “Sophie?” I start yelling at the top of my lungs. “Sophie!?”

  And then I hear it: “Mommy?”

  In utter disbelief, I let go of Greta’s leash. She rounds the concrete corner of the building and jumps up, her front paws nearly reaching Sophie’s shoulders.

  I fall to my knees before Sophie, sobbing, grabbing for every inch of her that I can. She is holding an ice cream cone in her left hand, and she doesn’t seem to understand why I have been reduced to a puddle in front of her. “I thought you were lost,” I gasp into the sweet skin of her neck. “I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  “But we left you a note,” Sophie says, and that’s when I realize she is not alone.

  In front of the ice cream parlor stand Eric, the detective, and Victor Vasquez. “I would have called you,” Eric says, “but you left so fast you didn’t take your phone.”

  Victor steps forward, an embarrassed flush covering his face. “You were sleeping, and after all that happened today, I didn’t want to wake you up. So Sophie and me, we left you a message.”

  The detective holds it up—crayoned, on one of the pieces of paper Sophie had been using for her pictures. TOOK SOPHIE FOR AN ICE CREAM—BACK IN 1/2 HOUR!—VICTOR. “It was caught behind the couch,” the detective says. “The fan must have blown it off the table.”

  Mortified, I take it from his hand. “I’m so, so sorry,” I murmur. “I guess I overreacted . . .”

  The detective shakes his head. “That’s what we’re here for,” he says. “And believe me, we love it when it works out like this.”

  As Eric thanks the detective, Sophie slides her hand into mine. “You told me I can’t go anywhere with strangers,” she says, “but I already met Victor.”

  Victor turns to me. “I should have realized—”

  “No,” I say. “Really. It’s my fault.”

  “Look at what Victor brought me!” Sophie tugs me toward one of the wrought-iron tables outside the ice cream parlor, on which sits a bird’s nest. Inside are the remains of several speckled eggs. “He said that the babies aren’t living there anymore, so I could have it.”

  Victor puts his hand on the crown of Sophie’s head. “I thought, with everything that’s going on right now, she might need an extra friend.”

  I nod at him, trying to smile in gratitude. I can feel the heat of Eric’s gaze on me, wondering why I wasn’t more thorough, wondering, like me, if this trial is taking a toll on me in ways I hadn’t even expected. To avoid that discussion, I turn my attention to Sophie’s prize. I listen to her chatter about the hatchlings, and where they’ve flown off to by now. When she carefully places an eggshell in my hand, I feign excitement, even though all I can see is something that’s been broken.

  * * *

  A hostile witness is someone who is going to be unsympathetic to a lawyer, or the lawyer’s client. In my father’s case, the prosecution is going to have to be the one to call me to the stand, presumably to show the jury the damage that was done to me. But I’m more likely to stand up for my father than incriminate him, which means that it’s in the prosecutor’s best interests to ask me leading questions, something she normally wouldn’t be allowed to do with a witness she’s called to the stand. To that end, she’s asked the judge to consider me hostile.

  It makes me wonder if I am. Has this whole fiasco made me unreceptive? Aggressive? Angry? Will I come out of this trial more changed than I was, even, by my father’s actions?

  Eric has given me a pep talk this morning, reminding me that no matter what Emma Wasserstein does, she cannot put words in my mouth. In the wake of Sophie’s disappearance last night, I am focused and centered—so intent on thinking before I act or speak that I can’t imagine this prosecutor getting the best of me.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  A cool wall of cross-purpose separates us. I am careful not to look her in the eye. “Hello.”

  “You’re not very happy about being here today, are you, Ms. Hopkins.”

  “No,” I admit.

  “You realize you’re under oath.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you realize your father does stand accused of kidnapping you.”

  Eric stands. “Objection, Your Honor. It’s not for her to make the legal conclusion.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Noble says.

  Emma doesn’t flinch. “You must have a very strong bond with your father, after all those years.”

  I hold my answer between my teeth, sure this is a trap I am walking into. “Yes. He was the only parent I knew.”

  “You’re a parent, too, aren’t you?” Emma asks.

  Inside, I freeze: Could she have found out already about Sophie’s disappearance last night? Is she going to discredit me with my own mistakes? “I have a daughter. Sophie.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Five.”

  “What do you like to do with Sophie?”

  Immediately, an image of her rises in my mind, like the sweetest cream. We go looking for bugs—caterpillars and snails—and then build them houses out of grass and twigs. We tattoo each other with Magic Markers. We do puppet shows with the extra socks in the laundry basket. Just thinking these things is reassuring, makes me remember that sooner or later, I get to leave this witness stand and go home with her.

  “Do you tuck her in every nigh