Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 20

The morning sun hits the mountains outside my window. What I thought was beautiful just a day ago is now a harsh reminder of the time that has passed since I last saw Millie. I don’t go downstairs for breakfast. I’m not hungry. I try to imagine wanting food again and my stomach churns in revolt. I feel the sick burn the back of my throat. I don’t need food. I need my daughter.

You don’t need her.

You don’t even want her.

And she doesn’t want you.

I watch the clock on the bedside table flip to nine fifty-two and, having not heard anything from either Officers Michaels or Evans or anyone else working on my case, I decide to drive to the police station. I need to get out of this room. I grab my purse and gather my hair up into a ponytail. I am still wearing the same clothes from yesterday and I don’t bother changing, or looking in a mirror. It doesn’t matter.

The inside of the station is buzzing with activity. It seems that the Canmore station has been recruited to help with the recent murder cases in Banff. A bulletin board in the corner outlines the details of the case. The officers here are determined not to let the next kill happen on their turf and so everyone is working at an over-caffeinated pace. I wait at the front counter for a few minutes, watching the officers at work, before one glances up at me.

“Someone will be right with you,” he says with a smile, before returning to his computer screen. I look around to see if there is somewhere that I should sit and wait, but before I can take a seat on the long wooden bench against the entryway wall, Officer Evans appears in front of me.

“Mrs. Logan, good morning.” There are dark circles under his eyes, but his smile appears genuine. I wonder if he has slept any more than I have and if it was my case keeping him awake. He grips a steaming cup, but the string and tag hanging off the side indicate that it is not the stereotypical cop coffee that he is drinking. He sees me looking at his cup. “Can I get you anything? It’s not great, but it’s hot.”

“No. Thank you though. I was hoping you could tell me something. Anything? Any news about my daughter?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Logan. Nothing new to report.”

“But it’s been a whole night. My baby girl is missing,” I say, nearly unable to get out the words. “My husband, too,” I add for good measure.

“We have an alert out, but we haven’t gotten any responses yet.”

“Is that all you can do?”

“Your husband has the girl. They’ll probably show up.” I gape at him. “I’m sorry. Look. It’s been less than twenty-four hours. Right now, we just don’t have the man power to cover something that might not be something. We have to wait and see if the alert brings in anything.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I am not good at waiting.

“You could fill out a witness report. Try and get us any other details you may have remembered about yesterday. You never know what might turn out to be important, so think of anything. Give me a minute and I’ll get you the forms.”

“Okay,” I say. I glance back at the long bench that now has an elderly gentleman waiting on the far end. “I’ll be waiting right there.”

I watch the hands on the clock across the room slowly tick away. I shift from side to side on the hard, wooden bench, trying to find a position that doesn’t aggravate my aching body, but the seat is unforgiving and my right leg has fallen asleep. So too has the man on the other end of the bench. His figure rests heavy on his cane and his thick glasses have started to gradually slide down his nose. I briefly wonder about his reason for being here before my mind makes its way back to my own. I am running over and over yesterday’s series of events again in my head, trying to think of anything that I missed, anything new I can tell the police, when I am startled by a soft voice.

“Excuse me?” I look up and standing in front of me is a police officer. But this one is different from every other officer I have interacted with in the past twenty hours. For one, she is a woman. She isn’t tall, but she has a striking presence. Her skin is dark and her eyes are fierce but kind. Her dark hair is wrapped tightly into a bun that sits at the nape of her neck and the small gold stud on the side of her nose reflects the harsh florescent light of the room. “Have you been helped?” she asks. I am sure I look quite tragic, definitely in need of assistance.

“Oh, um, yes. Well, sort of. I am waiting for Officer Evans to bring me some forms, or something. I’m not really sure. He said something about a witness report.” The policewoman glances over her shoulder and we both see Officer Evans on the phone. He does not appear to be in a hurry to end the call. The woman in front of me sighs.

“Maybe I can help you. I’m Detective Singh. And you are?”

“August Logan.”

“Well, Ms. Logan,” she says, sitting down on the bench next to me. “What seems to be the problem?” The old man at the end of the bench lets out a quick snort in his sleep that startles us both. Detective Singh returns her focus to me. “Tell you what,” she says. “Come with me.”

I follow the detective down a hallway and into a small office. I worry that it’s going to be an interrogation room of some sort. Dark with a harsh lightbulb hovering over a metal desk. A room that would only further my pain and suffering. But I am pleasantly surprised. The office is actually quite inviting. There is a comfortable-looking couch on one wall across from a large wooden desk with a coffee table in between. The wall opposite the door has a huge window that looks out at, of course, the mountains.

“Now,” Detective Singh says, closing the door behind us. “Go ahead and tell me what’s going on.” She guides me over to the couch and sits down next to me. I’m not really sure where to start or how much she really wants to know, but with the threat of tears pressing on my eyes, I know I have to get it out. So I just tell her everything, from the beginning. The planned vacation, the accident, the First Aid Clinic, Tucker disappearing and only leaving my suitcase and passport behind. And then the most important thing.

“He took our daughter. She’s only nine months old and he took her. I don’t know where they are or where they’re going or what’s happened to my baby.” I sniff hard, trying to dam the flood. At first, the detective looks frozen, as if her face is trying to figure out how to respond. And then, shockingly, she starts to cry. Heavy, gasping cries. I find myself suddenly compelled to comfort the woman who is supposed to be comforting me.

“I’m so sorry,” she finally says, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I know this is completely unprofessional. I’m usually not this emotional on the job. I just can’t even begin to imagine what you are going through. My husband and I tried to get pregnant for three years. Some of the hardest years of my life. A year ago, I gave birth to our baby boy. He is all we ever wanted and it kills me to have to be here at work and not home with him. I only started back here a month ago and I still struggle with it. The guilt you know. Not being there with him. I can’t imagine him not being there when I get home tonight. It hurts me to even think about what you’re dealing with.”

She deserves to be a mother. She actually wants and loves her child.

You don’t deserve her pity.

“I want to help you,” Detective Singh says, sniffing back a final tear. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Millie,” I say through the tears that have started to streak my cheeks.

“Millie. Well we are going to find Millie.” At this moment, I want nothing more than for this to be true. And there is a promise in her eyes that makes me think it might be.

When Tucker started going back to work after his paternity leave, Millie and I would stand at our front door and watch his car pull out of the driveway. Saying goodbye to Daddy became part of our morning routine. As she became more aware of the world around her, there were days when Millie seemed upset about Tucker leaving, her little hand reaching out for him.

“Don’t worry, Millie,” I would say, bouncing her on my hip. “Daddy’s just going to work. He’ll come back. Daddy will always come back.” It was a promise I made to her every day. Now I realize, no one had ever made that promise to me.

“Let’s first start with social media,” Detective Singh says. “Maybe we can track something on there, friends, contacts, anyone who might know his whereabouts.”

“Tucker doesn’t use social media,” I say.

“Nothing? No Facebook? No Twitter? Not even a LinkedIn account?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I don’t have Facebook,” Tucker had said on one of our first dates, when I admitted that I had looked him up and found a very minimal online presence.

“Really?” I didn’t want to look like I was investigating him, trying to dig up dirt or something, but it just seemed odd to not find anything.

“I don’t see the need,” he had said. “Everyone I want to talk to, I talk to in person or over the phone.” He sounded like my father.

“But what about people that you wouldn’t typically talk to. Aren’t you just a little curious to find out what people from back in high school or college are doing now?”

“Definitely not. Besides, in my line of work, I don’t need people being able to search through all my personal details.”

“There are lots of security features on there. You can make your account private.” He had laughed at that.

“As someone in the security field, let me tell you. Especially online, nothing is private.”

Now, sitting in the police station, I realize how secretive Tucker actually was. All the little things start to look much bigger in the light of the current situation. I wonder if this is all just a part of another one of Tucker’s secrets, another part of his life that I don’t know about.

“Well, we’ll get someone to search and see if he has any accounts, just in case,” the detective says. “Until then, we have the alert out and people searching. Why don’t you go get some rest, if you can. I’ll check back in with you later today.”

I leave the police station slightly more hopeful. Having Detective Singh, a determined fellow-mother, on my side in this seems promising.

Click here to read the next chapter

Hi there! Thank you so much for reading my story. If you liked it, go ahead and click on that little heart button below. And if you really liked, and are feeling a bit generous, a tip is always appreciated. Help me keep writing things for you to enjoy reading.