For several months after the accident, I awoke with the same two questions: What would go wrong that day? And would my sister, Izzy, be the cause of it? During those first months, I bit my nails to nubs and bought my antacid in multipacks.
But by that morning in late June, it had been five years. Now I awoke with a different set of questions. Had I signed Julian’s permission slip for the field trip to the library? Did we have cereal? Milk?
So when Izzy’s boyfriend, Mark, called much too early asking to meet, I didn’t worry. Not like I should have.
The first clue that I should’ve worried more was the couple in the matching San Francisco Giants hats. I had just pulled into the Chevron on South Cloverdale Boulevard and climbed out of my truck when a car stopped behind me. Summers in Northern Sonoma County are hot and dry, and that day temperatures were predicted to hit triple digits by midafternoon. Even though the car’s windows were rolled up and its engine was off, the couple stayed in the cab.
Through the sedan’s untinted windshield, I could see both of their faces. The man’s graying hair curled beneath the bill of his hat and wrapped like an invasive weed around protruding ears. Sallow skin stretched over the sharp bones of his face. He seemed to be studying the screen of his phone. Then he glanced up, his eyes widening and narrowing in nearly the same instant.
The woman sat next to him, her gaze even more intense than his. Her lips were pressed so tightly that they disappeared into her face as if she’d swallowed them.
As a woman in my late twenties, I was accustomed to a certain level of unwanted attention. But this felt different. I unglued my ponytail from the nape of my neck and coiled it into a knot, grabbing one of Izzy’s tortoiseshell barrettes from the cup holder to secure it. It did little to stop my sweating. My eyes locked with the woman’s, and I tilted my chin in defiance. Who was she to make me look away? When I was a teenager, I would’ve backed down immediately. Back then, I gravitated toward stillness. Toward being that quiet brunette in the background whose name no one could quite remember. The nerdy girl in advanced calculus. It was exhausting. It’s not as easy as you would think, being forgettable.
The woman’s eyes released mine as she brought her phone to her ear. I turned away and pushed the button on the pump to select the cheapest grade of fuel. Almost immediately I again felt her attention as heat on my back. The man’s too. Even in my modest shorts and T-shirt, I felt abruptly too exposed.
As I positioned the nozzle in the tank of my F-150, I pricked my ears. Raising a four-year-old had made me an expert at listening—for glass breaking, doors squeaking, guilty pauses. Behind me, the silence seemed to be thick with hostility. The strangers—whom I was certain I had never seen before—both buzzed with it. Why?
While my tank filled, the warmth on my back spread to my neck, causing the hairs there to stand on end. When, finally, the car door slammed, I inhaled sharply. Fumes burned my nose. I heard the shuffle of feet on concrete and a soft whispering. They had gotten out of their car. I glanced over my shoulder, toward the couple in the matching hats who for some reason didn’t like me.
After a moment, the man had returned to the car, but the woman stood staring, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around her phone. I studied her face. Briefly I considered whether I did indeed know this woman. Perhaps I had given her child a failing grade? Was she the new neighbor I had yet to meet, upset that my lemon tree blocked the sun she needed to grow her tomatoes? But the intensity of her gaze suggested something more than an F in middle school math or withered vegetables.
I squared my shoulders and called to her: “Do I know you?”
The woman scowled as if the question offended her. She retreated to stand near her car’s rear bumper and began pumping her own gas. Every thirty seconds or so, her glance darted in my direction.
I wiped the sweat from my neck and swore under my breath. What was wrong with me? It had been years since I had been this jumpy. But maybe it wasn’t just the strangers who unnerved me. Maybe the idea of meeting Mark left me more anxious than I had originally realized.
That morning on the phone, Mark had been calm enough. We need to talk about Izzy. But those words always set me on edge.
Is everything okay? I’d asked.
I just need some advice.
In the moment, I had allowed myself to believe it might be about a ring—my parents and I knew Mark was on the verge of proposing. Or maybe he and Izzy had fought. He often joked that I was an Izzy whisperer, the only one who could make sense of her complicated moods. I doubted that was true anymore. Not after what had happened. Years later, I could still feel her breath, hot and sour on my face, on that last night she had really trusted me.
The nozzle clicked, snapping me out of my memories. I didn’t want to linger with them anyway.
I replaced the nozzle in its holder and grabbed my purse. Even before Mark had called, it hadn’t been the smoothest of mornings. I had misplaced my keys, and I’d had to add water to the milk so there would be enough for Julian’s Cheerios. The banana I had intended to eat had gone brown, and I was late dropping Julian off at preschool. Later I would hit the grocery store, but for now I needed something quick and plastic-wrapped to get me through the morning.
Before heading into the convenience store, I glanced again toward the strangers in the Giants hats. They both stood next to the pump, though they seemed more interested in my truck’s bumper than filling their tank.
I shook off my disquiet. I’d spent too much time thinking about the past that morning. That’s all. Even Julian had felt it, eating his cereal in silence. Rare for any four-year-old, but especially for Julian.
The door to the store was propped open with an orange construction cone. Already, artificially cooled air blasted across the threshold. Inside, snacks were loaded on shelves and carousels, beer and energy drinks stacked along walls and in refrigerated cases, a counter dedicated to dark-roast carafes and a cappuccino machine. I grabbed a bottle of water and a cranberry-orange muffin and headed to the register.
“Hey, Frankie,” the cashier greeted me.
“Morning, Lucy.” Near the register, rubber bugs—green centipedes, black spiders, yellow bees—were piled in a basket in colorful heaps. Julian had recently developed a fascination with bugs, whether it be the roly-polies he hunted in our backyard or the spider that spun its webs in the corner of our living room. I grabbed a centipede and placed it on the counter next to the water and muffin.
Lucy smiled. “Julian’ll love that.”
I returned the smile, but my stomach churned. Too many times, I’d ignored my instincts. That hadn’t gone well. So as Lucy scanned the items, I glanced out the window toward the couple. My shoulders tensed. The woman had taken a few steps closer to my truck, her head bowed.
What was she staring at?
When Lucy looked up, I gestured toward the couple. “Do you know those two?”
She nodded. “Sure. The man’s Bill, I think. Or Phil? His wife’s Amy. They’re regulars. Why?”
I thought of the way they had looked at me—as if they were judging me. “They give me the creeps.”
She leaned in to whisper, “Honestly? Amy gives most people the creeps.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “She’s a bit of a racist, and nosy as hell. But they’re both harmless enough.”
I bristled on the word “harmless.” And a bit of a racist? Was that like being a bit dead?
I slid my debit card through the reader and grabbed my items, mumbling a thanks as I hurried toward the front of the store. But in the doorway I stopped, frozen by an unreasonable urge to check in with Julian’s preschool. Chilled air blasted my neck while gas-fumed heat flushed my cheeks, and I juggled the water and muffin as I fumbled for my phone. I found it at the same moment I sensed movement near my truck. When I looked up, Bill or Phil or whatever the hell his name was had cupped his hands against the windshield.
Phone temporarily forgotten, I shouted: “What are you doing?”
The man turned, crossed his arms, but it was the woman who charged me, finger wagging. “Where the hell’s the kid?” Her words a challenge.
I thought of Julian, and my stomach knotted. Instinct pushed my attention to my phone. No missed calls. Just a missed alert. Relief came, warm and quick. Then I read the notification more carefully, and suddenly I understood.
Mill Valley, CA AMBER Alert: White Ford F-150. It included a partial license plate number: 7RO. The number and two letters matched my own plate.
That didn’t make any sense.
I slipped the rubber centipede in my shorts pocket and transferred my bottled water and muffin to my left hand, using my right to unlock my phone. I selected the preset number for Julian’s preschool. There must be some confusion on their end. A new teacher not paying attention. An overly cautious parent.
One ring. Two. Three. At five rings, I hung up.
Certain I had misdialed, I tried again. This time, I didn’t hang up until I saw the police cruiser pull up alongside my truck.
The officer circled my Ford F-150, peering in the window as the couple had done, then headed in my direction. The tag on his shirt gave his name as Quinn. He was about my age, tall and thin-legged, but with a broad stomach and shoulders. He had the appearance of an inverted bowling pin about to tip.
My throat grew tight as he approached. An aggressive sun had already swallowed half the shade near the store’s entrance, the sky overbright and the air thick with the burgeoning heat.
“This your vehicle?” he said. Friendly. Practiced.
I nodded, my hands full with muffin, water, and phone.
“Anyone traveling with you?”
I shook my head, my hands tightening on the muffin. Mashing it.
The officer glanced past me into the store. Then his attention landed on me again. My thumb pierced the plastic wrap.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I looked down at my hands, at the muffin I had mangled. I tossed it in the garbage can—I’d lost my appetite anyway—and tucked my water under my arm, my phone back in my pocket. From my purse, I pulled out my driver’s license and handed it to him.
While he scanned it, I looked for the couple in the Giants hats. Had they left? A moment later: Of course not. They had merely relocated, moving their car to a spot near the vacuum station. Out of the way but close enough to observe the action.
“Francisca Barrera?”
“Frankie.”
“How about your registration, Ms. Barrera?”
Officer Quinn followed me to my truck, a step behind and to the side. He watched as I unlocked it and placed my water on the truck’s roof. When I opened the passenger’s-side door, he hovered. He positioned himself so he could better scan the interior. I thought maybe it was a good sign that he allowed me to get my own registration. If he thought I was dangerous, he wouldn’t let me near the glove box, would he? Still, I felt him tense as I opened it.
A sense of foreboding vibrated in my chest. I held out the registration with an unsteady hand. He took it, read it, handed it back.
“Is Julian okay?” I asked.
Quinn cocked his head. “Julian?”
“My . . . son.” It was hard to get the word out. Hard to get oxygen in.
“This isn’t about your son.”
My throat dilated. I could breathe again. “If it’s not about Julian, what’s it about?”
“Just following up on something.” He tried a smile, but his eyes were wary. “Okay if I look inside your vehicle?”
Even in the morning’s warmth, I shivered at his request. Did he even need my permission?
I hesitated, afraid of appearing uncooperative but also wary of yielding my rights. I was innocent, but I knew that didn’t always matter. “Sure,” I said, trying to sound confident, but betrayed by the tremor in my voice.
He gestured to his left. “Why don’t you wait with Officer Callahan for a minute?”
Confused, I looked in the direction Quinn pointed. There, a second cruiser was parked behind the first. How had I not noticed that? The officer standing beside the car was even younger than Quinn, his hair yellow—not blond, but canary—and his mustache so sparse that I wondered if it was intentional, or if he’d just forgotten to shave.
My focus returned to Quinn, his top half buried inside my truck. Even though he had assured me the alert had nothing to do with Julian, my unanswered call to the preschool unsettled me. I opened my mouth to ask if I could call again, but then I remembered: Julian was on a field trip to the library. That was why my call hadn’t been answered.
Officer Quinn lifted Julian’s booster seat. On days when there were field trips, I usually gave the preschool the booster, marked with a piece of masking tape bearing Julian’s name. The tape from the last trip still stuck to the plastic, though it had started to flake, the n that ended his name half gone. Since the library was within walking distance, Julian’s booster remained in my truck.
As Quinn examined the booster, I remembered the day Julian had graduated from his car seat. We had celebrated with cherry-flavored snow cones. For the first week, Julian hadn’t allowed me to remove the old car seat, handing it down to Mr. Carrots, a love-worn bunny whose ear I’d stitched back on several times. Then Julian had decided Mr. Carrots was safer riding in his lap. Mr. Carrots still had a cherry-syrup stain on his back. Some had also dribbled on the then-new booster, which Quinn now probed as if it held evidence of Very Bad Things.
Even knowing this wasn’t about Julian, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from that booster seat.
While I waited beside Officer Callahan, Quinn finished inspecting the interior and moved to the bed of the truck. He opened the tailgate. A heavy-duty zippered bag was secured to the sides with bungee cords. I mainly used it for stashing bags on trips home from the grocery store, but it currently held tools I’d borrowed from my dad. The bag could be rolled up and stowed when I needed the space, but most of the time I didn’t bother with that. Quinn unzipped the bag. For one horrible moment I thought: What if he finds something inside? There was room enough for a child. The juxtaposition of my memories of Julian and that thought made me queasy. I reached out to steady myself but I had nothing to hold on to. Quinn couldn’t think me capable of such a horror, could he?
But of course he could. He didn’t know me.
The thought lodged in my brain, its barbs burrowed deep: If he did know me, he might trust me less. Better that I was a stranger to him.
I watched as Quinn searched the bag. I exhaled only when he abandoned his search.
Quinn returned, his face neutral.
“Where were you headed?” he asked.
Mark. I had momentarily forgotten about our meeting. “On the way to see a friend.”
“Where does your friend live?”
“Petaluma.”
“And where were you coming from?”
“Home.” Then I shook my head. That wasn’t exactly right. I needed to be exactly right. “I mean, we were at home, then I dropped Julian off at preschool. He’s four.” My voice wavered.
“Where were you last night?”
“What time?” Stupid question. It didn’t matter what time. The answer was the same. “I was home.”
“All night?”
I managed a nod. “I got home around six. Stayed there all night.”
“Anyone else have access to your vehicle?”
“No.” Did Quinn notice the hesitation?
“And at home, it’s just the two of you?”
“Just me, Julian, and Mr. Carrots.”
Quinn cocked his head. “Mr. who?”
“Sorry. A joke. That’s my son’s stuffed rabbit.”
Quinn smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Officer Callahan will take you to the station, if that’s okay.” He said this as if it were an invitation and not an order. “We’d like to ask you some more questions.”
I glanced at my truck, but I knew it wasn’t mine to take. While Quinn had ruled out the presence of an abducted child, there were probably other, smaller tasks that required swabs and special lights. Would they need a search warrant for that? Should I be worried? Should I get a lawyer?
“Of course,” I said.
I realized Quinn still hadn’t told me what had triggered the AMBER Alert.
From her spot near the vacuum station, the woman in the Giants hat continued to stare, arms crossed, a look of self-satisfaction playing across her face. As if I were a killer she’d helped bring to justice, and not a single mom trying to figure out if she’d be home in time to pick up her son from preschool.
When I stepped from beneath the awning’s shade, the sun abraded my eyes. I shook off the unease stirred in me by the stranger. She was just a nosy woman who had spotted my license plate and then reported it to the police. That was all. She didn’t think I was a killer. There was no way she could’ve known about that.
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