Finding Georgina

by Colleen Faulkner

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

What happens after you get what you’ve always wanted? In Colleen Faulkner’s thought-provoking and emotionally compelling novel, a mother is reunited with the daughter who was abducted as a toddler—only to face unexpected and painful challenges . . . It’s the moment Harper Broussard always dreamed of. Her daughter Georgina, snatched fourteen years ago during a Mardi Gras parade, is standing before her, making cappuccinos behind the counter of Harper’s favorite New Orleans coffee shop. Harper’s ex-husband, Remy, has patiently endured many “sightings” over the years, and assumes this is yet another false alarm. Yet this time, Harper is right. The woman who kidnapped Georgina admits to her crime. Georgina, now known as Lilla, returns to her birth parents. But in all of Harper’s homecoming fantasies, her daughter was still a little girl, easily pacified with a trip to the park or a cherry snowball. In reality, she’s a wary, confused teenager who has never known any mother except the loving woman who’s now serving time. Harper’s younger daughter, Josephine, has spent her life competing with the ghost of a perfect, missing sister. Trying to bond with the real, imperfect version isn’t any easier. And though Remy has agreed to give their strained marriage another chance, he and Harper struggle to connect. Clinging to dreams of reuniting has been Harper’s way of surviving. Now she must forge new ones on an often heartbreaking yet ultimately hopeful journey—one that will redefine her idea of motherhood and family.

Release date: February 27, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

I always thought I would see Georgina again. In heaven. What I didn’t expect was to walk into my favorite coffee shop, fourteen years after my daughter was kidnapped, to find her making a cappuccino.

The New Orleans police never came right out and said so, but from the beginning, they assumed my little girl was dead. I heard their whispering. I saw the heartrending looks on their faces. They thought my Georgina had been sexually assaulted. Murdered. Her body buried in the bayou. The police went through the motions of the investigation, but with no leads, it wasn’t much of an investigation. Georgina was just there one moment and gone the next.

People used to ask me, back in the days when people still spoke of Georgina, how I managed to go on after she was taken from us. They would ask how I managed to get up each morning and get through the day, not knowing what had happened to her. Realizing I would probably never know. The simple truth is, I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about the things that happen to little girls who are abducted from their strollers and never seen again.

So for all these years I prayed that my Georgina’s death, if she really was dead, was quick. Painless. I prayed she wasn’t afraid in the last moments of her life. But I knew she had to have been. What two-year-old wouldn’t be afraid when she’s taken from her mother by a stranger?

But I also prayed, prayed fervently when I wasn’t praying that her death was quick, that she was safe and happy, living life in another city, another state, cared for by parents who, while not her birth parents, loved her. I think a part of me never really believed Georgina was dead. A part of my mother’s heart.

My head swims and I grab the doorjamb, afraid I’m going to pass out. I used to do it all the time, back when Georgina was first taken. I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t carry my newborn baby across the living room for fear I’d fall. A defense mechanism my family physician diagnosed. When my brain couldn’t handle the heartbreak that had become my life anymore, it would just shut down, taking my body with it. I couldn’t be left alone. My mother had to move in with us. I had to take a leave of absence from my veterinary practice.

I feel dizzy, but I manage to keep myself upright. I walk into the coffee shop and let the door with the Christmas wreath on it swing shut behind me. It’s January. Why do they still have a wreath up? The bells jingle overhead, reminding me of the bell on the Christmas tree in It’s a Wonderful Life. When a bell rings, another angel gets her wings, that’s what the little Bailey girl says. I always loved that movie. Remy and I used to watch it every Christmas Eve before we went to midnight Mass. In happier days, before our marriage and my heart were shattered by our tragedy.

We always read or hear in movies about hearts being torn in half, but when my Georgina was taken from me, it felt as if my heart had been shattered with a ball-peen hammer. And later, when time had passed and we all knew our Georgina would never come home to us, no matter how hard I tried to pick up the ruins of my heart and glue them back together, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the wife Remy deserved. And for a long time, I couldn’t be the mother our daughter Jojo needed. I think I’m a decent mom now, but if you get too close to me, if you listen carefully, you’ll hear the splinters of my heart crunch beneath your shoes. You’ll see it like stardust in a halo around my head.

I manage to make it to a table in the center of the neighborhood coffee shop near my office and ease into a chair. I slide my bag off my shoulder, onto the table. I’m going to be late for my afternoon appointments; I just ran in for a pick-me-up Americano. I need to call our receptionist and tell her. But I’m afraid to look away long enough to fish my phone out of my bag. I’m afraid if I blink, Georgina will be gone again.

She’s a pretty girl. This Georgina. My height, no, she’s taller. Slender, with Remy’s dark eyes, his dark, thick hair. Her hair is long and piled high on top of her head in the messy, bird’s-nest way her sister wears hers. Only Jojo’s hair is blond with red undertones, like mine. Jojo’s fair-skinned, too. Not like Remy and Georgina. Georgina has his skin. They look perpetually tanned. His family has been here in New Orleans since Louisiana was settled by the French in the seventeenth century. There’s Creole in his blood; the darker skin, according to his grandmother, came from the years when Spain controlled the colony.

I watch Georgina, under the tutelage of one of the baristas, add frothed milk to the cappuccino she’s making. She’s so beautiful, my Georgina. She looks so grown-up that it’s hard to wrap my head around the notion. Obviously I know she’d be older now, look older, but for some reason, I always see the toddler in my head when I think of her.

The barista, Sabine, hands Georgina a serving tray. I can’t hear what they’re saying; I want desperately to hear her voice. I watch my daughter set the cappuccino and a plate with a chocolate croissant on it on a tray. Georgina carries it to a waiting customer at a table at the far end of the room from me. She walks awkwardly. I’m mesmerized. I try to take in every detail: her lanky gait, the uncertainty on her face, the wisp of hair that falls over one eye.

What do I do? Panic flutters in my chest and I fight the darkness that creeps around the edges of my consciousness. It’s just a shortage of oxygen; I breathe deeply.

I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Do I call the police? Do I call Detective Marin? No . . . not the police. Not Marin, who thinks I’m a nut job. With facts that might support that notion.

Remy. That’s who I call. Remy, my hero. Remy, always my champion.

Without taking my eyes off Georgina, I fumble in my bag for my phone. It’s supposed to go in the side pocket of the wine-colored suede hobo. It’s not there, of course, which means I have to delve into the abyss. I feel my wallet, my sunglasses case, my readers’ case, a pen, and bits of paper. And something I can’t identify. A fork wrapped in plastic? My panic rises. What if I left my phone in the car? How will I call Remy? I can’t just get up and walk out to the car. What if Georgina leaves?

If she leaves, I’ll never see her again.

Again the flutter of panic. If she leaves, how will I ever find her? Where will I look for her? The local schools? The churches? Will I drive through the local neighborhoods?

But the fear is illogical. I know that. She works here. The owners of the coffee shop must have contact information for her. They have her Social Security number, her home address, for heaven’s sake . . . But they can’t have her Social Security number, can they? Not her real one, because I have her Social Security card in the fire safe at the house. It was issued when she was born. Remy thought we should turn the Social Security number in, but we never had her declared dead, so why would we?

Sweat beads on my forehead, despite the cool weather of early January. Cool, at least, for Louisiana. Maybe it’s just another hot flash coming on. I keep thinking I’m too young for hot flashes. Who has hot flashes at forty-four?

Lots of women, says my gynecologist. Perimenopause.

As I watch Georgina walk behind the counter, my fingertips touch the familiar edge of my cell phone and I pull it out of my bag with an audible sigh of relief. Keeping her in my peripheral vision, I choose Remy’s name from my “favorites” in my contacts and lift the phone to my ear.

Four rings and it goes to voice mail.

I disconnect and redial.

“Pick up, pick up,” I murmur under my breath. “Come on, Remy.”

Voice mail again.

I end the call. This is not the kind of thing you leave a message about.

Sabine is walking toward me.

My finger hovers over Remy’s name. I tap it.

“Can I get you something?” Sabine asks me. She looks concerned. She’s cute; early twenties, short-cropped hair, and skin as smooth as a baby’s. I’m jealous of her perfect complexion. My teenage acne has recently resurfaced.

“No, I’m—” The phone is ringing in my ear. Remy isn’t answering. Why isn’t he answering? He knows the signal for an emergency. Three calls in rapid succession. I hang up when it goes to voice mail. He’ll call me back. He has to call me back. “Um . . . yeah . . . yes. A medium Americano?”

“For here or to go?”

I lower the phone. Where the hell is Remy? What if Jojo is sick, or hurt? What if she’s been kidnapped? Remy’s gently reminded me hundreds of times, maybe thousands, over the years, that the odds of having two children kidnapped, in two separate incidents, is astronomical. But it could happen. Like the guy who survived two commercial airline crashes, seven years apart. I always remind him of that.

“I was just asking because it’s Thursday,” Sabine says. “You have evening hours, right? You usually take it to go.”

She’s still looking at me with concern. As if I’m acting a little crazy. Weird, at the very least.

“I . . . um. To go is fine, I just . . .” I grip the phone, looking past Sabine to my daughter behind the counter. She’s staring at the cash register, trying to figure out how to ring up a customer who has a bag of pastries in his hand. “The new girl. The . . .” I touch my hair. “Brunette. She . . . just started?”

Sabine glances over her shoulder, then back at me. “Lilla? Yeah. This week. Tuesday, I think. After school. I’m training her.”

“Tuesday,” I echo. I was here Tuesday, Tuesday morning. I got an Americano for myself and a latte and bear claw for Samantha. She owns the veterinary practice where I work as a veterinarian. We used to be partners; she bought me out after the kidnapping. I work Mondays and Tuesdays nine to six. But Thursdays I work evening hours. Which means I was here Tuesday and Georgina came in later. What if I hadn’t come in today? What if I had missed my daughter? What if our paths had never crossed again?

But that seems impossible because seeing her here, now, means God always meant for me to have my daughter again. I just know it.

“Lilla,” I repeat, testing the sound of the name. It never occurred to me that the people who kidnapped her would have given her another name. Of course they would have. Georgina was so little and just beginning to talk; even if she tried to tell someone her name, they may not have been able to understand her.

My impulse is to tell Sabine that that isn’t her name. That her name is Georgina, Georgina Elise Broussard, and that she’s my daughter. Fortunately I have enough sense not to say it. “Just the Americano.” I force a smile. “And a scone, cranberry walnut. If you have any left.”

“Sure do.”

As Sabine walks away, my phone vibrates in my lap.

“Remy!” I say quietly into the phone, my gaze on Georgina again.

“I was in a meeting.” He sounds annoyed, bordering on pissed. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s here. At Perfect Cup.” My eyes flood with tears and, for a moment, I can’t speak. All the pain, all the fear, all the abject sorrow of the last fourteen years lodges in my throat. “Remy, I found her,” I choke.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. Long enough for me to say, “Remy, I know what you’re going to say, but I’m telling you, it’s her. It’s Georgina. I’m sure of it.”

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

“Remy?”

He exhales. “Harper . . .”

“I know, I know,” I say quickly. I close my eyes for an instant, then open them. She’s still there. My Georgina is still there behind the counter. She’s not a figment of my imagination. Not part of a dream that seems so real that I can still smell her baby hair when I startle awake in the middle of the night and reach for a Xanax.

I watch my daughter carry a little stainless-steel milk pitcher to the sink. “But it’s her, Remy.”

He takes his time before responding. “Harper, I can’t talk right now. I’m in with the assistant dean.” He suddenly sounds tired. Tired of me, I suspect.

“Remy—”

“Baby, I . . . I can’t do this, at all,” he says. “Not again. I told you that the last time. I just can’t.”

I can hear the pain in his voice and the tears well in my eyes again. Sometimes it’s so easy to get wrapped up in my own loss that I forget she was his baby, too. “Remy, please.”

“I have to go.”

I press my lips together. Sabine is watching me from behind the counter. “Remy, you have to listen to me.” I go on faster than before. I’m bordering on manic. “I know . . . I know I’ve told you I’ve seen her before.”

“You’ve called the police before, Harper. You’ve accused people of kidnapping our child. You’ve had Child Protective Services interview . . . disrupt families. That girl in Jojo’s gymnastics class. Remember? You wanted to get our attorney to file a motion for a maternity test.”

I close my eyes. “I know,” I whisper, “but this is different, Remy.” I open my eyes again. “I swear to you”—my voice catches in my throat—“this is our Georgina.”

He exhales, or sighs, or maybe it’s a groan. “I have to go, baby,” he says. “They’re waiting on me.”

The phone goes dead and for a moment I stare at it. He hung up on me? My husband hung up on me?

Okay, ex-husband. Which I suppose makes it more likely.

I glance at Georgina. Sabine is talking to her as she retrieves my scone and puts it in a bag. Georgina’s nodding as she wipes up a spill from the counter. She seems to be a serious girl. Which makes sense. She was a serious toddler, too . . . as toddlers go. Not that she didn’t laugh; she was just never as carefree as Jojo was.

I stare at her for a long moment. Is Remy right? Is this just another false alarm? But false alarms are thinking you left the stove on, only to go back into the house to find it off. Or . . . thinking you’re pregnant when you’re just late. Those are false alarms. Seeing your missing child on playgrounds, in grocery stores, on the streetcar. That’s different, isn’t it?

But is Remy right? Am I mistaken again? Do I want to see Georgina so badly, even after fourteen years, that I imagine her? What if I’m wrong?

Sabine brings me my coffee in a to-go cup, my scone in a bag. I pay her and include a tip. I know how much I owe her because I get the same thing all the time.

“Thanks.” Sabine flashes me a smile.

I look at Georgina again. I try to study her without allowing my emotions to take over. Is Remy right? Does she just look like what I have imagined she must look like now? Except that when I saw her, I was surprised by how much older she looks than I had imagined.

And I’m right. And Remy is wrong. The girl behind the counter is our daughter.

I pick up my phone and attempt to do something our fourteen-year-old Jojo does all the time. I pretend to take a selfie while actually focusing the camera on someone or something across the room. Usually Jojo is taking pics of a dog in a stormtrooper costume or a granny in leather pants and a sequined crop top.

I pretend to fuss with my bangs while centering the shot on Georgina’s face. I wonder how obvious it is what I’m doing.

I don’t care.

I zoom in on her face and take three pics in rapid succession. I look at one after the other.

It’s her. I know it’s her. Tears fill my eyes again. I message the photo to Remy.

Two minutes later, before my coffee is even cool enough to sip, I get a text from Remy.

Be there in fifteen minutes.

I slice off two pieces of bread from an English muffin loaf with a serrated blade from my mom’s knife roll. Some chefs freak out if someone touches their personal knives, but not my mom. At least not with me. If someone picked up one of her knives at work without asking, I don’t think she’d cut them or anything, but she probably wouldn’t like it. Knives are personal for chefs.

I carefully wipe off the blade with a hand towel and, stepping over a cardboard box, return it to the leather roll on the center island. We still haven’t unpacked, even though we moved to New Orleans three months ago. There are boxes everywhere. Except in my room; I unpacked my stuff the weekend we got here. I don’t mind the kitchen and living room being a mess, but my bedroom where I sleep and do my homework has to be tidy. As dumb as it sounds, things are so disordered in my sixteen-year-old head that I need some order somewhere.

I like the house we rented in Bayou St. John near City Park in New Orleans. It’s called a single shotgun. You have to walk through one room to get to the next. No hallways. They call it a shotgun because you can stand at the front door and shoot through the back without hitting the walls, because the rooms are lined up, one after the other. I Googled it. I don’t know anything about guns, but I guess you could throw a chef’s knife from the front door through the back if you wanted to. If you were good at throwing knives.

I wrap up the bread and take my slices to the toaster oven. While I wait, I slide onto a stool at the island and flip open my statistics book. Quiz, third block. I already know the material, but I look over it anyway because I’m a nerd and that’s what nerds do. They study even when they’re already going to get an A.

I check the time on my phone on the counter. I have to leave in ten minutes. I can walk to school, which is nice because Mom works late most nights. When I was little it was hard on her, working until one or two in the morning, then only getting a few hours’ sleep before she had to get me up for school. But even though she’s always worked nights, she never let any of my babysitters make my breakfast or take me to school. That was her job, she always said. And even now that I’m old enough to get myself off to school, she still gets up a lot of mornings and makes me breakfast. Sometimes she makes fancy Challah bread French toast, or chocolate waffles with peanut butter sauce, but other mornings she makes my favorite. What I used to call “dippy egg” when I was little. Actually I still call it that, but I made up the name when I was little. It’s an egg fried soft in the center of a piece of toast that has a circle cut out for the egg. Mom says a good chef knows how to recognize a good meal, even when it’s simple.

The toaster oven dings and I slide off the stool to get my English muffin toast. Mom and I found a cool bakery that makes amazing donuts and these loaves of English muffin bread. I put the hot slices on a plate, glass not paper. We may do cardboard boxes, but we don’t do paper plates. Negates a good meal, Mom says. I get Irish butter out of the refrigerator and grab a butter knife on the way back to the counter. We haven’t found the silverware or the plates and bowls and stuff yet because Mom mislabeled all the boxes. I found my hair stuff and tampons in the box labeled “coat closet.” We bought two place settings of silverware and dishware at a flea market. They’re antiques so that’s cool. And dishes don’t pile up in the sink, so I’m fine with not unpacking the dishware that’s probably labeled “underwear.”

I’m scraping the tiniest bit of butter across my toast, because that’s the way I like it, when Mom walks into the kitchen in her robe. Her hair is all messy and her eyes puffy from only a few hours of sleep. But she’s smiling. At me. Because I’m the center of her world. And as uncool as it is, she’s the center of mine.

She sleeps in the bedroom behind the kitchen and I have the back bedroom. Which means I have to walk through her bedroom to get to the bathroom, kitchen, or living room from my room. When we moved in, she insisted I take the back room. She said a sixteen-year-old girl needed privacy. I teased her that having the front bedroom was going to get in the way of her love life and we both laughed. Mom doesn’t date. Never has. Well, I guess she did at some point because she got knocked up with me. My dad was a one-night stand. Another chef. It used to upset me that that was the way I came into the world, by a busted condom or whatever, but I’m over it. I’m old enough now to realize how lucky I am to have a parent like mine. The kind of mom who, after I was born, decided her priority was being my mother. She said she didn’t have the time or the energy to work and be a mother and someone’s girlfriend at the same time.

“Did I wake you?” I ask. I make a face. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head. She’s wearing the bathrobe I gave her for Mother’s Day last year. It’s bright yellow and has Tweety Birds all over it. She’s into old-school cartoon memorabilia.

“You didn’t wake me.” As she walks past me, she kisses my shoulder. I’m taller than she is now. Taller and a lot skinnier. Mom’s kind of short and round.

“Thought I’d work on unpacking for a few hours. Time this house started looking like a home.” She goes to the counter and pours coffee beans from a Mason jar into the grinder. Hits the button to grind the beans.

I wait for the whine to stop. “Go back to bed. You didn’t get home until two thirty in the morning.”

“Oy vey iz mir. Fresh fish order wasn’t right again. They’ve got a great menu, but their organization is a disaster.” She sighs as she dumps the ground coffee into a press. Then she takes the electric kettle to fill it with water from the faucet. “You working this afternoon?”

“Till seven.” I take a bite of my English muffin toast and tap my phone to check the time. I hate that I have to head to school. I’d rather sit here and have coffee with Mom. I’d even rather unpack boxes with her. It seems like we never have enough time together, not with her working nights and weekends. But her new job is a good one, at one of the fancy restaurants in the Warehouse District. I assumed she would want to work in the French Quarter, but she likes the Warehouse District. She says the clientele is better. I was born here, but we moved when I was two, so I don’t remember it. But I’m excited about getting to know my birth city.

“We talked about you working and going to school, bubbeleh.” Mom comes to lean on the counter next to me. She smells good. Like her Calvin Klein perfume and sweet potato biscuits.

I push one of my slices of toast across the counter to her. She takes it.

“You don’t need a job,” she says, taking a bite.

I guess my mom’s not pretty by contemporary standards. Of course, who is, what with the Kardashians plastered all over the Internet? My mom’s got dark, curly hair and dark eyes and kind of a big nose. I didn’t get her nose. I really don’t look much like her at all, really, except my hair is dark and my skin is the same color as hers. We’re not white white, but we’re not “people of color,” either. She says our skin tone comes from ancestors in Hungary. We’re Jews.

“We’re going to be fine, financially,” Mom says. “I’m making quite a bit more than I was in Baton Rouge.”

“But rent’s higher here,” I counter.

The electric kettle clicks off. “I still don’t like the idea of you working.” She turns away, munching on the toast. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to work.”

I close my statistics book. “Right, but I need to save for college.”

She laughs, which hurts my feelings a little bit. Sometimes she teases me that she doesn’t know where my geekiness comes from. I guess when she was younger, she was kind of wild. Got expelled from school a couple of times. Was promiscuous. Obviously. She has tattoos.

“Well, I do.” I get off the stool. “Do you know what tuition is at Tulane, even in state?”

She pours boiling water into the French press. “Coffee?”

“Can’t. Gotta go.” I push my book into my old blue backpack that I’ve had since I was in middle school. Mom keeps offering to buy me a new one, but I like this one. It’s kind of my security blanket.

The front doorbell rings and I look at her. “Who’s that at seven forty in the morning?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I called the landlord about the toilet running, but she said she’d call before she sent someone over.” She tightens the tie on her robe. “I’ll get it.”

“I’m on my way out. I’ll get it. Kisses.” I make a smacking sound with my lips as I throw my backpack over my shoulder.

“Ring me after school,” she calls after me. “Good luck on the calculus test.”

“Statistics,” I correct her as the doorbell rings again. “Frequency distributions.” I walk out of the kitchen. “Love you, Mama Bear.”

“Love you, Baby Bear.”

I peek out the sidelight of the door before I open it because that’s what my mom taught me to do. Another notch in my geek belt. There are two police officers standing on our step. Wrong house? There’s a whole row of shotguns on our street. But ours is the only mint-green one. I open the door. “Hi.”

“Lilla Kohen?” the woman asks. Her skin is so dark that it’s shiny, and she has a distinct accent. British maybe?

“Yes?” I frown again because this is totally weird. Cops have never come to our door before. Not anywhere we’ve lived, and we’ve lived lots of places. The life of a chef.

“Are your parents home?” There’s a white guy with her. He looks like what you think a city cop ought to look like: older; beer belly; stern, wrinkly face. But the woman seems to be in charge.

“Um . . .” I step back, feeling uncomfortable, and I’m not sure why. “No dad. Just my mom.”

“Can we come in?” As she says it, she steps into the living room, forcing me to back up.

“Sure.” My tone is a little sarcastic. “Mom?” I call, taking another step back.

Mom is just walking into the living room. “I’m Sharon Kohen. Can I help you?”

The guy cop is just coming in the door behind the woman. His radio crackles and there’s a voice, but I don’t catch what’s being said. I’m mildly embarrassed to have the cops see our house in such disarray. I push a cardboard box with the toe of my white Converse to make room for him to come all the way in. It’s labeled “books,” which might mean the missing silverware is inside.

The woman cop looks at me and then at my mom. “Could we speak with you privately, Mrs. Kohen?”

I wonder if there’s been a robbery at the new restaurant. At one of the places where my mom worked in Baton Rouge, a busboy or dishwasher or someone helped himself to the cash drawer one night and my mom was interviewed by the police.

“I’m gonna be late if I don’t get going,” I tell my mom, looking to her.

She nods.

But the cops don’t move out of my way to let me pass.

“Actually,” the woman cop says, “we’ll need to speak to Lilla, too. But we want to speak with you first, Mrs. Kohen. Separately.”

I’m surprised my mom doesn’t correct her on the “Mrs.” She usually does. She’s never been embarrassed by the fact that she was never married to my dad. Or didn’t even know his middle name. But there’s something about the cop’s tone of voice that seems to worry my mother. All of a sudden she’s got this odd look on her face. She’s holding both ends of the tie to her bathrobe. But she’s gripping them really tightly.

“You want me to go into the kitchen?” I ask my mom.

“I think you should leave.”

For a second, I think my mom’s talking to me. But then I realize she’s talking to the cops. There’s something wrong with her. Her voice is all wrong. And suddenly I have this horrible, sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like when I’m watching a scary movie and I know the girl is about to be killed by the guy with the ax.

“Mrs. Kohen.” It’s the guy cop, now.

“Leave. Leave us alone,” Mom says in a voice I’ve never heard. It’s like she’s scared and pissed and . . . a little bit bat-shit crazy.

The cops look at each other.

“Mrs. Kohen,” the woman repeats in what is definit. . .