Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

of creamy polenta and her eyes rolled back, which made him smile. “The Jordans were sure it was him,” she said as she chewed. “That’s the parents of the girl who went missing. He’s a registered sex offender, worked for the girl’s father. But I found evidence on social media that he was in the middle of a conversation at the time of the kidnapping, so now basically the whole day of investigation is down the tubes, and she’s already been missing for over thirty-six hours.”

“If anyone can help find her, it’s you.”

She looked up, surprised, but Martín was studying his plate intently. “You’re just saying that ’cause you know I was pissed before,” she said after moment.

“I’m not just saying it. I was worried earlier.” He picked at the chicken with his fork. “I still am. But I also think I get why you need to be on this case. I work with detectives every day, but you’re one of the best investigators I know. You know more about child abduction than most, even if you are still new to investigating it. If you think I’m just saying that to make up for before, you’re selling yourself short.” Finally, he looked back up, meeting her gaze. “I’m not sorry for being concerned about you, but I am sorry I made you feel like I didn’t think you could make your own decisions.”

A small part of her wanted the decision to be out of her hands, though. Maybe it was the wine or the rich food, but the exhaustion from the last few days was hitting her hard.

“You think better of me than I am,” she said at last. The words brought up a surprise knot of emotion, and she had to blink tears away while she looked at him.

“No, Elle.” Martín’s voice was firm. “I just know you are better than you think.”

Halfway through washing the dishes after dinner, Elle saw her phone light up with a message. She wiped her soapy hands on the dish towel and opened it to find a text from Natalie.

MOM SAYS YOU’RE MAD AT HER.

Elle sighed and typed back. I AM NOT.

DOES THIS MEAN YOU WON’T PICK ME UP FROM PIANO FRIDAY?

OF COURSE I’LL PICK YOU UP. AND I’M NOT MAD AT YOUR MOM.

Natalie sent back a girl-shrugging emoji.

I’LL SEE YOU FRIDAY AT FIVE. BE NICE TO MS. TURNER.

NO PROMISES ?

Elle chuckled and set her phone down. After finishing the dishes, she turned off all the lights and went up to bed, where Martín was already snoring lightly, having failed to wait up for her. Part of being a doctor meant being able to fall asleep whenever, wherever. When he was doing his residency, she’d made him stop driving for a few months after watching him drop off while waiting at a stoplight.

She climbed into bed next to him, wrapped one arm around his body, and drew him close. But when she closed her eyes, she was in a different room. She heard another man’s voice saying her name, telling her to come to him. She felt his hands, strong and cold, on her skin.

Elle buried her face between her husband’s shoulders, squeezing her whole body tight as if that could shut out the memories.

18

Elle

January 16, 2020

The next morning, Elle arrived at the station just after nine, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. Ayaan waved her in before Elle even had a chance to knock. Holding the folder containing printed screenshots of Graham’s tweets, she stepped in and sat down across from the commander.

“Forensics is finished at Wallace’s house,” Ayaan said, looking disappointed. “Aside from some marijuana, the most suspicious thing was in his streaming record. A few nights ago, he watched an adult film which depicted two teenage girls engaging in sexual acts with each other.”

“Child porn?” Elle’s lip curled.

Ayaan shook her head. “Two adult women acting like they were teenagers. We have found no evidence that Mr. Wallace had any child pornography in his possession.” She sighed. “I got your message. What’s this about his Twitter account?”

Nodding, Elle put the papers on the desk and pushed them across to Ayaan. “I don’t think he could have taken Amanda. Graham was in a full-on Twitter war during the exact window of time that she was kidnapped. I double-checked the times. He sent eight tweets in the five minutes the bus driver says she would have been stopping to pick up at Amanda’s corner.”

Ayaan looked through the papers and then opened something up on her computer—probably her witness statements about the time of the abduction. Finally, she looked up at Elle. “Is there any chance he scheduled the tweets ahead of time?”

Elle had anticipated that. “I don’t think so. You can schedule tweets, but you can’t schedule a whole, live argument with a person. I checked out the blogger he was talking to. She’s verified, lives in Montreal. She has blogs going back to 2012 and more than seven years of pictures on her social media accounts that are clearly taken in different parts of Canada. Seems like a pretty elaborate long-term con, not to mention a huge escalation for someone whose other crimes were committed under the pretense of a romantic relationship.”

“You’re probably right.” Her expression neutral, Ayaan picked up her phone and hit three keys. “Hey, Cruise. Can you look at Wallace’s Twitter account for the time of the kidnapping? Handle @wallyg420. If it checks out, please call Miss Delaney and let her know her client is free to go. No, if she wants to speak to me, she can schedule an appointment. Thank you.”

After she hung up, Ayaan looked down at the papers on her desk again. “We might be back at square one.”

“I guess so. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad you found it now, so we don’t waste any more time on him. I am concerned, though. If she was taken for ransom, they should have called by now.