12. SKYE

Kuna, Idaho

Now

There were seventy-two hours of security footage saved on the camera.

Ken removed the memory stick and popped it into a thumb drive on his keychain. "It's good you came today. The camera loops over itself after seventy-two hours. So there's a lot. If we don't get through all of it, I'll make you a copy." He glanced at the door to the small office, and I knew he was thinking about what Don, the owner, would say about giving out a copy of the security footage. Don said no to everything. Thankfully, Don was almost never around.

Ken hit the "backup" button on the camera, which resulted in a ping to his phone. I wished I could give him a hug.

A few minutes later he pressed play at 8:00 a.m. on Friday, when I'd first arrived for my shift. He and my mom watched in silence as I moved into frame at the east edge of the parking lot, walking quickly but glued to the screen of my phone. I was smiling, watching some video or meme I couldn't remember now. It was just a normal day. A happy day. The last time I'd have to work a morning shift before my first weekend at college.

After I went inside and out of frame, Ken scanned forward in the security footage. Each time a car entered the parking lot or an employee exited the building, he hit play.

"That's him," I screamed when a blue Kia appeared on the screen, in the far side of the lot. The footage stopped zooming forward and froze momentarily, and I tried to tamp down my nervous excitement. "That's him," I whispered again as the video resumed at normal speed.

"That's him," Ken said as if repeating me. "That's the regular I was telling you about."

James walked into the Daily Grind then re-emerged a few minutes later with his hot chocolate. My mom frowned when he got back into the car and drove away. It was slow-going. "I can go through this later, I don't want to take up any more of your time. I know you need to work. I just thought maybe you'd recognize something out of the ordinary better than I would. Will you go forward to the end of her shift? She was supposed to get off around four."

Ken nodded and kept scanning the footage in fast-forward. Cars zipped in and out of frame. The mail arrived. A couple of high schoolers made out in front of their car. A flock of seagulls descended to eat someone's discarded bagel remains.

The blue Kia appeared a second time, pulling into the lot at the very edge of the video frame. Nobody got out of the car this time.

When I saw it, the jolt of emotion shut down Ken's phone. My mom panicked. "Did you lose it? Where did it go?"

Ken shook his head in frustration and pressed his phone's home button. "No, the backup is saved. I think it's just a big file." He frowned at the black screen.

Just as the phone rebooted, someone knocked at the office door and a petite brunette who had started the week before—Allison?— poked her head into the room. "Hey, uh. It's getting kind of busy out there—should I call Don about getting someone else on shift or ..." She smiled sweetly, and Ken blanched.

"Um, no. I'll be out in just a second, okay?" he said, throwing my mom an apologetic look. I didn't blame him. It was almost eight. But I tried my darndest to slam the door on Allison as she left. I did not succeed.

"You've been really, really helpful," my mom said. "You get to work, and I'll watch it at home." She stood up and turned her head before he could see her get teary-eyed again, but her voice couldn't hide it. "I just feel so helpless. Like there's nothing I can do. This gives me something at least."

Ken awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything else. And please let me know when you find her. I'll ask around to anyone else who was on shift yesterday to see if they noticed anything." I wished again that I could hug him as I followed my mom back to her car.

She kept it together as she drove out of the parking lot then pulled over on a side street that turned into the strip mall to cry.

Her phone pinged once, announcing the incoming email from Ken with the footage. Then again, with a text from my dad. His flight had just taken off. He'd be there in two hours.

* * *

The blue Kia cruised through the footage five times before my shift ended, on the hour. Each time, he pulled into the back corner of the lot, facing the front of the building. Stayed parked for a while. Then drove away.

He had been waiting for me to get off shift.

Each time I saw the blue car, the video briefly froze as my excitement and horror bubbled up.

At first I was hopeful that the freeze-frame would make it easier for my mom to recognize the car as the same one that kept appearing in the parking lot. But of the hundreds of cars that moved into the lot in fast-forward, she didn't notice the Kia. She just got panicky that the video was doing something trippy and started muttering a prayer that it wouldn't crash.

Every few minutes, she checked her phone and felt for the ringer to make sure that it was turned on and that she hadn't missed a call.

She hadn't.

* * *

My dad looked like he hadn't slept.

When he saw my mom's puffy face, his own eyes got red but he grimaced and waved her off. "It's gonna be okay, Mari. Let"s not waste time getting emotional."

My mom bit her lip but said nothing as he dragged the suitcase through the front door, intentionally not looking at the photos of me lining the hallway.

I suddenly remembered in stunning clarity the time we had to put my cat Snickers to sleep. It was right before he moved away. When I was in third grade. I hadn't understood what "putting Snickers out of her misery" meant, even though I was old enough that I should have. Especially given that Snickers had just gotten caught in the garage door. I guess I thought they were going to help her. Put her out of her misery and make her better again.

She cried pitiful frail mewls while my dad wrapped her in an old beach towel and my mom hurried to call the vet to see if they were still open. I stroked her black-and-white head, careful not to touch the line of dark red coming from one ear.

When my dad came home from the vet without the cat an hour later, I couldn't stop crying. I had told her it would be okay. And I hadn't said goodbye. Not really.

My dad had taken me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, "I'm sorry, Skyebird. But what's done is done."

The words echoed in my memory as I watched my parents—who hadn't seen each other for at least a year now—sit side by side, scrutinizing the rest of the security footage.

What's done is done.

* * *

When the footage showed a timestamp of 4:00—the end of my shift—the blue Kia reappeared at the far edge of the parking lot.

Then at 4:09, as I walked into frame after gathering my things, the car pulled through the open space and into the long, narrow strip mall.

I studied my parent's faces, waiting for them to connect the dots.

But a gray Honda pulled out at the same time. Just as a blue Ford sailed past. I knew I wouldn't have noticed the Kia either except for the fact that I was looking for him.

A sinking sense of panic took me like a riptide as I saw myself walk toward the other edge of the video frame. Toward the second entrance from the parking lot to the strip mall. The blue Kia wasn't visible anymore. He'd pulled out of the other parking lot entrance.

I was about to walk out of the camera view.

Which meant that they wouldn't see me get into his car or even talk to him. I'd gotten into the Kia when I passed the FroYo, at least twenty yards away. I remembered wondering if that's where he'd been.

But right before I stepped out of frame in the security footage, my hand went up.

My mom saw it too. "Did you see that?" She leaned forward and nearly toppled the computer off the kitchen table.

My dad shook his head and righted the computer. "What? What was it?"

"She waved. She was waving to someone. Or starting to wave, anyway. Her hand went up and—" My mom quickly rewound the footage back a few seconds and they both watched in silence as I stepped to the edge of the security footage and started to raise my right arm. My mom hit pause.

It was hard to see my expression in the footage. It wasn't crystal clear. But even from a distance, you could tell that I was smiling at someone.

The panic receded, replaced by a fizz of excitement. "Yes, I was waving. At him, at the blue Kia," I exclaimed to zero reaction.

My dad leaned in closer and studied the screen for a few seconds. Then he pulled out his phone. "She's definitely waving at someone. What's the number the police gave you? They should know."

My mom unlocked her phone to pull up the number, rubbing her forefinger and thumb together like she always did when she was nervous. "They'll just say it's one of her friends." She paused then added hopefully, "Maybe it was?"

My dad nodded slowly but wouldn't meet her eyes as he dialed the police. My mom rewound the footage one more time before pressing play to keep watching the rest. Just in case I showed up back at work, I guess. I knew I wouldn't. Not alive, anyway. So I listened to my dad's conversation with the police instead.

To my surprise, the woman who picked up—the same one my mom had spoken to earlier—told him that she had passed on my mom's comments from earlier. Officer Willis was the name of the officer who would be looking into what had happened to me. There was no official investigation yet. But Officer Willis would look at the video they had—and anything else my parents felt like was important—to determine next steps and evaluate the level of likelihood that I was indeed missing.

My dad thanked the dispatcher and hung up. "An officer will be here this afternoon. They're gonna ‘evaluate' the case. Which means we need to figure out whatever we can before he gets here. She's in trouble, Mari. I know she is." His voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat. "I know I haven't seen her every day like you have, and I know it's been a while and I feel like shit about that, but she's my daughter and I know her. She wouldn't disappear like this for no good reason. She wouldn't. What else can we do before that officer gets here?"

My mom shook her head and wiped at her cheeks. "I was really hoping we'd see something on the video. I guess—I guess we could go back to the coffee shop and see if anyone else saw anything? A regular? Maybe that hot chocolate guy who came in every day will be there?"

I perked up at this. Maybe he would be back. I felt sick at the idea of my parents running into him. But maybe, just maybe he'd come in. Maybe he'd let something slip. Or maybe someone else who had been on shift or on a smoke break noticed me getting into his car.

There were only so many threads to follow when someone disappeared into thin air.

I thought about my body, lying still and broken off Blacks Creek Road. I both longed for and dreaded being found. It would snuff the light right out of my parents' eyes. But seeing the flickers of hope was worse, when I knew without a shred of doubt that there was no chance I was coming back.