Page 10 of Rescued By Midnight

“Any direction about where she ran from, to end up here?” I ask.

“No, because it rained after she was found. We have a couple ideas, nothing firm. But if I did know, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” He doesn’t apologize. I wouldn’t expect that, anyway. We have mutual respect for each other’s roles in solving the mysteries and miseries of San Esteban.

“I’m gonna have a look around,” I say. “Will you let your people know so they don’t bother me?”

“Yeah. As long as you?—”

“Share anything I might find. Sure thing.” I give him a mock salute and start ambling through the grassy embankment.

This area has already been covered, as told by the numerous heavy footsteps and bent and broken grasses. I imagine Alice out here, stumbling and scared, rapidly losing energy as she moves through the grass. It would stick to that nightgown, pull her back. It would cut her feet, along with rocks hidden within the soil.

If it rained, she would be shivering not only with fear, but with cold. I can’t fucking stand it.

A too-chirpy male newscaster’s voice reaches my ears as I loop back toward the road. “And some are theorizing that Alice Meeks plotted the whole thing alone.”

I stop dead in my tracks. What the fuck? How could they even say that?

The reporter continues, “Because no kidnapper has appeared. Wouldn’t it be interesting if Alice Meeks wasn't kidnapped—if instead, she ran away.”

That’s not right. Alice didn't run away. And saying such a thing on the news? Alice is probably having a hard enough time already, she doesn’t need the public to turn against her. Who the fuck is this guy, starting these shit rumors?

I whirl around to check out the reporter. I've seen him on TV before, and on VideYou. Mitchell Something-or-other. Fuckin' asshole. When he isn't kissing the asses of powerful politicians, he's spreading misinformation like an evangelist spreading the gospel.

Mitchell leans in closer to his mic, like he's telling a secret. “Think about it. A sexually frustrated tradwife, trapped in her marriage and eager for some adventure?—”

“No.” The word escapes my mouth before I can think it through.

The reporter turns, his bushy gray mustache wiggling in excitement. “Sorry, sir, did you say something?”

“I said no. She wouldn't have run off. She isn't like that.”

How the fuck dare he lie about Alice? I consciously have to release my clenched fists. Force myself to calm down, to chill.

Mitchell gestures for his camerawoman to follow him. “Make sure you get this.” To me, he says, “Would you care to comment on the case?”

I shrug. “Only to say that you need to stop spreading lies. Everything you say is a lie.”

“Particularly about Alice Meeks?” he asks. “What is your connection to her disappearance?”

Shaking my head, I start to walk away. My blood is boiling. I've already said too much. I just can't stand the thought of people lying about her like this. The fucking nerve of this clown.

“New theory,” Mitchell says loudly, from behind me. “Alice Meeks had a man on the side, a man who helped her run away from her humdrum, tradwife life. He would have been able to hide her for thirteen months, and her ‘escape’ was their break-up after a long, torrid affair?—”

I spin back around, fist held aloft.

“Sprechter!” Baldwin barks.

I freeze.

Mitchell is staring at me, a smarmy grin on his face, his bleached teeth so white they're blinding.

He wants me to hit him.

I want to hit him.

Seems like everything should go forward as planned, since all parties are on board.

But Baldwin is striding toward us, his face grim. To the camera operator, he says, “Delete the last five minutes. Then delete the back-up. Now.”