mom?”
Eli nodded once.
“Did he hurt her?”
The boy looked down at the baby, then at the carton of milk in his hand. “Mommy told me not to say hurt. She said say tired.”
Lena’s stomach tightened.
“Okay,” she said. “Is your mom very tired?”
Eli nodded again, slower.
“Did she send you out with Rosie?”
“No.” Shame flooded his face. “I took her. The man said if Rosie cried one more time, he’d put her by the vending machines. Mommy couldn’t wake up. I tried. I put water on her face. She made a noise but didn’t open her eyes. So I took Rosie before he woke up.”
The rain seemed to grow louder.
Lena heard the clerk swear softly behind her.
“Which motel, Eli?”
He hugged the suitcase. “I don’t know. It has a fish sign. Blue fish. Room twelve.”
Portland had plenty of cheap motels near the terminal, but only one with a faded neon marlin over the office. Harbor Light Motel. Fifteen blocks away.
Lena kept her voice calm. “You did the right thing bringing Rosie out. Now I need to send officers to help your mom.”
“He’ll say she fell. He says that every time.”
There was the first clue, spoken like weather.
Lena shifted closer by an inch. “Has this happened before?”
Eli did not answer.
Instead, he looked down and carefully pulled the towel higher around Rosie’s chin. Beneath the lavender sweater, something pale stuck out.
An envelope.
It was folded twice and tucked against the baby’s chest. Rain had softened one corner, but the blue handwriting remained visible.
ELI.
The boy saw Lena looking and snatched it away.
“It’s mine.”
“I won’t take it.”
“Mommy said only give it to the lady with kind eyes.”
Lena felt those words lodge somewhere deep.
She did not reach for the envelope. She did not smile too much. She simply sat back on her heels in the wet and waited.
Eli studied her face with unbearable seriousness.
“Are your eyes kind?” he asked.
“I hope so,” Lena said.
“The man has nice eyes when people are looking. That doesn’t count.”
Lena nodded. “You’re right. That doesn’t count.”
Something in her answer made him decide. He held out the envelope.
Her fingers brushed his. They were icy.
Inside was a single page written in hurried, uneven handwriting.
Whoever finds my children, please don’t believe what he tells you about me.
Lena read the line once, then again.
My name is Mara Whitcomb. My son is Eli. My daughter is Rose. If they are alone, it means I could not get us out fast enough. Do not call my boyfriend their father. He is not. He has my phone, my bank card, and my ID. He tells people I am unstable. He has done it before. There is a flash drive inside Eli’s shoe. It has the videos. Please find my sister June in Tacoma. She does not know where I am. He made me cut everyone off. Please, please keep my babies together.
Lena folded the letter carefully. Procedure returned, but now it had a heartbeat.
“Eli,” she said, “is there something in your shoe?”
The boy looked at his remaining sneaker.
For a moment, he seemed to forget it was there.
“Mommy called it
