Chapter 5 - THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE DINER PHOTOGRAPH
By morning, Arthur Romano's men had found three photographs connecting Walter Carmichael to the adoption agency.
None explained why my boss had threatened me.
Until I noticed the girl.
She appeared in the corner of a photograph taken seven years earlier.
Brown curls.
Pale gray eyes.
A small white scar beneath her chin.
I knew that face.
"Arthur."
He looked up.
"Who is she?"
I pointed.
His expression changed.
"You recognize her?"
I nodded slowly.
"Her name is Rosie."
Arthur went completely still.
"Rosie?"
"She used to come into Carmichael's Diner every Saturday."
My mind raced backward through years of memories.
Rosie sitting in the corner booth.
Rosie coloring pictures with broken crayons.
Rosie ordering strawberry milkshakes and asking for extra whipped cream.
Rosie disappearing suddenly three years earlier.
I remembered asking Carmichael what happened.
He'd said her family moved.
I hadn't questioned it.
Why would I?
She was just a child.
Arthur stared at the photograph.
"How old was she?"
"About six when I met her. She'd be nine now."
"Nine," he repeated.
His daughter would have been nine.
I looked at him.
Neither of us needed to say it.
The resemblance was impossible to ignore.
Arthur called Vincent.
"Find a child named Rosie connected to Walter Carmichael."
"Last name?"
"I don't know."
"School?"
"I don't know."
Arthur slammed his fist against the mattress.
"Find her."
I stepped forward.
"Arthur."
He looked at me.
"You're frightening Brutus."
The dog stood near the doorway, his massive head lowered.
Arthur's expression changed.
He inhaled slowly.
Then looked at Vincent's number on the screen.
"I'm sorry. Find whatever records you can legally obtain. Work with Agent Miller."
He disconnected.
I sat beside him.
"You can't solve nine years in one phone call."
His gray eyes found mine.
"She's my daughter."
"Maybe."
The word hurt him.
I could see it.
But I refused to offer certainty we didn't have.
"Maybe," I repeated gently. "And if she is, we're going to find her."
Arthur studied me.
"Why are you doing this?"
I thought about Rosie.
The little girl who always insisted on leaving me a tip from her allowance.
Usually three quarters and a penny.
Because, she'd explained once, "Maeve works harder than anyone."
I swallowed.
"Because somebody should have asked where she went."
Arthur looked at me for a long moment.
Then his phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared.
Rosie.
Older now.
Standing beside a school bus.
A date stamp showed it had been taken the previous week.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
Your daughter is alive, Romano.
But if you want to see her again, bring the waitress.
Arthur slowly lifted his eyes toward me.
And I understood the terrible truth.
May you like
Whoever had taken Rosie didn't simply want Arthur Romano.
They wanted me too.
