TIMOFEY
I can feel the dampness in the air the moment I open the garage door. The sky is darker than usual. Gray clouds hang low and heavy, swollen with rain.
I grab the motorcycle helmet I've come to think of as Piper's and roll my motorcycle into the driveway.
While I wait for her, I pull out my phone and dial Rooney's cell number.
"Detective Rooney." The greeting is short and clipped, as far as greetings from James usually go. It lets me know someone else is within earshot. He wants this to sound like a professional call, which works for me.
"Missing kid. Seven years old, give or take. Blonde hair."
"Did you—" He cuts himself off and clears his throat. "When did she go missing?"
"I'm not sure."
"How are you not sure?" he hisses.
I realize all at once what he's asking. "Because I didn't fucking kidnap her,mudak."
"Oh. Okay. Good." Rooney sounds relieved, but I don't know why. I've never hurt a child. Ever.
