Page 101 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass
“Hopefully my guy can put us in contact with someone in the Missing Children’s Division. Paul’s in White Collar Crimes, but the Missing Children’s Division has a Forensics Services Unit—forensic artists who can do composites based on the child in the Fourth of July picture and the woman we believe to be her mother. They’ll have a good handle on whether this girl is Callie Davis or some other random visitor to the island. It’ll be like working a case backward.”
“Oh,” she said again, staring down at the comforter.
“What?”
She shrugged, plucking at the soft navy-blue fabric as her mind raced.
He trapped her restless fingers beneath his hand. “Talk to me.”
She kept her gaze averted as tears pooled in her eyes.
“Look at me, Callie.”
She did.
“Talk to me,” he said again gently.
“For so long I’ve wanted this. To know who I am. Now that the possibility’s real, I can’t help but be afraid.”
His eyes softened with understanding. “I can’t even imagine what this is like for you.” He brought her hand to his lips and gave her knuckles a firm kiss. “But I’m going to be right here with you through the whole thing.”
She nodded as a tear trailed down her cheek. “I’m as frightened that this isn’t me as much as I am that it is.” Another tear fell. “What if she’s not me, Nate, and I never find out who I am?”
“Come here,” he said as he pulled her against him and wrapped her up in a hug. “This is a lot.”
She held on tight. “It’s surreal.”
“Yeah, it is.” He kissed her. “We’re going to take this a step at a time—a day at a time—but I’m promising you I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you get the answers you’re looking for.”
She nodded. “It’s just…twenty-two years and now this.”
He sighed, leaning back against the pillows, keeping her cocooned in his embrace. “Will you tell me about it—what you know about your case?”
“There’s so much, yet there’s nothing.” She eased back enough to meet his gaze. “Where do you want me to start?”
He slid his hand up and down her back. “At the beginning. When were you found?”
“In 1995. Early on the morning of July 5.”
“What do you remember?”
“Nothing.”
His hand stopped midstroke. “Nothing at all?”
She shook her head. “It’s like a void. I have no memories of my temporary foster home or meeting my parents for the first time. It’s as if my life began when I moved to Oregon. I vaguely remember looking out the window on the plane ride west. I know Jennifer had a black ten-speed with pink handlebars.” She shrugged. “Those are my recollections of being a four-year-old.”
“What do you know about the diner?”
She shook her head, shrugging again. “I don’t remember that either, or the waitress who found me standing in the doorway, sucking my thumb and holding a doll. From what I understand, she took me into the kitchen and made me a chocolate sundae while we waited for the police to come.”
“Where’s it located?”
“In the northern part of Hartford, Connecticut—right off Interstate 84. It’s called Phil’s. I believe it’s still there.”
“You’ve never gone?”
She shook her head. “I just—it’s always been too overwhelming so I’ve left it alone.” She swallowed, fighting back a new rush of emotions. “I’ve never wanted to hurt my family. They’ve given me so much. Searching for a man and woman who dumped me off seems like such a slap in the face to my parents.”
