Stef:

We've been looking at these tapes for hours. My eyes are getting dry because I've been trying so hard not to blink. I don't want to miss anything.

I threw on my uniform and headed for work the moment Mariana handed me the phone and Wyatt told me what had happened. I called my boss on the way in, and she helped me pull the security tapes for the bus station near us. Wyatt is sure Callie got on the bus where he left her. That means that whatever happened to her, happened over here.

I'm about to pour myself another cup of coffee when Mike yells my name. I drop the pot, spilling coffee everywhere, but I don't even notice. I run over to him and look at the screen where he's pointing. My heart lifts. It's Callie. The picture is a little grainy, but I'm sure it's her.

"Can we track her?" I ask. My mouth has gone so dry I have to clear my throat and repeat the question.

My boss nods. "There are dozens of cameras. Pull up the ones near the side exit and fast forward them to the same time stamp."

We do. One by one we let the tapes play until we spot her again. This time she's outside the terminal, carrying her duffel bag. The tape is stop-motion—the camera takes pictures every three seconds—and a moment later, there's someone else in the frame.

Picture. A man is talking to Callie.

Picture. Callie is trying to walk away.

Picture. The man is grabbing her arm.

Picture. The gym bag is on the ground. The man is pulling Callie out of the frame. She's whipping her head around, maybe hoping someone will help her. But it's nearly midnight. There aren't many people on the street.

Everyone is quiet, their eyes trained on my face.

I clear my throat. "Was there a report of a disturbance in that area last night?"

Mike is already typing into the computer. He nods.

"A couple walking their dog reported a car nearly hitting them in the crosswalk. There's a partial license plate in the report."

He shows it to me. I look back at the images of Callie with the young man.

"Pull up the auto registration for every member of the Olmstead family."

Mike types something into the computer again. I don't wait for his confirmation. I'm already halfway out the door.

"Stef!" He's motioning me back. I pause. "Look at their property holdings."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Callie:

My mind is flying over the world, like it's going to the third star and straight on 'til morning. I wonder if that's where you go when you die. It must be better than here, right? I try to think whether I've done enough bad things in my life to go to Hell for. I've done a lot. I spent years lying like it was a religion. I stole food, for Jude and for myself. I stole other things, like clothes we couldn't afford. We were on our own. I had to do it.

A memory comes back to me, soft and far away, like a dream. It's my mother, and she's holding me in her lap, rocking us back and forth in that old rocking chair she loved. Dad's out at the bars, so it it's just me and her, and Jude asleep in his crib. She's smoothing my hair as I fall asleep, and singing words to me, like a lullaby.

My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;

Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;

Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary

Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,

Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?

Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only

Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,

Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,

God, in His mercy, protection is showing,

Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,

Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,

Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,

Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,

Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;

Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;

God is a friend to the poor orphan child.

We had to memorize a poem once, in seventh grade. I picked that one because I already knew all the words. But I got an F. I was crying so hard I couldn't recite it.

I close my fist around the necklace, which Liam didn't bother to rip from my hand, knowing I was too weak to fight anymore.

Maybe my mom can guide me home.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Author's Note: poem by Charlotte Bronte. Sbz, I definitely plan to keep going through everyone's response to the trauma. If there's still interest, I'll keep posting. Please keep reviewing! I love hearing from you guys.