Better Left Unsaid

Chapter One

"Miss Nicholson, your father will see you," came a gravelly voice from somewhere above my head.  My gaze snapped up in a split second; not a soul in the whole, bustling police department had spoken to me all morning.  No wonder I was surprised to be spoken to, even if it was just Quentin, the mousy assistant that worked only to file paperwork behind a desk all day.

I nodded my head in response, rising from the old metal chair and immediately feeling the blood rush back to my legs, my butt.  Quentin took my elbow as we walked, maybe to steady me (I probably looked like I was about to hurl), but it was more bothersome than helpful, as if he thought I couldn't make it down the hall--the same hall I'd been down hundreds of times before.  He released me right outside the sheriff's office, offering me a nervous smile filled with pity.  I quickly looked away, waiting for him to leave before throwing open the door to the sheriff's office.

My father was seated at his desk, phone wedged in between his ear and shoulder, its cord tangled around the back of his chair and wrapped multiple times around his forearm.  He looked deep in a heated conversation, scrambling around his desk for a paper and then scrawling something in the margin of one already crammed with text.

"Yeah. Uh-huh. I got it.  6692.  Will do.  Yes.  And you got the change on the posters?  Yeah.  It's five foot nine, not six foot nine.  Lord, she's not a giant.  Uh-huh, sure.  Just fix it, alright?"

He glanced up, stressed and sleep-deprived brown eyes trained on me.  His expression softened, making me lower my eyes to the checkered black-and-white tiles decorating the floor.  I was growing sick of the sympathy, even if it was from my father this time.  I'd had enough of it.  After all, I wasn't the one everyone should've been worried about.  I wasn't the one missing, and they should've been spending their time looking for Leila instead of giving me generic doe-eyed smiles by the dozen.

"Alright.  Look, Bill, I've got to go.  Keep in touch with the progress of the search, okay?  Yep. Alright.  Bye."

The phone shut off with a noisy click and I heard several papers fall to the floor.  By the time I looked up once more, my father was standing next to his old oak desk, arms spread wide as if to say, "Come here."  No words were necessary.  Surprised by even myself, I found myself running into his outstreched arms, hugging him fiercely even as he groaned and stiffly tried to loosen my grip.  I peered up through my lashes at him as he removed my hands from behind his back, trying to hide the hurt expression covering my face.

"Janey," he groaned, spitting out one of my frizzy red curls that had gotten caught in his mouth.  "Hon, I ain't as young as I used to be."

Relief washed through my as I stepped back, fiddling with my bony fingers awkwardly.  I met his eyes cautiously, hoping not to see pity laced through them.  Instead, I was surprised to find him not even looking at me, but rather out the window, where the brigade of cop cars usually rested, though half of them were gone now.  His jaw clenched, highlighting the angular contours of his once-young face.

"We'll find her, I promise."

Those were the same bittersweet words I'd been told all morning, the night before, and all of yesterday.  Sweet, because it meant Leila'd be back.  But at the same time, they left a sour taste in my mouth, because they meant she was gone in the first place.  Not gone, I corrected myself.  Missing--that was the word they used, as if she were nothing more than a misplaced pair of keys or a late school report.  Missing was not a sufficient enough word choice; it was virtually meaningless to me.

I had my own opinions on where Leila had "run off to,"--Officer Lawrence's words, not mine--but I had been told by all the adults not to jump to conclusions.  After all, I was, in fact, an eighteen-year-old representation of a toddler to all these people.