Helen stood in the doorway to Dahlia's apartment with wide eyes.
The place was entirely trashed.
What was once a stylish, modernly (and no doubt expensively) decorated apartment was left in tatters, with ripped curtains, smashed mirrors, broken furniture, and shattered knick-knacks.
"Helen," Pat snapped from where he stood in the doorway of a bedroom or bathroom, the single word marking the only time she could ever recall him getting even mildly upset with her, "I told you to wait until I came and got you."
Helen didn't respond, instead walking through the condemned room in a daze, letting her fingers trail across the torn leather of the sofa as she gazed a broken picture of Dahlia and what appeared to be the woman's father. "Do you think she's okay?" her voice was a croak that was nearly swallowed by the apartment.
Pat blew out a slow breath, and his heat appeared at her back a moment later. "Sweetheart," he murmured, letting his fingertips dust against the back of her elbow, "don't think about that right now. We don't know what happened here or where she is, but the cops are on their way and will figure it out. Okay?"
Helen's gulp was audible. "Right." The word was lacking conviction. "Yeah."
She felt a rush of air against the back of her head as he opened his mouth to respond, but he was stopped from speaking when three hard knocks echoed against the door. "Police!"
Pat stepped away from her, only to turn her around and shield her from the door. "Come on in."
The door was flung open, and two men marched inside, one of them in a uniform and the other dressed as a normal civilian. The older (and taller) of the two stepped forward and reached out a hand towards Pat. "Petty Officer Hale," he greeted. "Sorry we have to meet again under such unfortunate circumstances."
"Patterson's fine, Detective Buckley," Pat returned, shaking the man's hand firmly while Helen watched on in bemusement.
What's going on here?
The older man, Buckley, dropped Pat's hand and stepped back to assess the damaged space. "This isn't looking good so far; when did you know Ms. Olson was missing?"
Pat's shoulders rose and sank with a silent sigh, and then he stepped aside and passed Helen a small, encouraging smile. "I didn't," he explained to Buckley, "but my girlfriend works with Dahlia and was smart enough to know that something was wrong."
Under normal circumstances, Helen would have blushed under the praise, but these weren't normal circumstances. So, returning Pat's encouraging look with a determined one of her own, she stepped forward and began to explain her original concerns to the detective.
It wasn't much, but—at the very least—she was starting the search that would hopefully end with Dahlia's safe return.
***
Helen stared at the passenger side mirror, watching as the flashing lights of the police cars faded form sight, her fingers jumping about her lap like scared insects.
"Where to, sweetheart?" Pat's voice broke through her muddled thoughts, and she swung her eyes to his face; even from the side, she could easily tell that he was worried by the downward tick of his lips and the crinkle in his forehead.
"Work," she replied, though her tone sounded empty even to herself. "Yeah, work."
Pat blew out a sigh. "Are you sure, Helena?"
She wasn't really, but, "I think it'll distract me." She didn't want to think about Dahlia's destroyed apartment any more than she had to.
The brow between Pat's brows deepened further. "Alright, but please don't stay too late. I'll pick you up?"
That's my Pat.
Always looking out for her and making sure she didn't work herself to death or (in this case) bottle up her emotions inside and drown in them. Helen smiled lightly, recognizing his steadiness in a sea of turmoil and relishing in it. "Please."
Pat's eyes shifted to hers for a split second, and then his hand crept over the console and covered both of her own. "I know you're worried," his voice, like usual, was a peaceful, soothing rumble, "but they're looking for her now. You did what you could, Helena, and that's enough. The police will handle the rest."
When he walked her inside the Patchworking Lives building ten minutes later, pressed a kiss against the side of her head, and then told her he'd see her later, Helen smiled.
But once he drove off, her smile slipped away.
She knew Pat meant well, and she knew he was always honest with her. His last words, however, didn't sit well in her mind.
Not because she'd thought he was lying or didn't mean them, but because she couldn't find it within herself to believe them.
Because if she'd truly done enough, then why did she feel as though she hadn't?
***
Dear Ticker Tinkerer,
I've asked you for advice before (a few years ago, as it were), and I was pleasantly surprised by how helpful your reply was. However, since I'm now a second-time writer, I won't take offense if you don't reply to this email. After all, I know there are plenty of people who write into you, and I'm sure it's hard to write responses to them all.
Nonetheless, I'm seeking your help again.
This time, I'm writing in about a situation that occurred with an old childhood friend of mine.
We grew up together, see, but in high school we drifted apart. She was actually pretty horrible to me, and often made it a point to bring up all of my insecurities in front of people I cared about (it was all quite humiliating, as I recall). Some Mean Girls type stuff, you know?
So, we didn't make any good memories in high school, and she left town for college once we graduated. I haven't seen her in twenty long years, and I would be lying if I said I thought about her often—truthfully, I haven't thought about her at all.
Not until I got a call from her yesterday.
Turns out, she wound up caught in some stuff (bad husband, divorce, lack of money, etc.) and now wants support. Not money—"just support" she said. "Support from a friend I can trust."
And here's where my dilemma resides.
First: Why on earth is she reaching out to me? I haven't thought of her, so I doubt that she's thought of me.
Second: How should I respond? I've long gotten over the way she treated me. I have three kids of my own, and I'm well aware that young people make stupid decisions. So, it's not that I'm still holding a grudge or anything, it's just that I have, quite genuinely, no idea how to act. It's been so long since we've seen each other, so what can I offer her? I don't know anything about her life anymore, so wouldn't it be better if she reached out to someone else? What can I possibly do?
I'd appreciate your take, if you'll give it.
Sincerely,
Bewildered Ex-Best Friend.
***
Dear Bewildered Ex-Best Friend . . .
Helen stared at the four words on her computer screen, blinking at them blankly.
She'd thought that, by delving into her work, she'd be able to successfully forget about Dahlia's absence. Unfortunately, that plan wasn't working.
Not that this particular person helped any, she couldn't help but muse rather bitterly.
It wasn't the sender's fault, of course, but Helen couldn't help but compare the anonymous sender's former friend with Dahlia. Just like the two, Helen and Dahlia didn't get along, and didn't know much about one another.
But could Helen really sit by and let the police do everything?
"The police will handle the rest," came Pat's voice in her mind, and Helen blew out a frustrated sigh.
Surely there was something she could do to help?
No sooner had the thought flitted through her mind was Helen's phone ringing. Passing a hushed apology to Tonya and Ivan (who were deeply invested in a conversation about using the Oxford comma), she hopped up from her desk and jogged to the nearby break room.
Coming to a stop by the only window in the room, she peered outside, noting that it was only in the early afternoon.
How is it possible for time to move so slow?
Barely holding back an annoyed groan, she pressed the Answer button and slapped the phone to her ear. "Hi, you've reached Helen."
"Whoa, Nell." Oh. Helen hadn't even checked the caller ID before answering. "You okay, girl? Is this about Dahlia?"
Helen leaned her free hand against the cheap countertop, dipping her head and staring absently at a stain that resided just behind the nearby kitchen sink. "No, and yes." As quickly as she could, she relayed what she knew to Addy, unsurprised when the woman released a slow whistle and a, "holy crap," when she finished speaking.
"Hot damn," Addy continued. "Nell, I'm so sorry. I had no idea that's what was going on with her."
"Yeah," she let her fingers trace another, different stain (coffee was a real pain to get out of laminate, it would seem). "I'm worried, Addy."
"I know you are, Nell." The other woman's voice dropped, until it was an octave Helen was familiar with; it was Addy's "mothering" voice, as Helen knew it. The one that came out just before Addy pulled out her inner mother hen and did something to comfort Helen. "What can I do?"
Helen shrugged hopelessly, and then—upon realizing that Addy couldn't see her—added, "You don't even like Dahlia." She wasn't sure why she said it; she was just as confused by the feelings spiraling in her chest, so perhaps she was looking for some kind of confirmation that she wasn't out of her mind for being so concerned.
"That's true, but I still don't want anything to happen to her. It's like when you see a dog on the side of the road, you know? You don't know the dog, and maybe you don't even like dogs, but you still want to make sure he gets home safely."
There was a short beat of silence, and then Addy grumbled when Helen snorted with amusement. "Yeah, yeah. I tried."
Helen pushed off the counter and ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing when she caught a handful of tangles. "I'm really worried, Addy." Her voice cracked, and she had to clear her throat twice before she was able to finish. "Something doesn't feel right." More than just the whole Dahlia is missing and was probably kidnapped "something." A big "something." Something that Helen couldn't see but knew was important.
Addy's voice crackled down the line, tinged with remorse. "I know it's not ideal, and I know you feel useless just sitting here, but what can we do, Nell? We don't have a way to track Dahlia—the police are our best bet."
Helen always appreciated Addy's ability to comfort her, and she was—not for the first time, extremely grateful that her best friend recognized that Helen needed to hear "we" and "our" instead of "you" and "your"—even though Addy had no good opinions when it came to Dahlia.
"But what if something really awful happened to her?" Helen asked, her fingers unwittingly tightening over Addy's. "I've had issues with her, but I don't . . ." she licked her lips. "I don't want anything to happen to her."
Even if she had views and values that conflicted with Dahlia's, the woman was someone Helen knew; after Cecily, Helen wasn't sure she could handle horrible things happening to her other friends (even if they were just coworkers). The incident with Katrina hadn't helped either—if there was a way for Helen to help Dahlia, she would find it and do it, regardless of what it was.
I couldn't save Cece, she mused inwardly, and I couldn't save Katrina, but I can save Dahlia—I will save Dahlia.
"Why do you think I made that horrible 'see that dog on the side of the road?' analogy? Look, there's got to be something I can do to help or ease your worries. Maybe we can hang signs? Or is that too similar to when someone actually loses a dog? I swear I'm not trying to be a bitch here; I'm just asking."
Before Helen could soothe Addy, she was hit by an idea. "Addy!"
"What? What?!"
"What was Isaiah working on?"
"Come again?"
"Isaiah was working on something, wasn't he? With the police. Could it help?"
Another pause, but this one felt like it lasted a lifetime before Addy finally replied. Even then, her answer wasn't much to go on: "The timing isn't the best, but are you cool if we move dinner from Friday to tonight?"
Now it was Helen's turn to be confused. "Dinner?" She'd forgotten all about the dinner she'd promised Addy, and she didn't understand why the woman was bringing it up now.
"Yeah, dinner. Look, Isaiah's been . . . well, he's been a busy guy, but I can't tell you over the phone. So, dinner tonight?"
Helen licked her lips, trying not to pay attention to the hope that was curling in her stomach. "Do you think it will help?"
"It'll be a start."
And a start is better than nothing, Helen finished inwardly. "My place at eight?"
"We'll be there."
Now we're getting somewhere.