I share a glance with Vonn, and I’m not sure any of us believe that.
After heading to the house to pack a bag and put Nance on high alert for a potential visit from Nash’s uncle, we hit the road.
Six hours and countless snacks later, we pull into the parking lot of the Deming, New Mexico, bus station.
On a Friday mid-afternoon, the constant flow of people in and out of the station never slows. It’sbusy.
“Now what?” I scowl at the busy station with no clue where to start looking for Byrdie.
Vonn slams the door shut and walks away from the station’s front entrance, glancing back at me and Nash to say, “Now we ask any shop or security guard within walking distance of this station if they saw a terrified woman looking to get out of town fast.”
“Why not in the station?” I ask, following.
“People at the station won’t remember her. You just saw how many went in and out of there,” Vonn says. “It’s a way too transient place to look for her. Too many people coming and going make it hard for anyone to stand out.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“What makes you think she was within walking distance?” Nash asks.
“If she had a car, do you honestly think she’d be taking a bus?” Vonn asks.
“Good point,” Nash mutters.
And so begins three hours of asking strangers if they saw a woman matching Byrdie’s description.
We drift outward from the bus station, sticking our heads into grocery stores or any store that Byrdie might have had a reason to go into.
She had no money, and Pissed Off Granny gave her a sandwich, so she had no food either. When a sign for a women’s shelter comes into view, it seems like the perfect place Byrdie would have wandered into.
I push open the door, and the redheaded woman on the other side of the counter has her guard up the second she clocks me. She had started to smile as she lifted her head, then her smile froze and evaporated.
Must be all these lovely bruises Vonn left me with.
Her response doesn’t leave me hopeful, but I let the door close behind me and walk toward her. “I’m looking for a woman who might have stayed with you,” I say, resting my hands on the counter.
There’s not much to see here. Just a small seating area inside the two-story building and several closed doors. Other than the woman sitting at the front desk, no one else is around. It’s late afternoon, so maybe they are about to close?
On the wall behind the woman is a mural, and on the counter are leaflets with information on applying for food stamps.
“I can’t tell you that,” she says calmly but firmly.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me if she were here?” I scowl.
“This is a women’sshelter. I can’t give out information about any woman here, past or present. You’ll have to look elsewhere. Better yet, accept that whoever this woman is, left for a reason and doesn’t want to be found.”
“Look, this woman was in trouble. She didn’t leave because she wanted to. Someonetookher. She could be hurt. I’m just trying to look out for her.”
A flicker of suspicion, laced with a heavy dash of doubt, passes across her face. “Then the best thing you can do is go to the police and have them look for her.”
That might have been an option if the cops in Massey didn’t hate us. They’ll file a missing person report, and that’ll be all they do. We could go to the cops here, but what if Byrdie isn’t even her real name? Vonn says it is, but he could be wrong.
“You’re not listening to me.” I grind out, wishing I could shake the answer out of her because her resistance to dropping the smallest of hints is making me think Byrdiewashere.
She lifts her chin. “No, you’re not listening tome.”
Pissed off, I start to tell her how much when the door beside me swings open, and I automatically glance at it.
A brunette who looks to be in her mid-twenties freezes in the doorway. My gaze drops as she yanks the sleeve of her hoodie to cover her wrist. Not fast enough. I spot the dark bruise she was trying to hide. Then I notice her baggy hoodie hinting at a small bump. And just like that, I feel like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.
