“My guy didn’t have a broken nose,” I say.
Photo number two. Also mean-looking but smiling. Eyes like the lumps of coal you get in your Christmas stocking if you’ve been bad. Definitely someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley late at night. But is it the guy?
“Hard to tell,” I say. “He’s smiling. I never saw my guy smile. What are these, mug shots?”
“What difference does it make?” Metcalf asks.
“A lot. The lighting in black-and-white mug shots looks nothing like a real live person in the flesh, or even a photo of that same guy on vacation. Different attitudes. Totally different body language.”
“You’re not here to look at bodies,” he says.
“But Iwould havelooked at them if I’d seen them in a lineup. Maybe I’d have been able to recognize the walk, the posture. Maybe even the voice. Did that never cross your mind? This second photo,” I say, handing it back to him, “his hair isn’t as bushy as I remember. Looks like he’s wearing hair gel. Did you pull this one off his Bumble profile?”
Now Metcalf’s losing patience. “What about this one?” he asks, tapping photo number three. Wow. The guy’s gorgeous. A younger Mario Lopez.
“Hot,” I say. “The perfect one-night stand on an all-girls trip to Tulum.”
“For God’s sake, Elinor. Can’t you try to be serious? This isn’tThe Golden Bachelorette.”
“Why, Mistah Metcalf,” I say in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice, “Ah do declare, Ah’m doin’ the best Ah can.”
“Listen—”
“No.Youlisten. All I saw was four inches of a face wedged between the front door and the door frame for maybe forty seconds. If you’d called meearlierso I could see the guy in person, maybe I could’ve ID’d him. But no. You purposely waited till it was too late to—”
“Okay, okay,” he says. “What about these last two?”
One is a clear reject—a big gold tooth right in front. That’s something I definitely would have remembered. The last one has possibilities.
“Arrest him,” I say.
“That’s Carlos!” Metcalf says. “Is that the guy who came to the house?”
“I’m not sure. But he looks like a wife-beater.”
“Damn it, Elinor.”
Suddenly, Lily begins to shriek. I’ve never heard her scream like this. This can’t be just teething. Now I’m worried. I toss the pictures back to Metcalf, accidentally dropping some.
He bends to pick them up, and winces.
I remember he has back problems. Good. I dig through the diaper bag on the front seat, find the infrared thermometer, and hold it up to Lily’s forehead.
Within seconds it beeps: 102.
Oh. My. God.
That’s a serious fever! Something is terribly wrong.
I get back in the car. Metcalf is saying something—yelling something. But I barely hear him over Lily’s screams. I put the key in the ignition and roll down my window.
“You can’t leave,” Metcalf says.
“Can too,” I say. I pull out of the parking lot. Now what? I dial Amber’s cell. It goes to her needlessly cheerful voicemail. “Hi! This is Amber!” (You can practically hear her smile.) “I can’t talk now but…”
Of course. She’s probably celebrating her team’s victorywith a glass of champagne or mourning their loss with a stiff martini. Either way, she can’t pick up.
Should I call Ben? Would he recognize my name? Would he pick up if he did?
