Priceless

1

The couple in front of me
looked like any other parents who
’
d lost a child—
their hands gripping one another, dark circles under their eyes
,
skin
sallow from not enough food, water or sleep
—except
for the faintest glimmer of a possibility, a scrap of hope that someone had thrown them,
by
sending them my way
. T
hat was the only difference. A difference they were banking on. Every parent
’
s worst nightmare is the reason I
have become
the best at what I do. Or maybe more accurately, the
only
reason I do what I do.

“
Please, the police, they say there is nothing
; that they can
’
t help us
.
They say
she
’
s gone, and there are no clues, and they just can
’
t find her. Please
, we were told you could help
.
”
Maria, the mother, pleaded with me, her whole body begging for me to do what no one else would even dare
offer her hope
for
. Her voice was cultured, upper crust and very East coast snob. But right now she didn
’
t look it. Clothes rumpled, designer but not pressed or even that clean, hair in disarray
,
and bags under her eyes. A very childish part of me took pleasure in seeing the mighty brought low. I only
wish
ed
it wasn
’
t because her kid
had been snatched.

I didn
’
t answer her right away, though I had already decided to help them. Her fear and hope
filled
the room with a tangible weight
that
choked me, kept me from saying a single word. I wouldn
’
t leave a child out there if I could find her, not even if the kid
’
s parents were wankers. Which
,
looking at the child
’
s father as he puffed up and prepared to verbally assault me
,
was obviously the case. I
guessed
he was a lawyer,
or
maybe a judge.

“
Damn you!
”
He shot to his feet
. His
clothes
hung
off his frame like he was wearing his older brother
’
s hand
-
me
-
downs
;
his fists
vibrated
at his side
s
.
“
Why did you make us come all the way here if you
’
re not even going to try and help? To the middle of North Dakota of all places, to what, tell us
‘
Oops, sorry, not going to happen?
’
What kind of sadistic bitch are you?
”

I let him
—
Don
,
I think his name was
—
continue his tirade stalk
ing
around the cheap hotel room, but didn
’
t interrupt him. No point. He would talk until finally the silence would catch him and smother his words. Maria sat
in an overstuffed chair,
body all aquiver
;
her husband
’
s anger a
physical energy that
obviously upset her. It rolled off me
,
which only energize
d
him further, g
a
ve him more fuel for his
wild
temper tantrum. The only parent
’
s anger that ever bothered me was my own
,
and they were both gone
from my life
.
Of course, it had been their decision, forcing me out of their lives when I was sixteen. But what can you expect when I, their adopted child, was accused of killing their biological daughter?

I waited, and another minute passed before he ran out of steam and stood blowing like a spent beast pushed too hard, too fast.

“
Are you quite finished
,
Don?
”
My voice was low, calm.

He nodded once, a sharp movement that in another circumstance would have me reaching for one of my blades
,
if I
’
d had them on me.

I motioned to the couch.
“
Sit next to your wife. Speak when spoken to, answer my questions
,
and other than that, shut the hell up.
”
He sat and I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
Good job
,
Rylee, for a moment there you almost sounded like a grown up in control of a situation.
My vision of him as a lawyer dried up when he didn
’
t even bother to argue. Old money then, working for Daddy
’
s company all his life
was my next best guess
.

I looked down at the pictures on the cheap hotel coffee table. A little girl
smiled up at me;
seven years old or there about, with deep auburn hair, not so unlike my own
,
and hazel eyes
—
quite different from my own tri-colored ones. Each picture held a different pose, a different place. The park, Christmas sittings, dinner parties. And each picture held a small, seemingly insignificant blush of light, close to the girl.

“
What
’
s her name?
”
My first question of the entire meeting was met with silence. I glanced up only to see Maria close her eyes and tears trickle down her cheeks. Don met my gaze; his hazel eyes the perfect mirror image of his daughter
’
s.

“
India.
”
His voice choked over the syllables. They knew, like all my potential clients knew, that if I asked for the child
’
s name, I was in
;
there was no turning back.

I held another picture up. The same hair and eyes as the first, the face was a little thinner. A
year or two older than the previous
picture. And the same strange light, this time a little brighter.

“
How long has she been missing now?
”

Don answered.
“
Six months tomorrow.
Whoever took her did it right under our noses. We were at Deerborn Park, just as the sun was setting.
”

His words struck me through the heart. The same park my little sister had been stolen from.
“
Six months, that would make it April?
”
I clamp
ed
down on my emotions. It wouldn
’
t be the same day, no, it wouldn
’
t be . . .

“
Yes, the
first
.
”

My world sp
u
n out from under my feet and it took everything I had to hold it together. I
’
d run as far away as I could to escape that place and those memories. Yet here I was
,
facing a child
stolen
on the same day, from the same park. In my world, there was no such thing as a coincidence. Not of this magnitude.

Don
leaned toward me, eyes wide
to
hold
back his tears. I
’
d seen the move more than once
; fathers were always reluctant to let me see them cry.
“
What are the chances she
’
s already
—
”
He choked up.

I stared at the two pictures for a long second before answering, feeling for India
with a talent only I had, an ability that set me apart. No matter where a child was taken, no matter how far or how hidden, I could find them
.
The brush of her emotions against the inside of my skull
were
all it took to know she was alive.

“
She
’
s still alive. I can tell you that much. But finding her will depend on a lot of factors.
”
What I didn
’
t tell them was how close their daughter was to breaking; her inner shields
, which
kept her from being controlled
,
were thin and weakening fast. Not a good sign.
I also withheld
that I couldn
’
t pinpoint her, which meant she was on the other side of the
V
eil, another very bad thing. There were hundreds of entrances and not necessarily all connected. I was going to need some help on this one.
I stamped down my own memories and emotions, did my best to ignore the similarities between India
’
s case and my sister
’
s.

Maria frowned, a perfect line creasing her brow.
“
We went to a psychic, but she said India was beyond our reach . . . we assumed that meant
—
”

I cut her off with the wave of a hand.
“
Most psychics are frauds. The real deals don
’
t advertise their services.
”

It was Don
’
s turn to frown.
“
Is that what you are? A psychic?
”

“
No
.
”
I shook my head and didn
’
t give him anything else. I wasn
’
t sure how much truth these two could handle in such a short period of time.

I scooped
up
the two pictures,
placed
them into an envelope
,
and tucked that into my jacket pocket.

“
I don
’
t know how long it will take. There are to be no phone calls, private investigators or drive
-
bys. Don
’
t involve the police anymore; if you do
,
I don
’
t know that I
’
ll be able to get her back for you. Do you understand?
”
I looked from one to the other
. They
both nodded.