“Leo!”
The name ripped from Lily’s tiny throat with such raw, agonizing force that it stopped my heart dead in my chest.
She didn’t say it like a child calling out to a friend on the playground. She shrieked it like a warning. Her small, trembling finger remained locked onto the pitch-black glass of the passenger window.
The tin lunchbox lay dented and forgotten on the asphalt between my practical black shoes, a pool of apple juice slowly leaking from a punctured carton inside. The chaotic symphony of the Friday morning drop-off—the low rumble of idling minivans, the squeal of brake pads, the chatter of fifty different parents and children—seemed to instantly mute, leaving a ringing silence in my ears.
Leo.
The name was a live wire. Just eighteen hours ago, five-year-old Leo had vanished from the edge of the kindergarten playground during the chaotic transition to the afternoon buses. The subsequent lockdown, the frantic searches of the surrounding woods, the arrival of the police cruisers with their flashing lights painting the brick walls of the school red and blue—it had been the most terrifying afternoon of my fifteen-year career.
Leo was still missing. The morning news had run his school picture at the top of the hour. An amber alert had buzzed on every phone in the county before sunrise.
And now, one of his classmates was screaming his name while violently attacking an illegally parked luxury SUV in my fire lane.
I let go of Lily’s wrist. The anger that had been boiling inside me just seconds prior evaporated, replaced by a sudden, icy dread that settled heavy in the pit of my stomach.
“Lily,” I whispered, dropping down to one knee so I was eye-level with her. The harsh, disciplinary tone was completely gone from my voice. “What did you just say?”
“He’s in there!” she sobbed, her little chest heaving. She grabbed the sleeve of my blazer, her small fingers digging into the wool fabric. “I saw his shoe! I saw his shoe when the door opened!”
I didn’t ask another question. I stood up, my knees popping in the cold morning air, and turned my full attention to the massive, black Lexus SUV.
It was parked at a slight angle, its front tires aggressively turned toward the curb as if the driver had abandoned it in a massive hurry. The engine was completely off. The windows were limo-tinted, completely illegal in this state, transforming the glass into dark, impenetrable mirrors that simply reflected the bright morning sun and the nervous faces of the parents standing on the sidewalk.
I stepped over the spilled juice and pressed my body against the cold metal of the passenger door, right next to the deep, jagged scratches Lily’s metal lunchbox had left in the glossy paint. I cupped both of my hands around my eyes to block out the harsh glare of the sun and pressed my nose directly against the freezing glass.
At first, I saw absolutely nothing. The interior was a cavern of darkness. The tint was so thick it felt like trying to look through a wall of deep water.
I held my breath, letting my eyes adjust to the shadows.
Slowly, the contours of the interior began to take shape. I could make out the sharp lines of the expensive cream-colored leather seats. The massive center console. And then, I looked down toward the floorboards.
Tucked into the narrow space between the dashboard and the passenger seat was a heap of fabric.
It looked like a bundled-up piece of trash, or maybe a discarded blanket. It was a heavy, dark green canvas mechanic’s jacket, tossed haphazardly onto the floor mat.
I stared at it, my breath fogging the glass, praying my mind was just playing tricks on me. Praying that Lily was just a confused, traumatized child acting out the terrifying news she had overheard her parents watching on television.
Then, the heap of canvas shifted.
It wasn’t a sudden movement. It was a slow, rhythmic shudder. The jacket was trembling.
I squinted harder, my fingernails digging into the rubber weather-stripping of the window. Beneath the frayed bottom hem of the heavy green jacket, a tiny object was visible.
A red and blue light-up sneaker.
My stomach plummeted. The air physically left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I knew that shoe. Every teacher in the kindergarten wing knew those shoes. Leo had been incredibly proud of them. He had stomped his feet all the way down the hallway just three days ago to show me how the heels flashed bright blue when they hit the linoleum.