Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
We walk to the desk in the middle of the room with doors on both sides of the receptionist. “Hi,” Sierra greets her cheerfully and I hold her hand tighter in mine. “I was wondering if there was someone I could talk to about a case from twenty-five years ago.”
“I can maybe get someone for you.” The receptionist turns to grab the phone in her hand, leaving it dangling. “Do you know what type of a case?”
“It would have been the abandoned child who was left at the fire station.” I see something in her eyes click and then she quickly hides it, nodding at us and looking away.
“Sheriff Hadley,” she says into the phone, “there is someone here about a Jane Doe case from twenty-five years ago.” She looks back up at Sierra and me. Sierra looks down at her feet and I rub her thumb with mine. “He’ll be right out,” she tells us.
A couple of seconds later the sheriff comes out, wearing brown jeans and a white buttoned shirt, his gun holstered at his side. A cream-colored cowboy hat on his head, his beady eyes trained on us. “How can I help you two?” His voice is gruff and nothing about him screams helping the community.
“My name is Sierra,” she starts, letting go of my hand and extending it to the sheriff, who looks at her hand for a second before taking it, and already I don’t like him. “I’d like to ask you about this case,” she says, opening her purse and taking out the newspaper clipping and handing it to him. He grabs it from her and reads it before looking back up at her. “That’s me and I was wondering if there was a case file I could read.”
“There isn’t,” he declares, handing her back the paper and he’s about to turn around and head back to his office.
“How do you know if there is no case file?” I ask him, and his eyes go to mine. “You know every single case file you’ve ever had?" I watch him just look at her. “How isn’t there a case file?” I ask him confused, “A child was left in a box.”
“I remember this case exactly. The child was left unharmed in a box.” His beady eyes stare into mine.
“Unharmed because they heard her crying, but it was cold.” You can see he doesn’t like to be spoken back to.
“Look”—he sighs and then his voice goes low and tight—“we did what we needed to do, which was take you to the hospital for a wellness check, and then called Child Protective Services. There was no need to do an investigation.”
“So no one asked the hospitals if someone had given birth to a child and then just dumped their child off?”
“For all we know, you could have been birthed at home and then they discarded you there.” His tone is tight.
“She wasn’t discarded,” I cut in and his eyebrows rise. “So basically, unless she died, you weren’t doing an investigation.” I nod and grab Sierra’s hand. “Well, this answers your questions. Thank you for nothing.” I turn and nod to the receptionist and then walk out with her behind me.
“This is why I didn’t want you to come with me.” She pulls her hand from mine.
“And why is that?”
“Because you went all protective on me and I didn’t need it.” She shakes her head and places the article in her bag.
“You’re damn fucking right I was going to go all protective on you. That guy was a fucking idiot and he wasn’t going to answer one fucking question you had.”
“You don’t know that,” she says softly.
“Baby,” I placate, pulling her in my arms, “he wasn’t going to answer any question that you had.”
“He didn’t even try to look for who left me.” She lays her head on my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist. “It’s like no one fucking cared.” Her voice quivers with emotion. “Well, I guess no one did care.” I hear her sniffle and close my eyes, knowing if I knew who her parents were, I would probably punch the shit out of her father.
“Baby, you’re killing me,” I admit to her. “I don’t know why they did it, but I have to believe that it was for a reason.”
“Is being an asshole a reason?” She pulls away and looks up at me. I see her eyelashes wet with tears.
“I don’t like to see you cry,” I tell her, bringing my hand up to her cheek. “In fact, I’m going to say it’s my least favorite thing in the whole world.”
“Can you please stop saying all the right things?” She rolls her eyes and brings her forefinger up to her eye and uses it to wipe away the tear. “Then it makes me feel bad when I have to tell you things that will hurt your feelings.”