“We do not know that yet, Camila,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let the police do their job.”
“She would not leave her purse,” I said, my voice rising. “She would never leave her things behind unless someone made her.”
I looked back at the school entrance. Liam was still sitting inside on the folding chair, his face hidden in the shadows of the lobby.
He was not looking for his sister, and he had not offered to help us search the grounds.
“He planned this,” I said, looking out at the dark road that led toward the highway. “Mitchell knew exactly when the chaperones would be busy.”
“Camila, please,” John said.
“He took my daughter,” I said, my eyes fixed on the empty driveway where the limousine had parked just hours before.
The morning sun hit the asphalt of the high school parking lot, baking the smell of damp Ohio grass from the night before. Natalie stood near a patrol car, her arms folded over her chest, talking to an officer whose notepad remained blank.
John slowed our sedan to a stop near them, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Liam sat in the back seat, his face pressed against the glass, silent.
I did not wait for John to park. I opened my door before the wheels stopped rolling and marched toward Natalie.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Natalie did not flinch, nor did she lower her arms. She looked at me with a steady, quiet pity that made my skin hot.
“I don’t know, Camila,” she said.
“Your son took her,” I said, adjusting my silver wristwatch twice. “He planned this. He took my daughter.”
“Mitchell didn’t take anyone,” Natalie said, her voice dropping to a deliberate murmur. “They are nineteen. And they are in love.”
I looked at the police officer, who was watching us with his hands resting on his utility belt.
“Are you writing this down?” I demanded.
The officer cleared his throat and looked at the school doors. “We’re gathering details, ma’am. We need to establish a timeline first.”
