What Happened to Erin?

Detective Russo’s knife slices into the grilled flank steak. A Chinese five-spice-hoisin marinade sinks into scored meat and turns it into an explosion of flavor.

“Sarah, can you pass me the pasta salad?”

Sarah drops her fork with a clatter and delivers the dish with a sway of her arm.

“Thanks,” he says without looking up, serving himself an extra portion.

Sarah looks at her mother, who sits across from her. She sends her a reassuring wink.

“So, Sarah,” her mother says with excessive optimism. “How was your first week at Braidwood High?”

“Better than I thought.” She pecks at her food like a little bird. “I’m thinking of joining the debate team. My teacher practically begged me.”

“That’s wonderful, babes.” Her husband is still not paying attention. “Isn’t that right, Mark?”

His brain sends the wife alert that wrenches him from his brooding. He glances at the girl, who’s the spitting image of her mother.

Sarah used to like her hair short, but when her father mentioned he preferred it long, she grew it out.

Now the nougat-brown hair sweeps over her shoulders, dark like her melted cinnamon eyes, which are sweet, with a certain kindness behind them.

She shares distinct facial features with his wife, Olivia, who has almond-shaped eyes and a saffron tint to her complexion. Her crescent-shaped eyebrows incline slightly as she sees him staring at her.

He gives her a quizzical look. Her languid eyelashes of velvet-black blink, signaling to their daughter.

“So, Sarah, have you heard about Keila?”

She perks up at the tiniest show of attention from her father. “Yeah, of course. Who hasn’t?”

Russo fits in another piece of steak, contemplating his approach. “What have you heard?”

She thinks quickly. “Um, Keila went missing at the end of summer break. She already turned eighteen, so they had to wait a full forty-eight hours before it could be officially reported.”

“What are the students saying?”

“The students?”

Olivia closes her eyes for a hot moment.

“Yes, what’s the mood at Braidwood? What are the common conspiracies swirling around?”

“I’m just a junior. I don’t hang out with anyone who would have a plausible theory.” Her heart drags to her stomach at his tangible disappointment.

“But...” She regains his attention. “I’ve seen the trophy shrine area at school and most of the accolades belong to her. She seems like a dedicated athlete—disciplined, too.

“Someone like that likely had a stringent routine. A pattern that could be observed and exploited.”

Russo rewards her with an impressed nod.

“You truly are your father’s daughter.”

Sarah claims the victory with a grin, trading smiles with her mom.

His face hardens.

“Compelling, if it wasn’t for the fact that she left of her own accord,” he says aloud, then silencing himself, unable to discuss an open investigation.

What his daughter said was true. But like Erin, Keila must have been lured out as well.

According to Angie Venus’s detailed explanation, Keila had a fixed running routine and often jogged late to make space for homework. Even during summer, she would wait for sunset, to escape the heat.

It was already alarming since she had departed without her running gear, which implied that the occurrence was sudden, urgent enough to take off in the night so hastily.

It also suggested a grisly possibility that Keila knew her kidnapper, and that is was likely the same person, or people, who had taken Erin seven years before.

Somewhere between word and thought, Russo finds himself in the kitchen, wiping clean dishes dry as his wife washes them. She takes a moment to observe him, his eyes filling with clarity.

“Finally, you have joined the land of the living.”

He smiles shyly. Adolescent anxiety still paws at him. “I did it again, huh?”

“After nearly twenty years, you get used to it.”

He mumbles an apology and switches from autopilot to manual.

“So…you barely talk to our daughter and when you do, it’s to interrogate her?”

Taken aback, he gathers himself before responding. “I asked her about her school.”

“You questioned her about her school,” she amends with animosity. “A patent distinction, ~Detective~.”

Dodging an imminent argument, he says, “How’s Irene?”

“Smooth transition,” she says, her voice wrought with sarcasm. “You left work only to come home to talk about more work?”

“Olivia, a child is missing.”

She releases a rueful sigh, but another emotion prevails.

“She’s not the first. And sadly, won’t be the last. I don’t want the cruelties of this world to rob Sarah of her father or me of my husband. It’s not fair to any of us.”

Russo deserts the half-dry plate to envelop his wife in an embrace that holds a promise.

“This job…it’s giving you life as much as it’s taking it from you,” she whispers, despair curling around her tone. “You try every day with every case to save a kid because…When will you accept that it wasn’t your fault?”

Russo pulls away abruptly, leaving Olivia staggered.

“There’s nothing you can say or do that will change the fact that his death is on me.” His clay-gray eyes burnished by the fathomless grief they both share. “This job is the only way I can make atonement. It’s all I got.”

“You’ve got us.” Olivia bursts into a heart-wrenched sob. “Why—why am I not enough?”

“It’s not what I meant, baby.” He raises a truthful hand, lowering it to the slab of granite. “I mean, this is the only way I know how to make it right.”

“You make it right by being a present father to our daughter and learning from your mistake. And actually being here, instead of suffering in these pained silences or losing yourself in another case.”

It hurts, but he deserves it. He knows that much. He should’ve done better.

That chance rests only with his daughter.

Russo concedes with a nod. “You’re right. I’ll do better.”

She goes up to him, cupping her hand on his jaw. “Just be present.”

After cleaning up, he goes upstairs to his office, a box-shaped room with bookcases on the flanks, ordered chronologically.

The floor is swept clean and his desk arranged with systematic filing from the documents on top to the ones packed in drawers.

He takes a seat on his swivel chair, drawing out his phone. And he makes the call.

He waits for several rings until the line opens.

“Good evening. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

Her response inspires his smile.

“Are you available this Saturday? I would like to just consolidate, some things if you don’t mind. Nothing serious, just a conversation.”