The Saints of the Cross (22 page)

CHAPTER 16

A few weeks have passed, and we’ve found no signs of my mother in the DC metro area. My father, Xander, and I have combed every known homeless shelter and soup kitchen within a fifty-mile radius. We’ve scoured the local parks, thrusting her picture at everyone and anyone who walks by, hoping that someone will recognize her. Today, Dad and Grandma Winnie are going to hospitals with her picture, while Xander and I go to the police to file a missing persons report. We weren’t sure how long to look for her before seeking help from the police, but with December looming on the calendar, we’re desperate to find her before winter’s bitter blanket descends on us all.

I’m sitting with Xander outside the detective’s office, clutching in one hand the postcard my mom sent to Mamaw Grayce and in the other a picture of her taken after we moved to Italy—when there was still no trace of the disease on her beautiful features. Over the last few weeks, Xander has been there for me like no one in my life ever has. He’s spent evenings driving me all over the tri-state area looking for my mother. He’s held and comforted me when I could no longer be strong—when the stress of the search and the disappointment of going home every night without her finally overtook me. He’s given up his weekends and his lacrosse practice for me. He never asks anything in return.

As I sit here staring at him while he thumbs through a tattered old magazine from the nearby coffee table, I wonder what I’ve done to deserve someone so kind and selfless to walk right into my life when I needed him the most. It’s as if my weary soul had whispered a subconscious prayer for salvation, and the saints answered by sending me Xander.

He must feel me staring at him, because he looks at me with a side-long glance. Wearing a timid expression, he turns to me and says, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I reply, holding his gaze. His eyes are as tired as mine. He’s been exhausting himself staying up late searching online for back-dated Jane Doe articles in the hopes of finding any remote clue as to my mother’s whereabouts. “I’m just thinking about how wonderful you are.”

He gives me a shy grin and an
aw-shucks
shrug, and then tosses the magazine back down on the table.

“I mean it, Xander,” I say, demanding his attention again with my hand on his forearm. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few weeks.”

“I made a promise to you, and I take my promises very seriously.” He reaches for my right hand and laces his fingers between mine. He lifts my hand and presses it to his cheek. Despite the breathtakingly intimate act, I can’t enjoy the tenderness of the moment because I’m distracted by something—the ring on my second finger, the one now scratching against Xander’s cheek: Javier’s promise ring.

I’ve been so engrossed in finding my mother these last few weeks that I’ve not tried to contact Javier at all. Discovering the truth about my mother has put a lot of things into perspective for me—such as our relationship. Screw him if he’s not man enough to do the right thing and contact me to break up. As it is, he’s left me up in the air. I’m done. I have things to worry about other than where he is and why he hasn’t contacted me. I’m sick of feeling hurt and guilty because of him. I need to let go of all the poison in my life, starting with Javier. Clearly, I didn’t mean anything to him anyway. I make a mental note to take the damn ring off when I get home and send it back to Spain. As for my tattoo, I’m sure it can be covered up with something more appropriate—perhaps a skull and crossbones.

As for Xander and me, we haven’t talked about the kiss we shared the night he dropped me off at my house, and we haven’t kissed since—but I’ve been more intimate with him than I think I’ve ever been with anyone else. I’ve shared all my thoughts and my frustrations with him. He’s seen me at my worst and my best. Most of all, he knows my weaknesses and my insecurities. I’ve made promises to people, too, and I’m scared to death that I’ll fail to fulfill them, which is probably my biggest insecurity right now. I must bring my mother home. I must be a good sister, daughter and granddaughter. I must be whatever it is that Xander needs me to be. Because no matter what happens, I know more than anything that I want to make him happy. I
have
to make him happy.

He’s staring down at me now with those gorgeous, golden eyes, his face wrinkled up in concern.

“Are you okay, Evie? You’re a million miles away right now,” he says, and I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss him. I lean into him and his expression softens. I close my eyes as our lips are about to touch and—

“Evangeline Sweeney?”

Startled, I whip around and find a man standing in the doorway. He’s just past middle-aged but by the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the way his suit fits, I’d say he takes impeccable care of himself.

“Yes?” I stammer.

“Come on in. I’m Detective Drago.”

I grab my things and shake the detective’s hand as I walk into his office with Xander following behind me.

“Alexander Bartolomeo.” Xander introduces himself with a handshake.

“Please sit down,” Detective Drago says as he takes a seat behind the desk. Xander and I sit in the two chairs facing him. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to file a missing persons report on my mother,” I say, handing him the picture of Mom. He puts the photo down, reaches into the top drawer, and pulls out some paperwork. He looks at the picture and marks a few boxes on the sheet.

“First name of the missing person?” he asks, pen poised.

“Amelia Hamilton Sweeney. She goes by Mia,” I answer.

“Age?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Date and location last seen or contacted?”

“Umm, well,” I say, looking at Xander. He nods, encouragingly. “The last time I saw her was eleven years ago, but the last time anyone saw her was five years ago.”

“Excuse me?” Detective Drago says, looking up from the paperwork, perplexed.

“She was living with her grandma in Indiana when she left. Her grandma was the last person to see her,” my voice trembles.

“Well, I think you should be filing the report in Indiana,” he says and starts to put the paperwork away.

“Wait!” I beg, regaining my composure. “The reason I’m filing it here in DC is because my mom sent this postcard to her grandma.” I push the card across to him. He picks it up and examines it. “This is the last place she is known to have been. She was here looking for me and my siblings.”

Detective Drago hands the postcard back to me. “You’re telling me that no one has heard from your mother in five years, but you’re just now filing a missing persons report?”

“Yes. I didn’t know she was alive,” I whisper. I’m starting to think that coming here wasn’t such a great idea. Xander reaches down, taking my hand in his, and gives me a gentle squeeze. I know with this gesture that he’s trying to communicate:
You can do this.
I clear my throat and say in the most confident voice I can muster, “I thought she was dead. Plus, I was only seven years old at the time—”

“Okay,” he interrupts me. “Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.” He leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his neck. He’s wearing a smart-ass smug expression that says:
This should be good.
But he should check himself, because he’s got armpit stains the size of Mars.

I look over to Xander for a little strength. He gives me a smile, and I squeeze his hand back. I turn to Detective Drago and launch into the whole sordid story. It’s a wonder he doesn’t throw me in the loony bin. But it’s all true. No one could make up a story this twisted. I tell him about everything: my mom’s schizophrenia; my dad’s sending her back to Indiana, then divorcing her when she didn’t get better. I explain why I assumed she was dead all these years. Drago hears how I’ve been having horrible nightmares about my mom, only to find out they’re probably repressed memories. I tell him about my discovery of the original birth certificate and subsequent trip to Indiana. He listens to the story of how we found Mamaw Grayce, and discovered that my mom was alive and searching for her kids in Washington, DC. It all tumbles out so quickly that when I finish talking, Detective Drago is sitting upright in his chair blinking at me, jaw slacked.

“Young lady, how old are you?” Detective Drago asks, his voice infused with annoyance.

“I’m eighteen. I just turned eighteen last month.” And before he can say anything, I add, “I know I’m old enough to file this report on my own. I looked it up before coming here.”

“Yes, you’re old enough to file the report,” he says, “but the point I’m trying to make is that you’re also old enough for the cold, hard facts.”

I turn to Xander, who looks as bewildered as I feel. We both focus on the detective.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Xander asks, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes me nervous.

“I’m saying it’s highly unlikely that we’re going to find your mother—alive, anyway.” All the air in my lungs rushes out of me.

“Wait just a minute!” Xander snarls, and I squeeze his hand tighter. The last thing we need is to be carted off to the tank for getting out of control with a detective. Xander may be only eighteen years old, but his size and height would be intimidating to anyone. Xander gives me an apologetic face and says in a softer voice, “We didn’t come here for you to squash our hopes of finding Mrs. Sweeney. We need your help.”

“I’m just being honest with you,” says Detective Drago with a sympathetic look on his face. “Listen, I will file the report and put your mother in the missing persons database. But I can’t devote any staff to searching for her. She left of her own volition—she wasn’t abducted. She’s been missing for a long time, and I have new cases with fresh leads that need investigated.”

“But—” I begin to protest, but the detective puts a hand up to stop me.

“That’s the best I can do, Miss Sweeney.” Drago’s voice takes on a hint of concern. “Do you know how many people go missing in this country every day and are never heard from again? The fact that your mother has been missing for five years and has not contacted anyone, including her family back in Indiana, does not bode well. The fact that she’s also a schizophrenic doesn’t help her odds. I’m just being honest.”

I blink back the tears and nod. I know what he’s saying is true. I’m just not ready to give up.

“My advice to you would be to hire a private investigator and start going to morgues and funeral homes—”

“I’m sorry, Evie,” Xander interrupts, “but I can’t sit here and listen to this shit.” He releases my hand, stands up, and storms out the office door. Through the glass window partition, I watch as he drops down in a seat in the lobby, propping his elbows on his knees and planting his face in his hands. I don’t know if it’s the fluorescent lights or the huge wool sweater he’s wearing, but he looks unusually small and in need of comforting.

I turn back to Detective Drago, who is looking back and forth between Xander and me. With a frown he asks, “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I try to smile. “He’s just put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into finding her.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you two were related.”

“We’re not,” I say, as hot blood rushes to my cheeks. “We’re . . .good friends,” I finish, having trouble finding the right words to describe my relationship with Xander.

“Oh, I see,” Detective Drago says. “Anyway, as I was saying: morgues, funeral homes, hospitals, and schizophrenics-anonymous support groups. I’d start there.”

I nod. “Thank you for your time, Detective. You can keep the photo for the database. It’s a copy.”

“I’ll upload it right away,” he says, then leans over the desk to whisper to me, “Did you ever consider that your mom may not want to be found?”

“Actually, yes, I have considered that, but it’s just not who she is, Detective. If she’s on her meds and of somewhat sound mind, she would want to find her family. I’m just worried that she’s given up hope,” I say, my voice trembling again. “That’s why I can never give up on finding her, even if that means finding her bones.”

Detective Drago looks down at his hands and says, “If you find any leads, please let me know, and I will do whatever I can to help.” He rises from his seat and crosses over to me, offering his hand. “Good luck to you, Miss Sweeney. I sincerely hope you find your mother.”

“Thanks,” I say, shaking his hand. I exhale and turn to go out the door.

Xander looks up as I walk over to him. He rises and wraps me up in his arms. A whimper escapes my lips, and I bury my face in my hands. Xander tightens his hold on me, and we stand there absorbed in one another for a few moments.

“Don’t you worry,” he whispers in my ear. “I promised you that I’d help you find her, and I intend to find her—alive.”

“Thank you, Xander,” I say, and wrap my arms around him. “Can we please get out of here?”

CHAPTER 17

A few days ago, Xander suggested that we take a night off from our search to celebrate my eighteenth birthday. The day had passed last month without any fanfare because I was too engrossed in the search. Initially I was offended by the suggestion that I would even want to celebrate when I should be hanging flyers. But I reluctantly agreed after Xander went into a diatribe about how we would go insane if we didn’t take time for ourselves. I saw in his face that he was probably already halfway there, and I can’t lose my rock, not now.

So tonight we’re tucked away in a quiet corner of Jaleo, enjoying some savory paella—my favorite dish, which I haven’t had since I left Spain. Xander’s sitting across the table from me, looking grownup and irresistible. The soft candlelight warms his olive skin and gives his golden eyes an amber glow. He’s wearing all black: a button-down shirt, jacket, and pants. He’s staring at me with intense eyes, but suddenly a goofy grin breaks out on his face.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, trying to be serious, but the look on his face makes me burst out laughing.

“Nothing’s funny, silly girl. I’m just thinking how lucky I am to be sitting here with the prettiest girl I’ve ever met,” he says, going heavy on the cheese.

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes at him. “Now I know you’ve completely lost it.”

“How’s that, Doctor Sweeney?” His grin widens.

“Well, you’re friends with Camilla, and she’s easily the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen, so I know you’re full of crap when you say I’m the prettiest girl you’ve ever met.” I look at him, and it’s as if someone has slapped the smile right off his face.

“Why are you saying that?” His brow furrows.

“Well, it’s true.” I shrug. “Relax, Xander. It’s okay. My self-esteem isn’t wrapped up in my looks.”

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head.

“What?”

“You really have a deluded self-perception,” he says. “Well, I guess that is kind of a good thing. It’s probably why you’re so easy to get along with and not completely stuck on yourself.”

“Or not a complete bitch, as Camilla puts it?”

“Can we please leave her out of the conversation? She’s the last topic I want to talk about tonight,” he says, and by the frustrated look on his face, I know that he’s serious. He squirms in his seat and fidgets with the collar of his shirt.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Xander?” I say as calmly and non-accusatory as I can, but there are just too many things not making sense when it comes to Xander and Camilla.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’d like to have a night free of any drama, and that’s impossible if Camilla’s in the picture, even abstractly.” His face is serious, but after he takes a sip of his iced tea, his expression softens and he smiles warmly at me.