have?”
How insensitive, especially after everything I’ve been through.
“You know I can’t fit into any dress in my closet!” I said a little more loudly than I’d anticipated. I looked at my feet and dug my toe intothe carpet. I regretted snapping at him. After all, he was only trying to help. “Sorry,” I said. “Your mother’s going to hate me for forgetting.”
Ethan crossed his arms. “Claire, she’s not going to
hate
you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said in more of a huff than I intended. “I’ll be there. And not in a paper bag. I’ll stop by Nordstrom on the way home.”
Ethan’s eyes looked tender for a moment. “Claire,” he said, softly, “I’ve been thinking, and I…”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice quickly switching back to the businesslike tone we typically used at work. “It’s nothing.” He gave me a forced grin before heading out the door.
I spent the morning researching, and quickly realized that locating a lost boy from 1933 is no easy feat. The receptionist on the phone at the police department made that much clear.
“You’re looking for
who
?”
“A little boy,” I said. “He vanished in May of 1933. As far as I know, he was never found.”
“Ma’am,” the woman said, smacking her gum, “what is it that you want me to do? Are you calling to file a report?” I could imagine the exasperated look on her face.
“No, no,” I said. “I’m just hoping that you can check your records for a Daniel or Vera Ray. I’m working on a story, for the newspaper.”
She sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Our records don’t date back
that
far.”
“Oh,” I said, sinking back into my chair.
“Listen,” the woman finally said after a long moment of silence. “Ifyou want to do a little heavy lifting, come on down to the police headquarters. I can show you to our archives, and you’re welcome to take a look. You have press credentials, right? You’re from a newspaper?”
“Yes,” I said. “The
Seattle Herald
.”
“All right,” she said. “Just don’t make the department look bad in your story. The chief hates it when that happens.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, hanging up the phone and simultaneously reaching for my coat.
“I’m surprised you made it over here,” said a junior police officer. He escorted me down the long corridor that led to the basement archives, home to police records from decades past. “The forecasters are calling for at least another two inches this afternoon.”
I pointed to my boots, still caked in white, and smiled. “I almost didn’t make it.”
The officer grinned. “Guess you have a pretty important story, then?”
I nodded. “Yes. At least, I think I do.”
“It’s so weird, this storm,” he continued. “One of the officers got a call from his mother. She lives here in town, and she says that a storm just like this one hit in May back in the thirties.”
“I know,” I said.
“Oh, you got a relative who remembered it?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m writing about a little boy who went missing the day of that snowstorm.”
“I got three boys of my own,” he said. “Five, three, and one.” He shook his head regretfully. “Can’t imagine losing a child. But what it would do to my wife, that’s what I worry about most. She’d never get over it, I can tell you that.”
I nodded. “No mother should ever lose a child,” I said, staring at the door ahead. “I think it’s why this story is so important to me. As far as I can tell, this little boy was never reunited with his mother. I want to know what happened.”
We walked into a dark room, and the officer turned on the light switch. Fluorescent bulbs flicked and hissed overhead. “What year was he taken?” His voice echoed against the gray concrete walls.
I pulled my notebook from my bag, scanning my notes. “Nineteen thirty-three.”
“Right this way,” he said. “Homicides are down this
How insensitive, especially after everything I’ve been through.
“You know I can’t fit into any dress in my closet!” I said a little more loudly than I’d anticipated. I looked at my feet and dug my toe intothe carpet. I regretted snapping at him. After all, he was only trying to help. “Sorry,” I said. “Your mother’s going to hate me for forgetting.”
Ethan crossed his arms. “Claire, she’s not going to
hate
you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said in more of a huff than I intended. “I’ll be there. And not in a paper bag. I’ll stop by Nordstrom on the way home.”
Ethan’s eyes looked tender for a moment. “Claire,” he said, softly, “I’ve been thinking, and I…”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice quickly switching back to the businesslike tone we typically used at work. “It’s nothing.” He gave me a forced grin before heading out the door.
I spent the morning researching, and quickly realized that locating a lost boy from 1933 is no easy feat. The receptionist on the phone at the police department made that much clear.
“You’re looking for
who
?”
“A little boy,” I said. “He vanished in May of 1933. As far as I know, he was never found.”
“Ma’am,” the woman said, smacking her gum, “what is it that you want me to do? Are you calling to file a report?” I could imagine the exasperated look on her face.
“No, no,” I said. “I’m just hoping that you can check your records for a Daniel or Vera Ray. I’m working on a story, for the newspaper.”
She sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Our records don’t date back
that
far.”
“Oh,” I said, sinking back into my chair.
“Listen,” the woman finally said after a long moment of silence. “Ifyou want to do a little heavy lifting, come on down to the police headquarters. I can show you to our archives, and you’re welcome to take a look. You have press credentials, right? You’re from a newspaper?”
“Yes,” I said. “The
Seattle Herald
.”
“All right,” she said. “Just don’t make the department look bad in your story. The chief hates it when that happens.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, hanging up the phone and simultaneously reaching for my coat.
“I’m surprised you made it over here,” said a junior police officer. He escorted me down the long corridor that led to the basement archives, home to police records from decades past. “The forecasters are calling for at least another two inches this afternoon.”
I pointed to my boots, still caked in white, and smiled. “I almost didn’t make it.”
The officer grinned. “Guess you have a pretty important story, then?”
I nodded. “Yes. At least, I think I do.”
“It’s so weird, this storm,” he continued. “One of the officers got a call from his mother. She lives here in town, and she says that a storm just like this one hit in May back in the thirties.”
“I know,” I said.
“Oh, you got a relative who remembered it?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m writing about a little boy who went missing the day of that snowstorm.”
“I got three boys of my own,” he said. “Five, three, and one.” He shook his head regretfully. “Can’t imagine losing a child. But what it would do to my wife, that’s what I worry about most. She’d never get over it, I can tell you that.”
I nodded. “No mother should ever lose a child,” I said, staring at the door ahead. “I think it’s why this story is so important to me. As far as I can tell, this little boy was never reunited with his mother. I want to know what happened.”
We walked into a dark room, and the officer turned on the light switch. Fluorescent bulbs flicked and hissed overhead. “What year was he taken?” His voice echoed against the gray concrete walls.
I pulled my notebook from my bag, scanning my notes. “Nineteen thirty-three.”
“Right this way,” he said. “Homicides are down this
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