Gone

The private investigator our lawyer recommended found Renee's trail within four days — not because she'd hidden it especially well, but because people fleeing a bad situation rarely think to change the one thing that actually identifies them: their skill set.

"She's using her middle name now," the investigator told Ryan over the phone, while I sat close enough to hear every word. "Renee Ashford instead of Renee Caldwell. Same résumé, almost word for word, minus the Henderson reference. She's got an interview scheduled Thursday morning. Nanny position, a family two towns over. Two kids, ages four and seven."

I felt something cold settle into my chest that had nothing to do with our own situation anymore.

"There's another child," I said. "Two more children, about to let a stranger into their house who has no idea what they're actually hiring."

Ryan was already calling the detective who'd been assigned to our original report, the one working alongside CPS on the deletion evidence, and for the first time since this began, I heard something in his voice that wasn't grief or fear.

It was resolve.

"We're not letting her walk into that interview," he said. "Not without someone in that room who actually knows who she is."

The detective was cautiously willing, provided we didn't do anything that could be construed as interference with an ongoing investigation — which meant, practically, that we couldn't go alone.

Thursday morning, we followed her car at a careful distance to a modest house on a quiet street two towns over, and watched a woman we now knew far too much about walk up to a front door where two children we'd never met were about to meet her for the first time.