Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
But we don’t make it to Aspen on time.
Instead, Wes opens the storage area in the back to reveal a small clown curled up in a nest made of our sleeping bags and extra blankets, my ferret napping on her wig, and we suddenly have much bigger problems.
Chapter 17
WESLEY
My first thought is that the little girl with the smeared white makeup, curled up in our sleeping bags, is dead.
My brain screams statistics about how long a small child can survive locked in a hot car, while my stomach bottoms out and my palms go cold and clammy on the handles of my new bike.
But then, the child shifts in her sleep, and I remember that it’s spring in the Colorado mountains. It’s too cool to worry about a vehicle overheating. We didn’t crack a window for Freya for just that reason. It’s chilly outside and with Freya loose in the camper, Tessa didn’t want to risk her clawing a hole through a screen and getting out.
“Come here, Freya,” Tessa whispers, making me flinch as the ferret suddenly materializes from the child’s bright red wig.
“Shit,” I curse beneath my breath. “I didn’t see her there.”
“She must have crawled in through the storage area beneath the banquet,” Tessa says, nodding toward the extra storage on the right side of the vehicle as she gathers Freya into her arms. “Hopefully she kept the little pumpkin company.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “She must have been back here the entire time. Since we left the campground.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Why didn’t we see her? I swear, there was no one back here when I loaded the chairs and camping supplies this morning. And why didn’t she call out for help at some point? Especially when we stopped for gas. I was standing right there.” I motion toward the gas tank. “Just a few feet away.”
Tessa shakes her head. “I don’t know. But we have to report this right away. Hopefully, the police will believe it was all an accident.”
I gulp. “God, yeah. I didn’t even think of that.” I reach for my phone only to abandon the mission before I pull it out of my back pocket. “Should we wake her up first? Get her name? Her parents’ names? Maybe she knows a phone number we can call?”
Tessa hums doubtfully. “She’s awfully young, but we can try. Here, hold Freya.” She passes the fretfully clucking ferret into my arms—Freya seems worried about our stowaway, too—before leaning down to touch a gentle hand to the girl’s shoulder. “Sweetheart? Hello? Can you hear me, honey? My name is Tessa. I think you fell asleep in the wrong camper.”
The little girl’s lashes blink open. She reaches up, rubbing a small fist into her sleepy eyes, smearing her makeup more, before slowly sitting up. She glances around her before shifting her gaze back to Tessa, her bottom lip beginning to wobble.
Instantly, Tessa drops to a squat, bringing her face even with the child’s as she reaches out to pat her small shoe. “Oh, honey, no, don’t be scared. We’re not going to hurt you, I promise. We just want to help you find your family and get you home safe.”
The child sucks in a shaky breath and tears roll down her pudgy cheeks, breaking my heart in the process. Freya’s dooking grows more concerned, as if she, too, is trying to comfort the little girl.
“She’s right,” I add in a gentle voice. “We just want to help. Can you tell us your name? Or your mom or dad’s name? That would help us find a way to get in touch with them.”
The girl gulps and shakes her head, pointing one trembling finger to her face.
“You can’t talk?” Tessa asks.
The girl nods and her shoulders begin to shake.
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” Tessa says, moving to sit beside her, resting a hand on her back. “Can I give you a hug? Would that be okay?”
The girl lunges into Tessa’s side, wrapping her small arms tightly around her waist. Tessa hugs her back, stroking her wig as she murmurs soothing words I can’t quite make out.
After a few moments, she shoots me a pleading look.
I bite my lip, trying to think of any other way to identify this poor kid. “I’m pretty sure there’s pen and paper in one of the cabinets inside,” I say, inspiration striking. “Can you write your name for us, buddy?”
The little girl looks up from Tessa’s chest, where she’s smeared white makeup all over her gray sweatshirt. She shakes her head again and pops her thumb into her mouth.
“I think she’s too young,” Tessa whispers. “Probably three or four. Still in preschool.” She raises her voice a bit as she asks, “How old are you, honey?”
The girl sits up a little and holds out four tiny fingers.