Without Faith (8 page)

“Sienna!” My mother called me from upstairs. Though I heard the panic in her voice, I was still unprepared for what she shouted next. “Roman is not on the plane! Minister Howard just called to say that Roman walked off the plane right before take-off. ”

I shut down the computer. The e-mail had to wait.

My son was losing his mind.

I was seven years old when I tried to run away from home. Yvette was five and had laid claim to one of my favorite dolls. My mother, who believed in solving all household crises in a diplomatic way, dropped the ball on this one and sided with the party who had the loudest tears.

She told me I had to share, but I knew from past experience and the quick stick-out of Yvette's tongue behind my mother's back, that my beloved doll was effectively no longer mine. Tired of the injustices that had taken over my life the moment Yvette and I were forced to share a bedroom (my mother turned my old room into her craft room), I stuffed my book bag with my favorite pair of stone-washed jeans and pink jelly shoes, grabbed a handful of chips, and set out to my best friend Cherie's house. I made it as far as three houses down before my mother's call turned me right back around on my heels.

I feared my mother too much to go one step farther.

I think that was what bothered me the most about Roman's disappearance. Did the boy not respect me? Did he not care what I thought, how I felt? What had I done to make him think it was okay to act like he did not have a house to come home to?

“Ma'am, will that be credit or debit?”

“Huh?” I looked at the bag of sponges, spray bottles, and disinfectants that filled my shopping cart.

“Credit or debit?” The cashier popped her chewing gum and patted the side of her hair where the remnants of a blond weave clung on for dear life.

“Credit,” I whispered, swiping my card, realizing that my thoughts were holding up the express lane at the supermarket.

That's why I had to get home and start cleaning.

Thinking slowed me down.

Cleaning picked me up.

“Ma'am,” the cashier spoke slowly as if I could not keep up, “you need to press the red button twice and then the green button once so that we can finish this transaction and I can move on to the next customer.”

Maybe I
couldn't
keep up. I blinked back tears, trying to remember the number of times I was supposed to press whatever color button. The cashier popped another bubble and the woman behind me who smelled like moth balls and cinnamon sticks groaned loudly.

“I'm sorry, the red button once and the green button twice?” I didn't trust my voice so I continued to whisper.

“Whatever.” The girl rolled her eyes and whipped the credit card machine around to face her. “Just give me the card. Old people and technology never mix,” she muttered.

“Um, Star'Asia,” I read her name badge, glaring at her. I was ready to tell this girl-child a few things about young people and respect, but then a thought occurred to me. “I got this.” I swung the machine back, swiped my card again and finished the transaction before she could think of another cutting insult. “Thank you.” I smiled genuinely at the cashier named Star'Asia and headed for the parking lot.

Roman was not answering his cell phone, but phones weren't the only way teenagers stayed connected to the world. I'd made Roman take down his Facebook page after finding out that several girls in his class were posting pictures of themselves fully clothed but in inappropriate positions. He'd fussed and carried on about how he was unfairly being penalized because of others' actions, but he'd followed my directions and deleted his page.

Now, I hoped that he'd actually gone behind my back and started another one.

When my mother broke the news that Roman had run off from the return flight home, I knew that I was not going to be able to stay in that house with all those people looking at me like I was an unfit mother. After filing a new missing child report with Las Vegas authorities, I considered calling Leon, slapping Yvette, or running around the block, screaming.

I chose to clean my house instead.

I was still committed to that task as nothing cleared my head better than the smell of pine and lemons, the scents of my favorite cleaners.

I just had to pray that he had some kind of online trail, then think like my son and figure out his screen name.

As I pulled out of my parking space, I noticed a red Lexus driving parallel to me in the next parking lane. I slowed down, and the other car did so too. “That's weird.”

I did not want to add feelings of paranoia to the stew of emotions that were simmering to a boil inside of me; but the thought of Jenellis and her red Lexus and the whole Brayden/Kwan/Silver fiasco were nudging me in that uncomfortable direction.

“I did my civic duty and reported my suspicions to the police.” I attempted to calm my nerves as I pressed down on my accelerator. The red Lexus lagged behind.
Seriously, I need to get it together.
I shook my head at myself as I turned out of the parking lot and the Lexus stayed put.

I was almost home when my cell phone buzzed with a text message from a blocked number.

“One hour?” I scratched my head, pulling into my assigned parking space. It was 9:54 a.m. “One hour for what?” I yelled at an unseen texter. “One hour? Is that a threat? Roman? Brayden? What is going on?” A million and one thoughts flashed through my head, none of them comforting.

“I don't have time for this.” I threw my phone onto the passenger seat, fully intending to leave it in my car, but then I remembered that Roman might call. I grabbed it up and marched into my house, and threw it on the kitchen counter. Armed with antibacterial spray, rubber gloves, and heavy-duty sponges, I began fighting the war against the dirt and germs in my house. From the kitchen sink to the counters to the stainless-steel pans that hung from the hook over my island, the sponge in my fist turned into a disintegrating mound of pink fuzz, my world turning into a dizzying spiral around me.

“Gonna run from here? You're going to take off and leave here without a trace? Not caring enough to tell me where you are? Got me worried about you on purpose? What are you doing? Where are you, Roman?” I pushed harder onto my granite countertop, not caring if the cleaner I was using was even the right one. I threw the pink shreds of my sponge into the trash can and threw my hands up to my forehead. “Think, Sienna. Think, Sienna. What is he doing? Where is he going? Oh, God. Oh, God. What am I supposed to do? What do I do?”

“Breathe, Sienna.”

The deep voice from the edge of my kitchen caught me off-guard, knocked me off balance, and made me stumble.

“Wha . . .”

“Breathe, Sienna. Start with that.” Leon was in uniform, his police radio a mass of static, his eyes solely on me.

“Where . . . where did you come from?” My words came out in short bursts as I tried to catch my breath.

“Your front door was unlocked, and when I heard all those pans banging and clanging, I came up to make sure you were okay.” He paused. “I heard about Roman.”

I felt weak, close to fainting. Leon was suddenly next to me, his arms about to wrap around me, to help me stand.

No. I am a strong woman. Fearless.
I straightened myself up before his fingertips made it to my shoulders.

Fearless.

Was that really what I was demonstrating by not letting Leon hug me and hold me up? I blinked the thought away as I stood up even taller, calmed my breathing, and stared directly at him. “Who told you about Roman?”

“Your mom called me. Said you left her house the moment you found out that Roman ditched his flight back home.”

Strong, fearless,
I told myself as I continued my tight stance. I noticed Leon had taken a slight step back from me. I ignored the pang of sorrow that threatened to sear through me at that observation, reminding me that even the Bible said power and a sound mind were the opposite of fear, and I was showing my power.

I could feel the bottom corner of my lip start to tremble, but I cut that out immediately. Everything about and in me felt like it was falling apart, but I could not, even now, let Leon see me break.

I did not want him to rescue me. I did not want anyone rescuing me. Rescue of some nature was what I had searched for in RiChard. Rescue from the routine of my life. Rescue from a feeling of purposelessness. He was like a savior to me, and then he abandoned me in the name of his noble mission of saving the world.

And I was not going down that path again.

I already knew there was another woman in Leon's life who made him smile—saw her with my own eyes. There was no way I was going to let myself become emotionally dependent on a man who wasn't promised to be with me tomorrow.

“Thank you, Leon, for stopping by to check on me.” My words felt like dry cotton in my mouth as I forced a smile. “I'm okay, and I'm sure that Roman is okay. I only need to wait to hear from him. I am sure he will get in touch with me soon with a reasonable explanation as to why did not want to come home just yet.”

“Sienna, I am with you. I want to help.” Leon seemed to see right through my act, but he did not step any closer.

“I know. Thank you. I will be okay.” I let my smile grow wider. “I merely needed a moment to get myself together so I could plan out what to do. And I have it now, a plan.” I did have a plan. I just could not remember it at the moment. I turned toward the staircase that led down to the lower level where my front door was. Leon took the hint and followed, but before going outside, he turned to face me again.

“Sienna, you know if you need me to do anything—”

“I know.” I cut him off, about to shut my eyes to block the tears that were threatening to form in them, but my unfinished collage in the entry hallway caught my eyes. I stared at it as Leon continued to stare at me.

“You know I started this when I was in the tenth grade.” I traced a copper spoon I added sometime in my twenties, around the time my grandmother passed. The spoon had been part of her special occasion dinnerware and it fit perfectly in my three-dimensional collage as a part of a brown angel hovering over the empty corner that would eventually be me. I gave my full attention to the collage as Leon simply stared at me
. Brother Tyson is the only person who ever commented—or even seemed to notice—this entry statement of my life.
A fleeting thought.

Leon stared at me blankly. I watched as he pressed his lips together. He partially shrugged and then fully stepped out of the doorway. “I care about Roman's well-being too. Let me know how I can help and keep me posted.”

He was gone.

I had gone back up the steps and plucked out a new sponge, this one yellow, from my shopping bag, when a heavy knock sounded on my front door.

“Roman?” I called out, knowing even as I heard myself that my hope that it was him at the door was both ridiculous and impossible. Even still, I smiled as I swung it open.

Leon again. I did not hide my heavy sigh.

“I'll call you to keep you posted.” Why was I talking so short to him when what I really wanted to do was collapse into his arms?

“No, Sienna.” Leon shook his head. “I'm responding to a call.” He patted his radio. “A 911 caller just identified your address as the place where a woman named Anastasia ‘Silver' Simmons is being held against her will. I know that's completely unfounded, so I wanted to get here first before any other officer did.”

I looked at my watch. 10:54 a.m.

One hour,
the text from earlier today had read.

Of all days, of all moments, this was not the time, and yet there was a swarm of police cars, emergency response vehicles, even a SWAT truck circling around my front door.

So much for trying to look like the ideal neighbor.

As countless men and women in various uniforms tore through my house, a man in a black suit kept asking me to repeat the story I first shared with Leon and then shared with him three times already.

“So, Ms. St. James, you're saying that a man named Brandon—”

“Brayden,” I corrected.

“Right, Brayden Moore came to your office this week and said and did things that made you suspicious, and then you saw him on a television show with the victim. What else can you tell us?” The shape of his head reminded me of a toad, warts, wrinkles and all. His leathery white skin spoke to sun exposure. Perhaps he was a fisher, or a hunter. Definitely an outdoorsman.

The details I noticed when I was distressed.

We were sitting at my kitchen island, my cleaners and sponges tossed on the floor. Leon stood behind my chair, outside of my view.

I wished I could see his face.

“That's really all I know. Without consulting an attorney, I don't have anything else to add.” Someone's life was in danger, so I knew that client confidentiality could be violated to protect Silver from harm; however, I wasn't sure where the line was drawn. I did not want to do or say anything that would get me into some kind of trouble when all was said and done.

That's why I had said nothing about Jenellis. She had not said or done anything suspicious. She'd looked as confused as I did when Brayden talked about us both understanding “why we were so pressed for time” within twenty-four hours. He knew something was going to happen. Jenellis did not. These were cops. They could take a name and do their own investigating, I reasoned. It was true; I really did not know anything else.

My main concern was my son.

“There's nothing here.” A woman entered the room with a small army of officers behind her. The black-suit man nodded and then turned back to me.

“Okay, Ms. St. James. You're clear for now, but if you think of anything or hear from this man, Brayden Moore, again, call me directly.” He handed me a business card. D
ETECTIVE
S
AM
F
IELDS,
it read.

As he stood, another man approached where we were sitting with my work notepad in hand.

“We found it,” he said, opening to the back where I had tucked the large wad of bills Brayden Moore had given to me the other day. “Fifteen hundred two dollars exactly.”

“Oh, I'd forgotten about that.” Though it was true—in the emotional upheaval of the past two days
,
I
had
completely forgotten about the stash of cash—even I heard how weak my voice sounded. “Brayden gave me that money and refused to take it back when I tried to return it, saying it was payment for therapy sessions. I never even counted it because I wanted nothing to do with it.”

Detective Fields took my notepad and started flipping through the pages.

“Wait, that's confidential information. I keep notes of
all
of my clients in there.” I reached for it. Fields hesitated but then returned it before standing.

“We'll be back with another search warrant, Ms. St. James. I wouldn't go too far today if I were you.” Everyone was filing out of the house.

I did not like the way this was going, the way he looked at me.

Neither did Leon.

“Sienna St. James is as clean as they come.” The mere sound of his voice was a comfort as he stood next to me in the doorway. “We are not sure why she is being targeted, but I can promise you she has nothing to do with this situation.”

He had removed any thought I'd had about feeling alone with any of this.

The detective studied Leon for a few moments, his head cocked to one side. “Officer Sanderson, you used to work on homicide before you took up the kid gig, right?”

“Police Athletic League,” Leon corrected. “I work at one of the PAL centers when I'm not working my other shifts.” Recent department cutbacks had forced Leon back on part-time patrol duty. “Sorry that I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Detective . . .”

Fields did not bother to introduce himself to Leon. He merely grunted. “I would suggest that your girlfriend here examine every corner of her life and past if you really think she is being targeted.”

“I am not his girlfriend,” I said, maybe a little too forcibly.

“I will let you two work that out, but we'll be back with another search warrant. If you think of anything else you've ‘forgotten,' Ms. St. James, you have my card.”

The door closed and I had more to clean. Muddy footprints on my carpet, some knick-knacks knocked over and broken. A couple overturned houseplants.

Leon's fingertips were on my shoulder, and this time I gave in.

“I've got you, Sienna,” he whispered in my ear as I melted into the folds of his arms. “Everything will turn out okay.”

Whether or not it would, I did not know. What I did know was that the warmth and strength I felt leaning my head against his chest was the most genuine, comforting, safest place I'd been in a long time.

And then his cell phone rang.

I felt his body stiffen as he fumbled to check it, then turn it off.

“I've got to go, Sienna. I'm still on duty.” The hug was over, and he was looking away from me.

“That was your phone, not your radio.”

“Yeah, but . . . but I have to go.” He reached for the door handle. “There's an unmarked car out there that's watching you, so don't worry about your safety. I will be back as soon as I can. Everything will work out okay.”

I watched him run down the steps, pause at his car, and then take off.

In all the vulnerable moments I'd had over the past two years, Leon had never left me standing alone to face them, even if I had not been welcome to his presence.

One unanswered phone call had done just that.

Taken him away.