I try sitting up but a shock of pain radiates through my abdomen. I cough, attempting to clear my throat and that too, produces another spasm of agony. I groan, releasing my head back down on my pillow.

“Relax,” Rob says. “You just had laparoscopic surgery to repair a bleeding ulcer.”

My hand finds the three small patches of bandages on my stomach.

“They want to keep you overnight just to make sure.”

“What about Robyn?” I croak.

“They were in pursuit when the ambulance came and got you. The cops promised to send somebody by the hospital to let us know what happened,” Rob says.

His hand on my shoulder feels dictatorial.

“The Bread and Butter, BLU BOY,” I mumble, fighting against an anvil of somnolence.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “You need to stay quiet.”

A nurse drifts by, and plays with one of the tubes attached to my body and I fall back into a black void.

September 3, 2002

I am dreaming the sweetest dream. I am cradling my infant daughter, nestling her as she dozes contentedly in my arms. I touch my face to her and smell her baby scent, its sweetness so dear, the aroma stirs a tickle of ecstasy deep in my heart. Her fine, downy hair is moth-wing soft and I have never been so happy in all my life. And suddenly, like the bursting of a balloon, she is gone.

My eyes open to the small hospital room. The room has no windows and is dark save for a small, weak light off to the side by the sink. Several feet away from me sits Rob, his crumpled form asleep in a chair. A mottled gurgle of sound escapes me as I bring my hand to the incisions on my stomach. Rob stirs.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Robyn?”

“No one from SFPD’s come by yet,” he says, standing up. “But they promised they would as soon as they had something definite to tell us.”

He walks over, washing the exhaustion from his face with his hands.

“What time is it?” I ask.

He consults his watch.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Labor Day weekend.”

“Rob, it’s important that we contact Bart Strong, the private eye.”

I feel his mood immediately cool.

“If the police come up empty-handed, Bart might not. He can do things the cops can’t, you know.”

Rob frowns. “A private eye takes money.” He gives me a look.

“I’ll get another advance on the credit card,” I say, coughing out the cement dryness of my throat.

“That card’s already maxed out,” he snaps.

“Then I’ll get a new card!” I rasp out with irritation.

A tap at the doorway interrupts us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Skinner?”

A tall man in a dark beige sport coat walks into the room. His dark hair is neat, combed back. As he approaches the bed, from the shadow between his coat and crisply pressed shirt, I catch the outline of a gun and holster strapped to his side.

“I’m Detective Covey.”

“Where’s our daughter?” Rob says.

I inch up in the bed, ignoring the pain in my abdomen. My eyes stay fastened on Detective Covey’s stoic face, and I find myself thinking that if he doesn’t play poker, he should.

“The two patrolmen, Eddy and Wong were able to track down the BMW with the license plate BLU BOY, but your daughter wasn’t the passenger riding with Antonio Peña.”

Rob’s shoulders drop. I close my eyes; grit my teeth against a tide of hopelessness. Detective Corey sighs and clears his throat.

“Peña is a pimp, as you probably know. The woman he was with is Joyce Desky, a twenty-four year old known prostitute.”

“Can’t you just arrest Peña?” Rob says.

“Look, I know you’re frustrated, but we can’t just go around arresting people for driving around the streets of San Francisco.”

“He was taunting us,” I say.

“That may be,” Detective Corey says, “but when Officer Eddy stopped Peña, he realized that the young woman in the car wasn’t your daughter. Peña was able to show a valid driver’s license as well as proof of registration and insurance. The officer had no other probable cause to detain him.”

“This is bullshit!” Rob growls. “Our daughter is out there somewhere!” He stabs the air with his finger.

“Settle down Mr. Skinner,” Detective Corey’s voice hardens. “As a matter of procedure, Pittsburg P.D. should request you both take lie detector tests, just to rule you out.”

“Lie detector tests?” Rob’s eyes bug out. “You’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding me!”

“Relax. It’s standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure my ass. Just because you guys can’t do your job, you pick on the parents. What a waste of-”

“Rob,” I say, reaching out for his arm, but he jerks away from me.

“No!” he says to neither of us. “Our baby is out there somewhere, maybe hurt, maybe dead for all you care, and all you can do is tell me is take a friggin’ lie detector test?”

Detective Corey turns his attention to me.

“If you suspect that your daughter is being held against her will, or has been abducted, the first step is a lie detector test to rule out the parents. It’s as simple as that.”

I close my eyes as the detective concludes with assurances that San Francisco P.D. will do all it possibly can to resolve the ‘situation’. He leaves us with his card and then is gone.

“Look Mom, I really have to go,” I say.

For the last twenty minutes, Gladys has been giving me a protracted description of the complete medical examination by the newest love of her life, a Dr. Hunter.

“I’m sorry to keep you honey, I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say.

We complete our conversation with the standard Q and A on when we can all come out to “visit for a spell” and then I hang up.

I push the dial button and phone the office letting Carmelita know about my surgery and that there are no new updates on Robyn.

“We’re praying for you and your daughter,” Carmelita says over the phone.

“Thank you. Hopefully she’ll be home very soon,” I say.

“Oh, just one more thing,” Carmelita says. When do you think you’ll be back at work?”

“The doctor said I’d be fine to come back next week. No lifting more than ten pounds, no Ibuprofen, and take all these meds” I say, staring at the table of prescription bottles in front of me.

“Like I told you,” Carmelita responds, “don’t worry about a thing. The important thing is that you heal.”

“I feel fine now,” I say, probing my abdomen gingerly.

“Oh, one more thing,” Carmelita says. “There’s some vendor, a Moore Floral and Nursery that keeps calling for you, but won’t leave a message. Do you know what that’s about?”

“Oh that. Yeah, they submitted an invoice from 2001 for some yard maintenance for that property in Martinez, but I don’t show an open P.O. Just tell Peggy to make sure she doesn’t pay that bill until we get it straightened out.”

“Oh, one more thing,” says Carmelita. “No one knows what kind of printer cartridges you always order. Peggy wanted me to ask you if you get it from Office Depot.”

“In my bottom drawer is a file that has all that info,” I say. “Have Peggy look there.”

We say our good-byes. The phone immediately rings. Carmelita with ‘just one more thing’, I’m sure.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Skinner?”

It’s the voice of Bart Strong, the private investigator. My heart flips in my chest.

“Yes?”

“Bart here. Sorry I’m just now getting back to you. Family reunion back east.”

I update him on the recent spate of events, including Rob and I scheduling the lie detector tests.

“I just don’t understand why law enforcement isn’t doing more,” I conclude.

“Listen,” Bart says. “I talked with a cop friend of mine in the department. Every time a foster kid decides to stay out late or spend the night at a friend’s house, the law requires the foster family to file a report. Between foster kids, and abused kids, as well as the garden variety runaways like Robyn, you’re looking at hundreds and hundreds of kids. Police just don’t have the resources necessary.”