With the college tour finally over, I walked into the police station, the articles from the library's computer in hand.

A man sat at the front desk, writing, dozens of papers spread everywhere. His shiny black hair flew in every direction, and his plaid sleeves were rolled up to elbows. It was like a scene from a slow day on the Andy Griffith Show.

I was sure there were many other ways he would have rather spent his Sunday.

"Hello?" I said, a tremble in my voice as I approached his desk.

He looked up at me from his work. There were bags under his eyes. "Yes?"

"Hi, uh." I began to panic. I hate being put on the spot. "I'm here about a cold case. I just wanted information about a disappearance of a girl from thirteen years ago—"

"Look little Miss Nancy Drew." He waved his fountain pen at me. "I don't have time for your silly detective games—"

"Oh but please sir! I know you must be very busy, but this is—"

The man put his feet up on his desk and locked his hands behind his head. "We don't just give out files willy nilly. There is paper work. Lots of it. What kind of kidnaping could concern you so much?"

"My own," I said, and sent the printed articles sliding across his desk.

The man put his boots down and leaned over my papers. He picked up the one resting on top, the article about my disappearance and reappearance.

He studied it, then picked up the printed photo of me as a two-year-old.

He compared me to the photo. "Changed a lot, haven't you?"

I remained silent.

Hopeful.

He read further. "How odd. I was only a senior in high school way back when, but I remember the case from the news." He rolled his eyes up at me. "What more do you need to know than what the article says? It's not like you're still missing."

"Well..." I shoved my hands in my pocket. I didn't want to explain my outlandish suspicions. I had no proof. Heck, I had no theories. I had two thirteen-year-old articles and a class picture day photo gone wrong. I didn't want to look like I was wasting his time on some wild goose chase.

None the less, I was truthful. This was my one chance to find answers, and I wasn't going to get anywhere lying.

"I lost my parents to a house fire two weeks after I disappeared and reappeared in my bedroom. I should have died with them. A two-year-old can't physically unlock and open a window, at least as heavy as the one I had. Yet somehow, they found me outside of it on the lawn, the sole survivor of the tragedy. Something... Something is very odd about this whole thing. Impossible, if you will. And I won't rest until I find the truth."

The red eyed man glared at me. "How do I know you're not just a punk kid? I smell a prank." He sniffed. "Plan on posting your findings on the internet?"

"Why would I— No. No sir. All I care about is closure." I eyed him. "Do you have a daughter?"

"Yeah." His tired face softened. "She's four."

"And if your little girl was taken in the dead of night with no chance of ever seeing her alive again, and yet by grace she was returned, and years later she asked you to assist her to find answers to help her cope, wouldn't you be there for your daughter?"

He buried his baggy eyes in the palms of his hand, silent as he leaned over his desk. He left out a deep sigh. "How much does this mean to you?"

My heart skipped a beat. "The world, sir."

"I'll see what I can do." He reached for the phone. His practically slammed his fist on the numbers.

He brought the receiver to his ear. "I hate you for pulling that card."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

"Ms. Green," Detective Shane Chapman said, extending his hand to me.

I shook it. "Please to meet you, sir."

"Please, sit down, sit down," he prompted, pointing to one of the chairs at the table.

"Thank you, sir." I sat down, putting my backpack on the floor beside me.

The man, grey, and round like an apple, sat down across from me. His uniform was sharp like his mustache.

"Now what's this all about?" he said, folding his hands on the table.

I gave him all I had, the two articles.

"Ahhh," he said, taking them in his puffy hands. "Yes. James mentioned this to me on the phone." He glanced at the papers, then set them down on the cherry table. "So you're the girl. After all these years."

"You remember me, sir?"

"You kidding? I was lead investigator. You don't forget cases like that. You don't forget any cases, but you especially don't forget a case like that."

"That odd?" I said, scrunching my eyebrows. Disappearing for one day and then returning like nothing happened is weird enough, but like I said, it was one day. Not years and years of pain like missing cases can go on for. What could possibly be strange about this case to be engrained in his mind like that?

"Ms. Green, what that article says doesn't even scratch the surface of what happened. We wouldn't release it to the media. It was just too biz—" He caught the bugging in my eyes. "Look, Mary, I'll give it to you straight. You're a good kid. Nothing but sunshine and rainbows on your record. And something that's a miracle these days in kids who've had it as rough as you—"

I froze my chest.

I will not cry.

"—But I don't know if us opening this case back up will help anything. You're here, you're safe, and that's all that matters." His voice was suddenly shaky.

"Please, sir," I said, practically begging. "I've got to know. And I'll never have closure until I find the truth. Knowing I was taken, even for a day, and we don't know where, is haunting me."

His voice grew stronger. "Look, kid, I told you, the answer is no. Don't push me."

Expecting some resistance, I persisted. "Sir, you cannot legally withhold those files from me. The case is cold. I am aware that the paperwork will take months to go through, but I am willing to wait. Anything for answers."

He sounded desperate. "I already told you you were a good kid. Don't spoil it. If you ask again, I will be forced to have you escorted out of the station."

I jerked my head back.

Where did THAT come from?

I saw no choice.

I left.

What was he trying to keep from me?

* * *

"So, Mary, how was yesterday? The college visit?" Mr. Ziglback scratched his beard.

Monday morning.

I hit my head on the table.

If I'm looking forward to correcting the professor every other seminar...

He rubbed his eyes. "Mary." He let out a deep sigh, and looked up at the ceiling. "Mary, we both wish you had better options, but this scholarship is the biggest shot you've got. In an ideal world, we wouldn't be as worried about getting in on a full ride to any old place, but because your current situation..."

I was not expecting how much of a punch in the gut that was going to be. At first I had it under control, but then I could suddenly feel a lump began to crawl its way up my throat. My face grew hot.

Mr. Ziglback fell back in his chair, his palms planted in the sockets of his eyes. "Mary, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No no, it's fine." I froze my chest, waiting for the pain to roll over and die, until it dispersed through my body like blood, weakening my bones.

I wiped a single burning tear from my eye with my thumb. "I'm sorry. It's childish of me to cry like this."

Mr. Ziglback leaned forward in his chair, his back hunched, his hands gripping one another. "No, it's not. Mary, I know it seems sometimes like I'm the bad guy here, but my job, other than helping you lay out your future, is to help you, yes, you, emotionally. If you need to talk through this with me, I am here for you."

I shook my head. "I'm fine."

No help.

Mr. Ziglback's blonde mustache twitched. "Mary, high school is difficult. It's perfectly understandable, if not completely expected of you to be overwhelmed right now. But we can't hold this all in. Please, tell me, how have you been feeling lately?"

I stood up from my seat. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ziglback." I snatched my backpack from the chair and walked to the door.

"Mary!" Mr. Ziglback called out.

I stopped at the doorway. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ziglback, but I am late for my next class."