If Only She'd Loved Him

Chapter 7

Friday 3:30 pm

Making up her mind in a flash, Jean got into her car and drove to the police station. Blood spots kept popping into her eyes, into and out of her vision, like black dots after a camera flash. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Those tiny stains could have gotten there in a lot of ways, she argued with herself as she downshifted. A kid could have wiped out on his skateboard. Someone could have tripped and skinned his knee. There are a thousand ways, and a thousand people a few spots of blood could belong to, and none of them had to be Megan. But Jean couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. By the time she arrived at the police station, she had worked herself up into a minor frenzy, imagining in vivid detail all the things that could have happened to her roommate. Slamming her door shut, she ran straight up to the receptionist.

Collar neat as a pin, skirt freshly pressed, the woman was as curt as her outfit was precision perfect. She peered at Jean through bulletproof glass. "Yes, may I help you?" she asked.

"I need to see the police, now!" Jean demanded.

"Regarding what matter, miss?"

"It's my friend," Jean replied, trying to regain her composure before this uniformed automaton, but failing miserably. "She's missing."

"Oh, have a seat. Someone will show you upstairs shortly." She returned to her typing but then turned around, eyes narrowing. "Say," She looked Jean up and down, taking in the backpack, lack of make-up, and the real kicker, the sweatshirt with Edgewood College blazed across its front. Glasses sliding halfway down her nose, she asked in suspicion. "Aren't you a college student?"

"Yeah, so?"

Suspicion confirmed. The woman went back to her typing, dismissing Jean with a shrug of her shoulders. "Sorry hon," she replied, not sounding sorry in the least. All Jean's complaint meant to her was more paperwork. "There's nothing we can do. You have to report this to your campus police and then they report it to us. We can't help you till we've been notified."

"What?" Jean slammed her fist on the counter. "Let me get this straight, my roommate is missing, could be in serious trouble, and you won't even help? Is this a police station, or isn't it?"

"Hon, I don't make the rules. I just follow 'em." The woman slicked a hair back into place before she continued. "Your roommate's probably just out somewhere on one of those—what do you call those things? A roadtrip or something. I wouldn't worry about it. How long's she been gone anyway?"

"Since the night before last, but if you'll just listen," Jean pleaded, digging her fingers into the Formica counter top in frustration. The receptionist looked with distaste at those fingers. Their tips were ragged and short and as for those cuticles, well. She admired her own pale pink French tips before she turned back to her keyboard.

"We couldn't help you then anyway," she replied. "Your friend must be missing for at least forty-eight hours before we can do anything, and then you must report it to your campus security first, no exceptions. Oh, and hon," The woman made "hon" sound like it referred to Attila. "In our past experience, you college kids seem to just take off on a whim. Leave for a week, then come back all tan and broke. It's not like you little rich kids got any responsibilities or anything is it?" she sneered, losing her professional smile in the process. "My advice to you, is to go back your school and wait. Your roommate will turn up, they always do."

"Please," Jean's teeth ground together. "I found blood on the sidewalk. Can't you do anything?"

Interest peeked, the woman spun around. "Blood? How much blood?" Just then, her phone rang.

"Yes, MidValley Police Station, how can I help you?"

"A few spots," Jean interrupted her. "But—"

"That's all? That could mean anything. Some kid probably skinned his knee." She returned to the caller on the other end. "There's a lost dog in your neighborhood. We'll send someone right over. Your address please. Ummhmmmm." She started to type, but Jean was still scratching her fingernails into her counter. Frowning, first at the nails, then at Jean's face, she looked up. "Hon, we're very busy with important work. Go home and wait. I'm sure your friend is fine."

Tossing her hands up in the air, Jean stormed out of the station. Forty-eight hours! And it probably wouldn't do any good to report Megan missing then anyway. The woman had as much told her that they wouldn't take it seriously unless a week had passed by. Who only knew what could happen to Megan in a week?