Free Barefoot by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

doing.”
    “I am so sorry,” Melanie said. She was weepy, though not actually crying. If it had been Brenda, Vicki would have lost her temper, but this was Melanie, her dear, sweet, heartbroken friend. Kid gloves! Vicki thought. Melanie had a lot on her mind; Melanie could not be held accountable.
    “It’s okay,” Vicki said.
    “It’s not okay,” Melanie said. “You asked me to watch him, and I was thinking about something else. I didn’t even see him leave.”
    “Did you see him go into the water?” Vicki asked. “Did you see him swimming?”
    “No,” Melanie said. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I was thinking about Peter, and . . .”
    Brenda held up a finger and gave the 911 operator the information: four-year-old boy, blond, green bathing suit, ’Sconset Beach north. Missing for . . . twelve minutes. Only twelve minutes? Vicki could easily dissolve, but no, she was going to be strong. Think! she urged herself. Think like Blaine. Porter was screaming. Vicki took him from Melanie. She recalled the day before, Melanie falling from the steps of the plane. Melanie had been anxious, tired, sick, distressed, and wearing those ridiculous gardening clogs. She’d had her hands full, and Blaine had knocked her over. Yesterday was not Melanie’s fault. Porter reached inside Vicki’s bikini top and pinched her nipple. Her milk came in. She hugged Porter and whispered, “We have to find your brother.”
    Brenda hung up with the police. “They’re sending a squad car,” she said. “And a guy on a Jet Ski.”
    “Do they think he’s in the water?” Vicki said.
    “I told the police the last place we saw him was at the water’s edge.” Brenda glared at Melanie. “Right?”
    Melanie made a retching noise. She bent in half and vomited into the sand. She staggered toward the dunes. Vicki followed her and gently touched her shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay?” Brenda had checked the dunes, but maybe not closely enough. Blaine might have found a nest of some kind, or maybe he had to go to the bathroom. She hobbled through the dunes, looking for a little boy crouched in the eelgrass. Porter held on tight, one hand locked on Vicki’s breast, which was leaking milk. Her bikini top was wet, and milk trickled down her bare stomach. The path through the dunes funneled her between two private homes and then back onto the street, where a squad car waited, lights flashing. Vicki pried Porter’s hand from her breast, and he started with fresh tears. Milk was leaking everywhere; Vicki needed a towel. She needed to wean the baby. She needed to find her child! Her exuberant, out-to-conquer-the-world firstborn. Would he have come this far by himself? Of course. Blaine was afraid of nothing; he was impossible to intimidate. Ted loved this about him, he encouraged Blaine’s fearlessness, his independence—he fostered it! This was Ted’s fault. It was Melanie’s fault. She said she would keep an eye on him! Ultimately, however, Vicki blamed herself.
    The policeman was a woman. Short, with a dark ponytail and eyebrows that met over her nose. When Vicki approached, she said, “You’re the one who called?”
    “I’m the mother,” Vicki said. She tried to wipe the milk from her stomach, pull her bikini top so that it lined up evenly, and comfort her screaming baby. All this disarray, a missing child . . . and I have cancer!
    “Where did you last see your son?” the policewoman asked.
    “He was on the beach,” Vicki said. “But now I’m wondering if he didn’t try to walk home by himself. Or to the market. He knows there’s ice cream there. Could we get in your car and drive around to look for him?”
    “The fire department sent a Jet Ski,” the policewoman said. “To check the waters.”
    “I don’t think he’s in the water,” Vicki said. What she meant was: He can’t be in the water. If he’s in the water, he’s dead. “Could we just go in your car?”
    The policewoman murmured something