Free Finding Me by Michelle Knight, Michelle Burford Page A

still find it.”
    “Let’s just start walking again and ask some more people along the way,” I suggested.
    That’s exactly what we did, but along our route not a single person could even halfway tell us where we should go. As we were walking past a laundromat, I looked through the glass window and noticed a clock up on the wall. It read 1:18 p.m. There wasn’t much time left. I decided I should try calling the office again.
    “Why don’t you start heading back without me,” I told Deanna. “I’ll look around to see if I can find another pay phone, and then I’ll catch up with you.”
    She nodded and began to walk home. I came across another phone booth and dialed. This time when I got through to the main menu I bypassed the evil receptionist and tried to reach my case worker directly. But you needed a special PIN number to get to any particular worker’s direct line, and I didn’t have it with me. I pulled the sheet from my purse and held it close to my face to try to read it, but I didn’t find anything that looked like a PIN. Around 1:30 I started walking in the direction of home and looked ahead to see if I could spot my cousin. I could see a girl that I thought was her in the distance, but she was too far away to hear me calling her. So I kept walking alone. Maybe I can still find a ride , I told myself.
    Around 2:30—the time of my scheduled appointment—I had just made it back into my neighborhood. I passed the Family Dollar store that I’d shopped in a bunch of times, the same one where I’d once gotten Joey those Christmas gifts. I was dying for something to drink. Once inside I noticed that the store seemed crowded. Making my way to the soda aisle, I noticed a nice-looking woman. Maybe she can help me , I thought.
    “Excuse me, miss,” I said, pulling out my crumpled paper, “do you happen to have any idea where this address is?” I pointed to the top of the sheet. She lowered the container of deodorant she was holding and looked at me, then at the address.
    “I wish I could tell you, honey,” she said, “but I’m not even from this area.”
    “Well, that’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t think this address is in this area. It could be someplace downtown.”
    “Sorry,” she said, placing the deodorant into her basket. “I don’t think I can be much help.”
    Feeling hopeless, I pushed the paper into my front pocket, grabbed a soda, and lined up at the register. The cashier, a stocky blonde woman, seemed a little frazzled. After I paid, I started for the door. Then I thought, Maybe I should ask the cashier if she knows where the address is , and I circled back to the counter. As she was ringing up another customer, I pulled out my sheet and showed it to her.
    “Excuse me. Do you know where this is?” I asked.
    She eyed the address for a moment. “Actually, I think you just go right up here to the corner, then swing a left, but I’m not 100 percent positive about that,” she said.
    Just as I was about to leave again I heard a male voice from a few feet away. “I know exactly where that is.” I turned, and when he stepped closer, I recognized the man from his photo. It was Ariel Castro, Emily’s father.
    “Oh, hi,” I said. He stepped forward to pay for his items, a couple of screwdrivers and a can of car oil. “I’m Michelle; Emily’s friend,” I continued. “I know your daughter.”
    He smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said in a soft tone, the same one I’d heard him use on the phone with his daughter. “If you give me a second here, maybe I can show you how to get there.” Thank you, God! I’d be late, but at least I could still probably make the appointment.
    As the cashier finished ringing him up, I got a better look at him. He was about as scruffy as he’d seemed in the head shot; his thick, wavy hair was uncombed and fluffed out a bit over his olive skin. His hands were rusty, like he hadn’t lotioned them in months, and the skin was peeling. He looked around