Free The Feathered Bone by Julie Cantrell

any moment.
    â€œAre you calling in more help? State police? FBI? What’s the plan?” Jay again.
    As the officer explains the procedure, I step toward Ellie, who has just been released from yet another interrogation. She rushes back to me and accepts my hug. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her.” I guide her back to our friends and pull out a chair for her. I do the same for Beth, but she can’t sit down. Finally finished with her second interview, Raelynn also joins us at the table, explaining that she’ll send Nate back home on the bus with the other kids. They have all been waiting patiently for their driver to carry them back home. “They asked me a lot of questions about Gator,” Raelynn tells Jay.
    We direct our gaze toward the bus driver, who is being questioned by three officers.
    â€œI’d better get over there.” Jay heads Gator’s direction as Miss Henderson moves toward us, apologizing every step of the way. She rushes into Beth’s arms as much to receive comfort as to give it. The two stand together, sobbing, while the rest of us look away.
    â€œI should have known better than to come to New Orleans.” While the teacher weeps, the female investigator offers coffee to Preacher and Beth. They decline, each now taking a seat.
    â€œWhy won’t they let us leave?” Preacher asks, drumming his palm against the table in nervous pulses. “We need to be out there looking.”
    Jay finally returns to our group and takes the lead. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to work with the NOPD. Anything they need. If they want to question us again, we let them. If they tell us to sit, we sit. If they tell us to wait, we wait. And when they tell us we can hit the streets, we hit the streets and join the search. Right now they are in charge. They know their city. We have to trust they’ll do a good job. And I believe they will.”
    Accepting his support, the investigator smiles.
    We sit in silence, staring anywhere but at one another. And we wait. Chaos takes shape around us. A million moving parts, all trying to achieve the same goal: find Sarah.
    â€œCan’t you make them go away?” Beth stares at the journalists with a spiteful eye. A familiar Baton Rouge reporter by the name of Frank Doucet jams his microphone toward us. “Mrs. Broussard, how did you feel when you were told your daughter had been lost on a school field trip?”
    Beth ignores him, so he shouts more questions, hoping one will hook. “Is there any reason to think your daughter simply ran away? Do you know of anyone who might be involved if this is an actual kidnapping? Anyone who might have a grudge against your family? Any enemies?”
    â€œBe glad they’re here,” Jay says, centered as always. “The coverage will only help.”
    Placing her hand over her husband’s to still him, Beth lowers her head in silent prayer. By contrast, I want to shake my hands at the heavens. How dare you?
    I run scenes through my mind like the series of images we viewed earlier today on the oversized screen in the Mardi Gras film room. Only there is no well-rehearsed narrator making sense of this sequence. I focus, trying to find clues we’re overlooking. Who was here? Why didn’t Sarah come back from that restroom? Why did she leave the backpack? Where in the world can she be?
    Beside me, Ellie twists her hair into knots. “Sarah wouldn’t let anybody take her.”
    â€œYou’re right, honey. She wouldn’t.” I pull Ellie’s hand into mine, feeling both gratitude to have my child with me and guilt that Beth’s hand cannot reach Sarah’s.
    Beth lifts her head. “Ellie, you know her better than anyone. Where do you think she is?”
    My daughter glances out to Decatur, then over to the broad-limbed oak where the jazz band no longer plays, then back toward the