Chapter 8 - Searching County Roads for Elena
The file the caseworker let me photograph on my phone had three addresses in Elena's handwriting and one typed line at the bottom. I sat in my truck outside the children's home after drop-off and stared at it until the screen dimmed. The first was an apartment on County Road F, unit 6. The second was Marcy's Diner on Highway 17. The third wasn't an address at all, just a note: vehicle - blue Corolla - last seen First Grace Church lot.
I'd spent three days waiting for a lab to tell me what I already felt in that hallway when she grabbed me. That wasn't enough anymore. My daughter was in the day program learning sight words and I was sitting still.
I pulled out onto the county road with the addresses on the passenger seat.
Marcy's was the kind of diner with a hand-painted sign and a parking lot that hadn't been resealed in ten years. The bell over the door dinged and the smell of coffee and grease hit me at once. A woman in her fifties worked the grill, hair tied back, name tag that said MARCY.
"You're the manager?" I asked.
"Owner," she said. She didn't stop moving the spatula. "You ordering?"
I told her I was looking for Elena. Her last name, the one I'd known her by seven years ago. Marcy's hand paused for half a second, then kept going.
"Elena Ruiz? She worked here til about three months ago. Good waitress. Quiet."
"What happened?"
"Stopped showing up." She looked at me then, took in the tattoos on my neck. Her expression didn't change. "Left a note on the door. Said she had to go to the county hospital. Didn't say why. Left her last check. I mailed it to her apartment."
"Did she say anything else? Like where she was going after?"
Marcy shook her head. "She kept to herself. Always talked about her little girl though. Showed me a picture once. Red dress." She slid a plate onto the pass. "You her family?"
"I'm her daughter's father," I said.
She studied me a beat longer, then nodded once. "County hospital's the only place she mentioned. That's all I got."
The apartment complex on County Road F was two stories of faded beige siding with outdoor stairs and rust on the railings. The landlord's office smelled like cigarettes and air freshener. A man in a maintenance shirt answered when I knocked and said the manager was him.
"Unit six is empty," he said before I finished asking. "Elena left end of January. Didn't give notice, just cleared out."
"Did she leave a forwarding address?"
"No. Left some stuff. We boxed it. She was behind half a month but I didn't push it. She was sick, you could tell." He leaned against the doorframe. "You related?"
"I'm looking for her because her daughter's asking where her mom is."
He exhaled and went back inside, came out with a manila envelope. "We found this taped inside her closet. Didn't know what to do with it. It's got her name on it."
Inside was a folded county hospital discharge instruction sheet, blank except for the header and a handwritten appointment date from February that had passed. No diagnosis. Just the hospital's name and phone number: Mercy County Medical Center.
"Did she have a car here?" I asked.
"Blue Corolla. Haven't seen it in a while. She used to park it under the oak by the church next door when she couldn't make rent, so we wouldn't tow it."
First Grace was a white clapboard church with a gravel lot in back that butted up against the apartment complex. The Corolla was there, exactly where he'd said. Dust on the windshield, a flat front tire, pine needles gathered along the wipers. I walked around it slowly. The doors were locked. Through the driver's window I could see a child's booster seat in the back, a pink blanket folded on it, and a fast-food cup in the console.
I called the sheriff's non-emergency line and waited for a deputy. He came twenty minutes later, ran the plate, confirmed it was registered to Elena, and said if I was next of kin I could look inside but not move it. He popped the lock with a slim jim.
The glove box was half open. Inside was the registration, a stack of napkins, and a plastic hospital wristband. I picked it up with my fingertips. The printed name was Elena Ruiz, the date was from three months ago, and the location line read Mercy County Medical Center - 3 North. The band had been cut off, not removed clean. Under it was a parking validation stub from the same hospital, stamped twice.
I sat in the driver's seat for a minute and breathed. The car still smelled faintly like her perfume and french fries. The rearview mirror had a small wooden cross hanging from it that I remembered from her apartment years ago.
I stepped out and called the caseworker from the church lot. The wind was picking up and the pine trees made a hushing sound over the gravel.
"It's Vitari," I said when she answered. "I found her car. Behind First Grace on County Road F. There's a hospital wristband in the glove box. Mercy County Medical Center."
There was a pause. I could hear her typing.
"Don't touch anything else," she said. "Did you get the date on the band?"
I read it to her.
"Okay. I can't get medical information. You know that, HIPAA. But I can request a welfare check through the hospital social work team and law enforcement. If she's been admitted or was discharged to somewhere, they can confirm if she's safe without disclosing details."
"Can you do it today?" I asked.
"I'll put it in this afternoon. I'll need the deputy's name for the report."
I gave her the deputy's name and badge number. She said she'd call me as soon as she heard anything, but it could be tomorrow given the hospital's process. The DNA results were also due tomorrow.
I looked back at the Corolla, the flat tire, the blanket in the back seat.
"I'll stay with the car until you close the request?" I asked.
May you like
"Don't move it. Take photos. I'll note you secured the location."
I sat on the asphalt next to the front tire and waited until she said she had what she needed, then hung up. The girl would be getting out of her day program in two hours. I had something real to bring back now, even if it wasn't an answer yet.
