The Case of the Missing Dinosaur

There are several phrases no responsible medical professional wants to hear during an evening rehab session.

I think something popped.

Is that supposed to bend that way?

I watched a guy on YouTube do this.

But apparently the phrase capable of bringing the Titans’ training wing to a complete standstill is:

“My dinosaurs are GONE.”

Jamie Kane stands in the middle of the hallway, staring into his open backpack like someone has stolen the crown jewels.

I freeze with a resistance band stretched between my hands.

Mason freezes halfway through a hamstring stretch.

Jamie looks up.

His lower lip wobbles.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

Six-year-old emotional emergency.

This is not a drill.

I drop the band. “What dinosaurs?”

“My earmuffs.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

My heart immediately folds itself into a tiny origami swan.

“The dinosaur earmuffs?” I ask.

He nods miserably.

I know the ones.

Green. Tiny. Ridiculously adorable. The pair I spotted on the coffee table approximately thirty seconds before discovering that Mason Kane owned a parenting book and therefore had layers beneath all the growling.

Mason pushes himself upright from the treatment table.

“Bud, they’re probably in the car.”

“They’re not.”

“Did you check?”

Jamie gives him a look of such profound six-year-old offense that I almost admire it.

“Twice.”

Mason exhales.

I recognize that breath.

It’s the same one he uses when I tell him we’re adding another set of mobility drills.

Controlled.

Patient.

One minor inconvenience away from punching drywall.

He reaches for his hoodie. “We’ll look at home.”

Jamie shakes his head hard enough to make his hair flop into his eyes. “I had them here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Jamie’s expression crumples.

“I don’t know.”

Mason’s entire face changes.

It’s subtle. If I hadn’t spent the last day professionally studying his expressions for signs of pain, stubbornness, and possible homicide, I might miss it.

His shoulders drop.

His voice softens.

“Okay. Hey. It’s fine. We’ll find them.”

Jamie looks unconvinced.

Something in my chest squeezes.

Right.

Time for action.

I slap both palms together.

“Okay, people. Nobody panic.”

Mason turns his head toward me.

“I wasn’t panicking.”

“I was talking to Jamie.”

“I’m not panicking either,” Jamie says.

“Excellent. Then I’m the only one panicking, which is my natural resting state.”

Mason closes his eyes.

I can practically hear him asking the universe why it assigned me to him.

Ignoring him, I crouch in front of Jamie.

“When did you last see the dinosaurs?”

He scrunches his face.

“In Daddy’s car.”

Mason points at him. “See?”

“But then I wore them inside.”

Mason lowers his hand.

I resist smiling.

“Interesting,” I murmur.

Mason’s eyes narrow. “Why did you say that like a detective?”

“Because we have a mystery.”

“We have lost earmuffs.”

“A mystery,” I repeat.

Jamie’s eyes brighten slightly.

Yes.

Got him.

I pull a pad of pastel Post-It notes from my pocket.

Mason stares at them.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“You have Post-Its. Whatever follows is going to annoy me.”

“Your lack of investigative enthusiasm has been noted.”

I write:

LAST KNOWN DINOSAUR LOCATION: TITANS FACILITY

Then slap the note onto the wall.

Mason peels it off immediately.

“Hey!”

“No sticking things to team property.”

“Fine.”

I stick it to his chest.

Jamie giggles.

Mason looks down at the yellow square attached to his Titans hoodie.

Then at me.

“You have three seconds.”

“Lead detective privilege.”

“You’re not a detective.”

“Neither was Scooby-Doo, technically.”

Jamie gasps. “Scooby-Doo is a dog.”

“Exactly. And he solved tons of crimes.”

Mason pulls the Post-It off his chest.

“This isn’t a crime.”

I lower my voice dramatically.

“That’s exactly what the criminal wants us to think.”

Jamie laughs again.

Crisis level: decreasing.

Excellent.

Mason points toward the treatment table.

“We’re finishing rehab.”

I blink. “Your son is facing a prehistoric accessory crisis.”

“My knee is facing an actual medical crisis.”

“Fine. Ten minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Twelve.”

“Rhea.”

“Fourteen and I stop calling you emotionally constipated in my head.”

His brows pull together.

“You call me what?”

“Nothing. Lie down.”

Fourteen minutes later, Mason’s knee is taped, Jamie has constructed what he calls an “investigation headquarters” out of two waiting-room chairs, and I have gathered the facts.

Fact one: Jamie wore the earmuffs into the building.

Fact two: Mason brought him through the players’ entrance because Jamie was spending the end of the evening with him.

Fact three: Jamie visited the training room, vending machines, rink entrance, and locker-room hallway.

Fact four: Mason possesses absolutely no imagination.

“I have imagination,” he says as we walk down the corridor.

I glance up.

“Name one imaginary thing.”

He gives me a flat look. “My hope of getting through one day without you causing an incident.”

Jamie snorts.

I clutch my heart. “Wow.”

“You asked.”

“I walked directly into that.”

“Yes.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“No.”

“You almost smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

Jamie skips between us. “Daddy smiles sometimes.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

“Mostly at me.”

Mason points at him. “Exactly.”

“So he is physically capable,” I say.

Mason groans.

We reach the vending machines.

I crouch.

“Okay, Detective Jamie. What happened here?”

“I got pretzels.”

“Strong snack choice.”

“I wanted chocolate.”

“Also strong.”

“Dad said no.”

I slowly look at Mason.

He crosses his arms.

“It was six-thirty.”

“Chocolate has no clock.”

“It does when you’re six.”

Jamie points underneath the vending machine.

“I dropped a quarter.”

I bend down and peer beneath it.

Dust.

A bottle cap.

Something that may once have been a raisin but has since evolved into a higher life form.

No earmuffs.

I straighten.

“Nothing.”

Mason looks unbearably satisfied.

“We’ve been searching for four minutes.”

“Sherlock didn’t solve London in four minutes.”

“That sentence doesn’t make sense.”

“It made emotional sense.”

We continue toward the rink.

The facility is quieter now than it was this morning. Most of the players are gone. The bright overhead lights reflect off the ice through the glass, turning the empty rink blue-white and almost peaceful.

Almost.

Then Jamie bolts forward.

“I sat there!”

“Walking feet,” Mason says instantly.

Jamie slows.

Mason’s dad reflexes are terrifying.

He can apparently detect a child accelerating from forty feet away while simultaneously limping and glaring at me.

We reach a row of seats near the glass.

Jamie crawls underneath them.

Mason immediately reaches for him.

I touch his arm.

“Let him look.”

The second my fingers make contact with Mason’s sleeve, something weird happens to my stomach.

A tiny flip.

Probably hunger.

Or indigestion.

Definitely not because his forearm is approximately the size of my thigh.

I remove my hand.

Quickly.

Very professionally.

Mason notices.

Because of course he does.

His eyes flick down to where I touched him.

Then back to my face.

I pretend to become deeply interested in a cup holder.

Jamie pops up.

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” I say. “Think. Did anybody talk to you while you were wearing them?”

He nods.

“A girl.”

Mason straightens.

“What girl?”

“She was little.”

“That narrows it down,” I say.

He thinks.

“She had a Kane sign.”

Mason shuts his eyes.

I bite my lip.

“What?”

He looks at me.

“This morning there was a youth group touring the facility.”

I remember the army of elementary-schoolers.

The foam fingers.

The signs.

The glitter.

So much glitter.

My left boot may still contain glitter.

“Did you show her the earmuffs?” I ask Jamie.

“She liked them.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know.”

Mason rubs the back of his neck.

“They probably got picked up with the group.”

Jamie’s face falls.

“Then they’re gone?”

“No,” I say immediately.

Mason looks at me.

I ignore him.

“We have a lead.”

“A lead,” Mason repeats.

“Yes.”

I point toward the hallway with the intensity of a woman about to raid an international crime syndicate.

“The children.”

Mason stares at me.

“Absolutely not.”