“I have a room,” she eventually said, her inexperienced smile revealing stained teeth. She’d probably been living on the streets for a while, although she didn’t seem too competent at turning tricks. Life on the streets wasn’t for everyone.
He shook his head gently. “That’s not going to work. My house isn’t that far,” he said, still smiling invitingly, his hand gesturing at the empty seat next to him. “I have good food, and you can take a hot shower.” His smile widened. “I’ll bring you back, I promise.”
She held on to the door with both hands as she leaned forward, her eyes on the same level as his, enough for him to notice the doubt nestled in there. Her hands were swollen and red from the cold, and her dirty fingernails had been chewed on. A few details that told an entire story of loneliness and destitution.
“How old are you?” he asked gently, reaching inside his pocket for his wallet.
“Eighteen,” she replied much too quickly, veering her eyes sideways, then looking at him again for a brief moment before lowering her lying gaze.
He opened his wallet and slowly took out several hundred-dollar bills, one by one, the rustling of paper the only sound between them for a few loaded seconds. The girl stared at the cash without a word, then grabbed the door handle and squeezed it gently. She opened the door and put one foot inside, ready to slide onto the heated leather seat, as he shifted into gear impatiently.
She changed her mind lightning fast, her eyes riveted on the finger he’d used to press the D button. She pulled away and closed the door behind her, throwing the cash in his hand a regretful look.
“Sorry,” she said, stuttering a little, “I can’t.”
“Get in here already,” he fumed, raising his voice as the distance between them increased with each rushed step she took. “Get back here!”
She didn’t turn to look at him; just shoved her hands in the center pocket of her hoodie and dashed away, her brisk walk becoming a light jog, then rapid running as she turned the corner into an alley.
He was alone again.
7Mother
The Harrelson residence was an old ranch on the south side of town, tucked between the state route and a ravine, Mount Chester’s snowy peak rising to touch the sky a few miles behind it. The clear blue sky and bright fall colors were at odds with the state of the property. It had fallen into disrepair, the siding showing scars from the storms that had passed through town, and the patchy roof must have been responsible for water puddles inside the home whenever it rained. The withered lawn had not been mowed in years, and the state of the weeds pushing their way stubbornly through the cracks of the narrow driveway stood as testimony that no car had pulled into the old garage in a while. The far corner of the shed had been damaged by a fallen tree trunk and had since been claimed by raccoons.
Most of all, the Harrelson residence was boarded and posted.
Panels of fiberboard covered all the windows and doors, and had clearly been nailed in place for a while, the nails rusted or broken by raging winter storms and summer showers. Only the four corners of what used to be a posted sign still clung to their nails, the rest blown away by the wind.
At a loss for words, Kay stared at what was left of the property, a shudder running through her body as she circled it slowly. That’s all it took, one fateful night, one taken child, one cop who didn’t care enough to do his job or call others who could do it for him, and an entire family’s existence was wiped, reduced to a pile of rubble.
“Excuse me.” Kay heard a frail, slightly trembling voice behind her, and turned to face a chubby woman dressed in a fuzzy turquoise housecoat and slippers to match. She must’ve been at least seventy-five, her white hair tinged with yellow and unkempt, and her parchment skin stained with liver spots.
“What can we do for you?” Elliot asked.
The woman’s tentative smile widened. “Oh, nothing, dearie. I might be able to do something for you. I’ve seen you looking at Shelley’s house.” She pointed toward the house next door with arthritis-knotted, trembling fingers. “I live over there, behind those oaks.”
Her eyesight was impressive, if she’d seen them circling the property from at least 100 yards away and through low-hanging maple branches loaded with rusty leaves. Kay smiled and approached the woman who waited patiently, their presence probably a rare spell of excitement in her life.
“Do you live alone, Ms.—”
“Ms. Duncan,” she replied quickly, with a slight nod of her head. “You can call me Martha. Everyone does.”
“Thank you, Martha,” Kay replied, shaking the woman’s warm, dry hand. Her handshake was still strong, although her fingers seemed unable to stop trembling. Most likely Parkinson’s. “I’m Detective Sharp, and that’s my partner, Detective Young.” Noticing a slight frown on Martha’s brow, she quickly added, “Kay and Elliot.” The frown vanished. “What happened here?”
“Strange that you should ask, being you’re cops and all,” she replied, her eyes darting for a moment toward Kay’s badge, bearing the seven-point gold star of the Franklin County Sheriff’s Office. “You know, poor Rose was taken, um, must be almost fifteen years ago, when she was just a little girl. They never found her,” she added, wiping a tear with the knotty side of her index finger. “That poor child… Who knows what happened to her?”
“Were you living here when it happened?” Elliot asked.
“Dearie, I’ve always lived here,” she chuckled, “and I’m pushing seventy-nine.” She turned serious again. “Funny you should come calling after all these years. Have you found Rose?”
Kay and Elliot exchanged a brief look. There were strict rules––no victim’s name was to be released to anyone else before the next of kin. Not to the media, not to friends or family. And
