“What happened to her?”
Ben shrugged.
“I don’t know what happens to any of them,” he said sadly.
“He’s not going to let me go, is he?” Orla asked, fighting tears.
Ben stopped mopping, his expression pained.
“No. He won’t ever let you go.”
Orla clutched the needle and thread and tried not to scream. As she sewed, she felt her mother next to her guiding the needle, pointing out mistakes, teaching her to make it cleaner, better.
Orla stopped, hanging her head and allowing her tears to fall on Ben’s pants.
They didn’t speak. He mopped, and she sewed. When she finished, she handed him the needle and thread and lay back on the bed. He fastened the straps and gazed at her for a long time.
“Thank you,” he murmured, before slipping from the room.
Chapter 42
Hazel
“There’s been another one.” Hazel stood, and her book fell to the floor.
Early American Gardens by Ann Leighton lay forgotten on the rug, pages splayed, as she stared at the television.
“What do you mean?” Bethany asked from a couch on the opposite side of the room.
“Turn it up,” Hazel said, already striding to the TV and adjusting the volume.
A reporter stood in front of a little wooden sign reading Welcome to Mancelona.
“Amber Hill, twenty-one years old, was last seen here at four p.m. yesterday afternoon. She was walking her dog, Chester, a small cocker spaniel. Chester returned to the family home, less than a mile away, after dusk. Amber has not been seen or heard from since.”
“Oh no,” Bethany breathed.
“I have to call Abe.” Hazel hurried to the kitchen and dialed his home number. It rang and rang. Next she tried the newspaper, but the woman who answered said he hadn’t been in the office.
“I’m going to look for him.”
Hazel got in her car and drove to the diner.
No Abe.
When she arrived at his apartment, Liz sat on the cement steps outside. She stood when Hazel arrived.
“Have you heard from him?” Liz asked, her face pinched with worry.
“No, I tried to call him.”
A hopeful gleam rose in Liz’s eyes.
“Abe’s already on the story. I know it. Maybe we will get him this time.”
Hazel swallowed.
If the man had abducted another girl, what did that mean for Orla? That he’d killed her? That she was never coming back?
Hazel’s breath hitched in her throat, and she cried. A terrible sob ripped from her chest, and she sank down.
Liz stepped into her, wrapped a supporting arm around her waist, and lowered with her to the steps.
She didn’t murmur ‘it’s okay’ or ‘everything is all right,’ but tightened her hold, as if to keep Hazel from following her grief into the cracks of the pavement beneath them.
Hazel cried until she soaked Liz’s shoulder. When she pulled away, her face felt raw and sticky.
Liz pulled a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to her.
“Let’s go to the diner. I’ll leave Abe a message to come find us there when he gets home.”
Abe
When Abe arrived at the missing girl’s house, he was surprised to see three squad cars parked on the small city street. The lawn in front of a two-story blue house, with white shutters and a red door, crawled with officers.
Abe spotted the parents easily.
Amber Hill’s mother leaned against her husband, her eyes dark where her makeup had run. The father stood tall, shoulders braced like a football player preparing to get tackled by the oncoming team. His face was stony, his eyes haunted.
Neighbors lingered in their yards, watching. The couple next door to the Hill’s spoke with an officer, while several more walked up and down the street, asking questions.
Abe spotted Deputy Beeker, a man he’d worked with a year earlier on a case involving a husband who’d murdered his wife. Abe jogged over to him.
“Beeker,” he said.
The deputy looked up, blinked at him in confusion, and then seemed to recognize him.
“Abe.” He offered him a curt nod.
“Got a scoop for me?” Abe asked.
Beeker’s mouth turned down, and he shook his head.
“You realize I can’t talk to you, right? You’re a stand-up guy, but the task force assembled around these disappearances has issued a gag order. If I so much as slip that she was wearing a pink tank top, the chief will pound me.”
“Was she?” Abe asked.
Beeker rolled his eyes.
“You’re going to release what she was wearing,” Abe said. “How else will people know what they’re looking for? This is off the record, Beeker. I want to help. I’ve got a file on these girls as tall as that tree, and I’m not operating on the chief’s orders or your budget. Give me a break.”
Beeker walked a few paces away, and waved back some gawkers who’d trickled into the Hills’ yard.
“Please step back, people. This is someone’s home. Give the family some space. We’ll be down to question everyone in the neighborhood shortly.”
Beeker ambled back to Abe.
“I’m not lead on this. She went missing yesterday afternoon. Took the dog for a walk and never came home. The neighbor brought the dog back around nine last night. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Did the leash come back with the dog?”
“No leash. Now bug off. If the chief shows up….” Beeker trailed off.
Abe gave him a nod and backed up. He moved closer to a group of people talking.
“Which way did she walk?” one woman asked.
“Down that-away,” replied an older man, leaning heavily on a cane.
“Toward Fountain Park?” another man asked.
“Yep,” the man replied.
Abe sauntered off, got in his car, and drove away.
When he spotted Fountain Park, he hopped out. A single squad car blocked the entrance.
“Trails are closed today,” the officer barked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Abe returned to his car and followed the road around the park. It was more than a park. Like Birch Park where Orla disappeared, Fountain Park bordered state land. Abe drove half a mile and discovered another unmarked dirt parking lot with a trail disappearing into the woods.
He pulled onto the side of the road, grabbed his camera, and jumped out.
There were multiple sets of tire tracks intersected with bike tracks, but one set was predominant, clearly the most recent. The tracks appeared as if someone had stopped at the mouth of the trail - or backed up to it.
Abe took close-up pictures. He snapped a picture of the trailhead, before moving into the shadow of the trees. The heavy vegetation muted any sound beyond the forest. A squirrel snapped its head up when he passed before returning to its foraging.
Abe studied the grassy trail, but could not distinguish footprints. A few feet further, he stopped. The tall grass on either side of the path had been trampled, and someone had snapped a branch of a maple sapling. He took more pictures. He imagined a struggle, a woman reaching for something to cling to and snapping off the flimsy branch.