Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“No. They’re still looking. Your mother won’t be home until late, so she asked me to take you to my house.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I’m sixteen—”
“This is nonnegotiable, Isla. Come on. Let’s get your things.” He jerks his head toward the door. “And you’re spending Thanksgiving with us, so your mom doesn’t have to worry about you. We need her focusing on this case.”
With reluctance, she pushes her candy pot toward Thomas. “You can have this if you clean Biscuit’s stall in the morning.”
“Deal.” His eyes light up with excitement as he begins loading his loot into his sweatshirt pockets.
Climbing out of her chair, Isla mumbles, “My backpack’s in the kitchen,” and heads in that direction.
“What has Emery told you?” Sarah asks quietly, swaying with her son in her arms.
“She’s pretty tight-lipped. I drove by the Bale House. It’s all taped off and crawling with cops. Forensics and CIB investigators are there now. I don’t know. She said they’re chasing a few leads. Hopefully good news will come soon.” But Dillon doesn’t sound convinced.
Isla returns with her jacket, bag, and muffins that didn’t sell. She pauses at the table. “Thanks for teaching me Texas hold ’em, prison style, Logan.”
I chuckle. “It was plain Texas hold ’em. You don’t want to play the other version. Trust me.”
Sparing me a weak smile, she heads out the door, her father dropping a hand on her shoulder.
And I stare blankly after them, my stomach burning with jealousy and regret.
That should have been my life.
Isla should have been my kid.
“Time to get home!” Sarah calls out. “Brooks, Carson, come on!”
When they don’t acknowledge her, she barks, “Don’t make me change the Wi-Fi password!”
The twins begrudgingly drag themselves off the couch.
“Can you teach me more prison games tomorrow, Uncle Logan?” Thomas asks.
“I’ll see what I can come up with.”
Sarah shoots me a warning glare before prompting, “Say good night to your uncle.”
A childish chorus rings out and then she ushers them out the front door, leaving me to the uneasy silence and my dark thoughts.
Chapter 20
Emery
“Got it. Thanks for the help.” Detective Constable Gary Schmidt from the North East Region Crime Unit ends the call with a sigh, smoothing a hand over his bushy moustache. “That was Thunder Bay. Reeves is clean. He even let them check out his truck. Nothin’ turned up besides a collection of empty coffee cups. Not even a loose speed pill lying around.”
I curse. Not because I was hoping to pin a crime on the guy, but Jordan Reeves was our main lead into Holly’s disappearance. He’s the one Kiera and Reagan—the girls with Holly Friday night—identified from the pictures we showed them.
“Reeves admitted to thinking she was pretty and flirting with her, but the moment he realized how young she was, he got the hell out of there. The officers questioning him seemed to think he was telling the truth.”
“That or he’s a really good liar.” But if Jordan Reeves is innocent, we’re back to square one.
The last twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind of activity. Every available officer of mine showed up to help canvass, along with Cold River’s firefighters. By the time CIB arrived, we had already lifted the company names for the three transport trucks parked overnight at the Bale House off security footage from a gas station across the road and were making calls. Thanks to installed GPS trackers on the trucks, we had the drivers’ names and employee photos quickly, as well as their exact locations. By last night, various jurisdictions had located all of them for us.
All their stories checked out.
“Did Reeves say what happened after he left Holly? Where she went?” I ask.
“According to him, he got in his truck and locked the doors. When he checked out the window, he didn’t see her anywhere, but it was dark and the lighting isn’t great. He went to sleep and that was that.”
“She could have been sitting on those pallets where they found her phone,” I think out loud, before asking, “And he didn’t hear anything. No shouts or screams? No fight?”
“Nothing, but he said he’s a deep sleeper and he had earplugs in. Still had them in his pocket. None of the truckers heard anything other than the usual noise from the bar. Oh, except for that older guy, who said he woke up to a pack of coyotes in the field. Sounded like they’d caught a cat or—”
“Rabbit.” I grimace. “We found what was left of it while they were canvassing.”
“There you go, then. But no female screams.”
“Which means Holly likely knew and trusted the person who took her.”
“Or they came up from behind, knocked her out, carried her off.”
“Possibly. Maybe that’s how she lost her earring.”
“If it’s hers,” Schmidt counters.
“It’s hers.” Detective Constable Ethan Terry, the second member of the CIB unit sent here by regional command, pushes through the cracked door, followed closely by Mike. “Forensics just called. The DNA on the earring matches the sample Holly’s mom gave us,” the youthful detective announces while chomping on gum. I’d put him at no more than thirty-five, with a perpetually playful glint in his eye that I find annoying.