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She left her friend there with a swipe of her hand. “This is my department.”
Kenna tugged the taped note off the front door. Most likely it was nothing, just a scribbled message from a neighbor.
She wasn’t even thinking about whether a fingerprint might have been left on the tape when she opened it and read, “Your families deaths were no accident.”
Forrest practically shoved her off the stoop. She jabbed her key in the lock and swept inside. Down the hall.
Kenna heard a door slam.
I guess you don’t want to talk about it.She secured the front door and threw the dead bolt, then checked around the house. Forrest hadn’t wanted Kenna to put up surveillancecameras, but now she might not have a choice. If someone was going to be lurking, Kenna wanted to know.
She left the light above the oven on, then headed through to the garage.
Boxes lined one wall alongside Forrest’s car. Three bikes hung from hooks on the wall. Two adult size, and one for a boy. Kids shoes had been discarded by the mat, kicked aside. They were practically falling apart, still caked with mud.
Kenna stared for longer than necessary, thinking about kindred spirits and trying not to dwell on the fate of people who knew her father. Forrest would be fine. Nothing was going to happen to her here in her own house. Neither was Kenna going to babysit the woman 24/7 for the rest of her life. She also wasn’t going to allow danger to show up here.
If there was something unknown about her family’s accident, Kenna would figure it out.
She didn’t need to stay when Marion Wells was in custody. The bodies would be found in due course, by local police. If not for the note, she might have pulled out tonight and headed back to Colorado before the next winter storm rolled through.
She pulled the latch on the door and stepped up into her RV. The interior still smelled like new carpet, and the chrome shined a little too brightly, but she was working on making it home. The stripped- down AR-15 on the dining table helped with the balance of the decor.
Kenna grabbed a Sharpie from her junk drawer and wrote ALIVE under the photo of the kidnapper’s most recent victim on her fridge door.
She packed the weapon away now that she didn’t have to distract herself to pass the time waiting for book club, then dialed Maizie on speaker and listened to it ring while she latched the case and put the weapon in the bedroom closet.
“Hey.”
Kenna stepped out of the bedroom. “I’m here. One sec,” she called out, then grabbed her earbuds and slipped them in. Sometimes they talked for a few hours, and Kenna would work out. Or Maizie played music over the open phone line, and Kenna took a nap. This time she grabbed her laptop. “I’m logging on.”
“Did something happen with Marion?” Maizie asked. “Is the victim okay?”
At times Maizie sounded like the seventeen-year-old she was, though she would turn eighteen in a few weeks. Other times she sounded like someone who had lived a lot longer. On occasion she might sound like a scared child. With the life she’d lived, she could be whoever she wanted if she found peace.
None of those had shown up when Maizie hid away nearly all of Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day. Something Kenna still hadn’t got an answer about. She didn’t know what to make of it, and Maizie didn’t seem to want to talk about it.
“The victim is alive,” Kenna replied. Few people understood how much of a win that was. “And the suspect is in custody. This is about a note left on Forrest’s door when we got back. I’m uploading pictures now.” She took them with her phone, which sent them to the cloud without her doing anything. Maizie would see the images almost immediately.
“Not a scholar, whoever wrote this.”
She’d noticed the same. “Any indication in the police reports that their deaths were other than a tragic accident?”
“Huh.” Maizie went silent. “I can look over everything again, and have Stairns do the same. I read the report, but I didn’t think about it at the time.”
“Good idea,” Kenna said. “Between the two of you, if there’s something to find, it’ll get found.”
Stairns had been Kenna’s boss at the FBI. Now retired, he helped Kenna while his wife continued her therapy practice on a limited basis—with Maizie her number one client, and everyone else online.
Maizie lived in Kenna’s father’s Airstream, the one she’d parked behind Stairns’ cabin in Colorado, and the teen was a survivor. Almost an adult now, she’d rescued herself from the man who held her captive since nearly the day she was born. Her upbringing had been written on her soul. Which might prevent her from becoming a functioning adult, or she might survive yet again. Either way, it wasn’t going to be easy.
But life never was.
Kenna had surrendered herself and her future to God. And she was praying Maizie would do the same.
Maizie said, “Anything from the kidnapper, Marion Wells, about where the bodies are buried?”
Kenna said, “I hope she tells the police.”