Page 15

While Rachel could easily find the simplicity and charm in winding, two-lane back roads, they started to become a bit of a pain in the ass during what was starting to feel like a very urgent case. She wound the sedan down yet another rural road, finally coming to the featureless brick-and-wood building that was Bowery Farm and Tractor Supply. Two weathered storage barns stood behind the main building, giving the place the aura of a long-ago castle. The store itself was a modest single-story structure with faded red paint and a rusted metal roof that had clearly weathered decades of Virginia seasons. A hand-painted sign above the entrance was beginning to peel, and empty wooden pallets were stacked neatly against one wall.

The gravel lot was about half-full, with a mix of mud-splattered pickup trucks and practical vehicles parked haphazardly across the unmarked spaces. As Rachel pulled into a spot near the entrance, she noticed the collection of seasonal items displayed outside: stacks of hay bales, rows of ceramic planters, and metal watering cans catching the autumn light.

"The notes in the case files said Mark seemed eager to talk," Rachel remarked as they stepped out of the car. "Almost too eager. Hopefully that hasn’t changed in the time that’s gone by."

The bell above the door jingled as they entered, releasing a rush of warm air that carried the mingled scents of leather, fertilizer, and machine oil. A long wooden counter stretched along the left wall, its surface scarred and stained from years of use. Behind it, an impressive array of hunting rifles hung on brackets, while boxes of ammunition were neatly arranged on shelves below. Glass display cases held smaller firearms and hunting knives, their surfaces polished to a gleam.

The rest of the store extended in neat rows, packed with everything a small-town farmer or homeowner might need. Seeds were displayed in rotating racks, packages showing bright images of vegetables and flowers. Shelves held coils of rope, stacks of work gloves, and rows of fishing tackle that sparkled under the fluorescent lights. The back wall was lined with pest control products and cleaning supplies, while garden tools hung from hooks overhead.

A man and woman stood behind the counter, both wearing green aprons with the store's logo. The man looked up as soon as they entered, and Rachel knew immediately this was Mark Dupree. He was in his mid-thirties, with the solid build of someone who did physical work for a living. But what struck Rachel most was the haunted look in his eyes – the slightly hollow gaze of someone who hadn't been sleeping well. Dark circles beneath his eyes stood out against his pale skin, and his brown hair looked like it hadn't been cut in months.

"Agents?" he asked, already moving toward them. His voice carried a note of barely contained desperation.

Rachel nodded, showing her credentials. "I'm Agent Gift, and this is Agent Novak...you spoke with him on the phone. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us."

Mark ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Of course. I just... I keep hoping someone will find something." He glanced around the store, where a few customers were browsing the aisles. "I'm sorry…I don't have an office where we can talk privately. Maybe over here?"

He led them to a quiet corner of the store where wind chimes hung in clusters from the ceiling, creating a soft symphony of metallic tinkling. Beneath them, shelves displayed an assortment of garden decorations: concrete gnomes, plastic flamingos, and weather-worn welcome signs. There was a thin layer of dust on most of it, giving the feeling that not many customers came to this part of the store. The sound of the chimes provided a strange, almost ethereal backdrop to their conversation.

"Mr. Dupree," Rachel began gently, noting how he seemed to flinch at the formal address. "We're looking into Sarah's disappearance because we believe it may be connected to several other missing persons’ cases in the area."

Mark's eyes widened, a mix of hope and fear crossing his features. "Other missing women? You think... you think someone took her?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," Novak said carefully. "But for now, we just need more information. Do you think you could you walk us through the day Sarah disappeared? Every detail, no matter how small, might be important."

Mark leaned against a shelf, causing a wind chime to sway slightly. "It was just a normal day,” he said, beginning as if he had gone through this in his head a hundred times. And maybe he had, just trying to make sense of it. I came home from work around six, like always. Sarah usually had dinner started by then – she loved to cook, you know? But the house was quiet. No sounds, no smells of dinner." His voice cracked slightly. "I found the letter she left behind on the kitchen table. Just sitting there, next to the fruit bowl she'd painted herself in a pottery class she took last spring."

Rachel watched his face carefully as he spoke about Sarah, noting the way his eyes softened at the memory of the fruit bowl. "What was Sarah like in the days before she disappeared? Did you notice any changes in her behavior?"

Mark was quiet for a moment, absently touching one of the wind chimes. "She was... I don't know. Maybe a little distant? But we all have our moments, right? She'd started taking these long walks in the evening. Said it helped clear her head. I thought maybe she was just going through something, trying to figure things out." He swallowed hard. "I should have pushed harder, should have asked more questions."

“Did the two of you fight often?”

“No, not really. A small argument here and there.”

“So you’d say you two were in a happy marriage?”

“Yes,” he said a bit sharply.

"The letter," Novak prompted. "You have a picture?"

"Yeah, I..." Mark pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he navigated to the photo. "I know it's weird to keep it on my phone. But sometimes I read it over and over, trying to find something I missed, some clue about where she might have gone."

Rachel read the letter displayed on his phone screen: "You've done nothing wrong. No one has done anything wrong. But over the last few months, I have come to understand that this life I have is so much more than I could have ever dreamed of...but it's not what I want. I'm so sorry."

"This is definitely Sarah's handwriting?" Novak asked.

Mark nodded emphatically. "Yes, the police officer and I compared it to her grocery lists, birthday cards, everything. It's her writing. But it doesn't sound like her. Sarah was always so... direct. If something was bothering her, she'd say it. This letter, it's too vague."

“Did these sorts of thoughts coming from her surprise you?” Rachel asked.

Mark nodded and said, “That’s a severe understatement.”

"Tell us more about Sarah," Rachel encouraged, watching as Mark's eyes grew distant with memory. "How long had you known here, and what sort of woman was she like?"

"We met right here in this store, actually. Five years ago. She came in looking for supplies to start a garden. Didn't know the first thing about it, but she was determined." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "That was Sarah. When she decided to do something, she threw herself into it completely. The garden, the pottery classes, her job. She loved learning new things. Her favorite thing to do in her spare time was pull up Wikipedia pages on random topics."

He gestured to a display of seed packets. "She'd come in every spring, planning out her garden like she was designing a palace garden. She had such a green thumb by the end. Our backyard..." His voice caught. "The garden's all overgrown now. I can't bring myself to pull up the plants she put in."

"Did she ever talk about Florida?" Rachel asked. "About missing home?"

Mark shook his head. "Not really. She didn't have the best relationship with her parents. They wanted her to go to college, become a teacher like her mom. When she decided to move up here instead, they weren't happy. But she'd made peace with that. At least, I thought she had."

“And let’s just pretend, for a moment, that you had seen some signs or had some worries that she might simply leave one day,” Novak said. “Can you think of anywhere she’d go? Maybe family members or friends she’d potentially stay with?”

"No. I ask myself that all the time, and I can't think of a single thing."

A customer approached their corner, looking interested in the wind chimes, and Mark straightened up. "I should probably get back to work. But please, if you find anything..." He pulled out a business card with the store's logo and scribbled his cell number on the back. "Any time, day or night. I just need to know what happened to her."

Rachel took the card, studying Mark's shaky handwriting. "One more question, quickly. Did Sarah ever mention feeling depressed? Having thoughts of self-harm?"

Mark's brow furrowed. "No, never. She had her quiet moments, sure, but she wasn't depressed. She was planning things for the future. She'd just ordered new seeds for next spring's garden. She was talking about taking a pottery workshop in Richmond." His voice grew firmer. "Sarah didn't leave because she was unhappy. Or, if she did, she hid it very well from me. Something happened to her. I know it in my gut."

They thanked him as he turned away toward the customer. Rachel and Novak walked back through the store, the sound of wind chimes fading behind them. Outside, the agents exchanged a look over the roof of the car as they got in on their respective sides.

"Monica Turner's family next?" Novak suggested. "Based on the information we have, they're less than two miles from here."

Rachel nodded, her mind still on Mark Dupree and his haunted eyes. But she shifted her focus over to Monica Turner quickly as she got behind the wheel. "Makes sense,” she said. “She's been missing the longest of our current victims. Four months." She started the car, switching on the heat against the growing chill. And what she thought, but did not say out loud was: That’s just one less month than Carla…and she might be the next dead body to pop up.