Page 41 of Trapper Road

“Course we did.” He holds up a hand. “And before you ask, we searched the surrounding woods as well. Even brought out Old Beatty’s best hunt dog to try to track the missing girl’s scent.”

I grind my teeth to keep from telling him that the missing girl has a name, and it’s Juliette. It’s important to me to use her name, to keep a constant reminder that we’re dealing with a real human being and not some abstract concept.

“Is the case closed then?”

“No ma’am. Not as long as she’s still missing, and I’m still sitting in this here chair.”

“Would you be willing to let me take a look at your file? I’m not second guessing you, it’s just that—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “No need to explain, Ms. Proctor. Of course, I’d be grateful to have another pair of eyes on our investigation. If you can see something we missed, I want to know so we can make it right. Mrs. Mayweather is already copying everything over to a jump drive for you to take with you.”

To say I’m surprised by my entire encounter with Chief Parks is an understatement. I’d come in today expecting to wage war against a giant ego. So far, however, he’s been completely accommodating.

It makes me suspicious. I hate that I’m so quick to doubt the best intentions of others, but I’ve learned the hard way to never trust anyone. Everyone has an agenda, and it’s usually to cover their own ass.

“That’s very generous of you,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

“You’ll keep me updated with your investigation?” he asks.

My only response is a smile. Let him interpret that how he wants.

I stand, ready to leave and he stands as well. He holds out a hand, and I take it. “You’ve had luck in cases like this before.”

Though I’m fairly certain I know what he’s asking, I look at him blankly.

“Remy Landry. The Assembly of Saints. Those two girls in Wolfhunter. You have a reputation of finding what can’t be found.”

As I’d expected, he’d spent the time while I’d been waiting for him googling me. He knows exactly who I am, who my ex-husband is, my background. I’m impressed he’s waited until now to bring it up.

I nod. “I’ve been lucky.”

He keeps his grip tight on mine for a little longer. It’s a dominance thing. He’s larger and stronger than I am, and he wants me to know he’s in charge. Then he smiles, broad and welcoming as he lets me go. “Well, I hope that luck holds, Ms. Proctor.”

11

GWEN

After my meeting with Chief Parks, I explore downtown Gardenia, trying to get a feel for the area. The downtown isn’t large, but is well kept. Most of it is contained to one main street, with the city square of courthouse and police department anchoring one end and an old train station anchoring the other. Nestled between the two is a stretch of old brick buildings that form the core of the town.

Unlike most small towns in the south, Gardenia seems to have somehow found a way to survive, which is surprising given how far it is from any major city. Most of the buildings are well maintained, their plate glass storefronts gleaming. They’re filled with boutiques and galleries and antique stores, the typical fare for folks with extra money to spend, which is odd given that there’s no real local industry, nor is there much of a draw for tourists that I can see.

The only thing that mars the idyllic old-fashioned charm of the Main Street are the several racks of bright yellow bikes with “QuickBikes” emblazoned down the side crowding the sidewalks. They have the same bike rental service in Knoxville, and as far as I know, most of the bikes end up getting tossed in the river by kids with nothing better to do.

I spot a cafe down a side street and wind my way toward it. The minute I step inside I’m greeted with the familiar smell of strong coffee and polished wood. I’d had to make do with motel room coffee this morning, which I choked down for the sake of getting necessary caffeine in my body.

The woman working the counter is middle aged with smooth skin and short grey hair. She greets me with a wide smile that causes lines to crinkle around her eyes. I order my coffee without room for cream or sugar and a scone, which she let me know had come out of the oven less than an hour earlier.

I take a sip of the coffee, nearly groaning with pleasure. This is a shop that knows its coffee, something I deeply, deeply appreciate. “This is amazing,” I tell her.

Her grin widens. “Thanks. My family has a farm in Colombia where I grew up. My sister runs it now and what I don’t get from her, she sources locally. As you can tell, good beans make for good coffee.”

“That’s for sure,” I tell her. “I may never want to leave,” I add with a laugh.

“You wouldn’t be the first.” She leans her hip against the counter. “How long are you visiting for?”

I lift a shoulder. “Not sure yet.”

“You got family around here?”