Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

What did she know about Rose Harrelson? One thing was for sure: she’d been kidnapped. Neither of her parents were involved; that was another fact. A third fact was the investigation into her disappearance had been a model of incompetence and lack of follow-through. Critical questions were never answered, and key witnesses were never questioned.

She picked up a pen from the glovebox and started jotting notes on Rose’s case file. Who took her? Why? Redo the walkthrough at the crime scene. Interview the father’s work friends. Find the detective who’d essentially killed the investigation and ask him a couple of questions. Incompetence or ulterior motive? Get Shelley’s DNA and establish the identity of the girl in the morgue, beyond any reasonable doubt.

By later that night, they would know. Doc Whitmore would gladly stay up all night to run the test.

She downed another mouthful of black coffee and switched tasks, leaving Rose’s file on the passenger seat and going back to the computer. Before heading out to Redding, she wanted to find out a little bit more about Alyssa, for her second pile of facts.

Alyssa had been born four months before Rose and both her parents were still alive. She’d been at the center of local media attention growing up, and that meant there was a trail of visual testimony about her growing up. And she’d grown to be a normal teenager, with social media accounts filled with selfies and friends––friends whom Kay could interview and learn more about Alyssa.

She closed the laptop and stared at the mountain peaks again, the colors of the afternoon so vivid they seemed surreal. The dark green of the pines. The sharp reds, oranges, and yellows of fallen foliage. And out there, in the distance, white snow on gray stone against a sky of perfect blue.

Fourteen years ago, Kay was battling her own problems, and any news she might’ve seen about Rose’s kidnapping or about Alyssa at the time was long forgotten. But all those people out there, Alyssa’s Facebook friends, the people who kept their eyes on the Caldwells, lacking another pastime should be a good place to start.

But first, the girl’s true identity. Shelley’s DNA would soon reveal what she needed to know.

With a tense smile playing on her lips, she started the engine and took a left turn onto the highway, heading south.

At least Nicole was safe at Kay’s place with Jacob, settling in, going through her first day as a free woman. The tension in her smile eased a little; things were starting to look up.

31Orders

Deputy Herb Scott drove his patrol car past Hilltop Bar and Grill, slowing as he approached the old building, but decided to head straight home instead. His head was still pounding, the hangover clinging to him like mud to a pig. Some hair of the dog would set him straight, but until he could see one of everything again, he couldn’t tolerate the hollering at the pub.

Luckily, there was plenty booze in the house, and that good-for-nothing woman would rush to get him a glass filled to the brim with the finest single malt he had, saved especially for days when only the finest single malt would cut it.

He pulled the patrol car onto the driveway and came to a stop, too hungover to notice all lights were off in the house, although the sun had set a good while ago. The porch light was off, and he swore loudly when he tripped on the lowest step and nearly fell. Then he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

No smell of fresh-cooked dinner greeted him, just the dark silence of the house. He flipped the switch on and called out impatiently, “Nicole.” He stood in the middle of the hallway, waiting for her to rush out of wherever the heck she was and tend to his needs, but nothing happened.

“Nicole,” he shouted again, and the echo of his own voice was the only response he got. “Damn that woman,” he muttered, releasing his duty belt and dropping it on a nearby chair. He took off his jacket, then undid the button on his pants with a sigh of relief. The waistline of his uniform had grown tighter and tighter lately, adding to his daily misery.

When he entered the kitchen and flipped on the lights, he didn’t find anything on the stove. Out of habit, he checked the oven, but it was empty and turned off. The dishes were piled up in the sink, unwashed, and the table hadn’t been cleared since breakfast.

“Lazy woman,” he groaned. “Where the heck are you, already?” He swore again, thinking she might’ve gone to the store. There was a reason why she wasn’t allowed to leave the house by herself, and she knew it well. If she’d forgotten, he’d be happy to remind her right after that single malt and some dinner she better have ready for him.

He checked the bedroom next, and found the closet doors open, some of her things missing. The suitcase was gone, and so was her purse. Dumbfounded, he stood in the middle of the room, scratching his head. As in a daze, he remembered she kept some cash in a tin in her night table, probably thinking he didn’t know about it. But he knew everything; it was his job, his duty as the head of the family.

He opened the drawer and rummaged through the contents, looking for that tin. It was gone, and so was her mother’s wedding ring that she kept although she never wore, because her fingers were too thin, and she didn’t want to lose it.

The bitch was gone.

His hangover returned with a punch, and he clenched his fists until his knuckles crackled and let out a rage-filled roar. He rushed to the living room and opened the liquor cabinet, then gulped a couple of swills of single malt straight from the bottle, then slammed it on