Before She Was Found. Heather Gudenkauf
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This isn’t the response I was expecting.
“What do you mean?” I ask in confusion. “He didn’t do this?”
Officer Grady shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. He’s not real. Not anymore, anyway. Joseph Wither, if he is still alive, would be a very old man today. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt the girls?” he asks.
Officer Grady can see that my mind is still stuck on this Joseph Wither person and he holds up his hand to stop me from questioning him any further. “Trust me, Joseph Wither doesn’t exist. For every minute that passes we lose precious time finding Jordyn and who did this.” Impatience is creeping into his voice so I let Joseph Wither go for the moment.
“They are twelve,” I say. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt them. No one. Do you think someone was trying to kidnap them?” I ask, my stomach churning as sex offenders and human traffickers and other dark thoughts lodge themselves in my brain.
“I promise you, we’ve got someone checking out that possibility. What about the girls?” Grady asks. “How did they get along with each other?”
It takes me a second for his question to register. He can’t possibly think that Jordyn did this to Cora. I open my mouth to tell him he’s crazy, wasting his time, but then shut it again. I’ve only met Jordyn a few times, and while she is always polite to me, I get the sense that she is the queen bee of the group. Violet and Cora watch her carefully, gauging Jordyn’s reaction to what they say, what they do, how they dress. But violent? No way.
“Ms. Crow?” Officer Grady raises his eyebrows, waiting for my response.
“No,” I say firmly. “Jordyn gets along just fine with Violet and Cora. I can’t imagine her hurting anyone.”
“What about Violet?” he asks pointedly. “Has she had any physical confrontations with anyone? With classmates? Friends?”
“What? No!” I say. “Violet’s never been in a fight with anyone. You don’t think Violet had anything to do with this, do you?” I ask.
“I have to ask,” Officer Grady says. “Can you think of anyone who would target the girls?” he asks, moving on, but the idea has been brought up; it’s crossed his mind. Officer Grady thinks that Violet and Jordyn may be behind the attack.
Monday, April 16, 2018
A shrill ringing yanks Thomas from his sleep. With his sons grown and his day-to-day role as owner of Petit’s Bar and Grill greatly diminished, Thomas thought perhaps he would finally be able to start sleeping past 6:00 a.m. In the early days his schedule had been brutal. For years, he tiptoed into bed well after 1:00 a.m., careful not to wake his wife and kids. The couple would get up just a few hours later to head next door to Petit’s to prepare for the lunch crowd.
He is in the house alone. A predicament that is both unfamiliar and unsettling. Tess, his wife of forty-five years, is convalescing in a skilled-care facility in Grayling after a nasty fall and his granddaughter, Jordyn, is spending the night at the Landry girl’s house. The ringing continues and Thomas realizes that this won’t be his day to lounge beneath the covers. With effort he sits up, shoves the down comforter aside and eases his legs over the edge of the bed until his toes find the cold wood floor. He shivers through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts and T-shirt.
Each step sends bolts of pain through the soles of his feet and coursing through the ropy purple veins that line his legs, the result of years of standing behind the bar. As the day goes on, the aches will become less pronounced but until then he will limp along, clutching at heavy pieces of furniture to keep upright.
“Dammit to hell,” he mutters, nearly tripping over Jordyn’s soccer ball, and the house phone stops ringing.
Thomas wishes briefly that he had kept the smartphone his youngest son, Donny, sent him last Christmas. “This one works just fine,” he said, holding up a flip phone that Jordyn called archaic. A word she said she learned in English class. It means old, Grandpa, just like you, she teased. “What do I need a fancy phone for?” Thomas asked incredulously.
“Emergencies,” Tess said.
“Shopping,” Donny offered.
“Snapchat,” Jordyn giggled.
Thomas gave them a look that let them know the topic wasn’t up for discussion and the phone disappeared back into its box and then reappeared a few months later on Jordyn’s twelfth birthday. Now he is considering buying two smartphones. One for Tess and one for himself.
With the house quiet once again, Thomas debates whether to go back to bed or keep pushing forward to the kitchen. Again, the phone begins its maddening trill, making Thomas’s decision for him. He picks up his pace, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prickles of pain that he thought he would have become accustomed to by now. No such luck.
“Hello,” Thomas says into the receiver, not bothering to disguise his irritation.
“Mr. Petit?” an official, unfamiliar voice asks.
“Is my wife okay?” Thomas asks. A shiver of fear runs down his spine. He knows how quickly hip injuries can lead to something even worse like pneumonia and blood clots and infections of the bone.
“Mr. Petit, this is Officer Blake Brenner from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office. Does a child by the name of Jordyn live in your household?”
“What happened now?” Thomas asks. He loves Jordyn beyond words but drama seems to cling to his granddaughter like cockleburs. Last month, the local police brought Jordyn home after she was caught climbing the Pitch water tower east of town.
“Relax, Grandpa,” Jordyn had told him. “It’s no big deal.”
“Sir, does Jordyn Petit reside in your home?” the officer asks firmly, his voiced edged with tension.
Thomas leans against the corner of the kitchen counter. “Yes, she’s my granddaughter. Is she okay? She’s supposed to be spending the night at a friend’s house.”
“Is her mother or father available?” the officer asks.
“No. My wife and I are her legal guardians. Jordyn’s parents aren’t able to care for her.” It pains Thomas to admit that his eldest son and Jordyn’s mother were deadbeats. Unfit to care for Jordyn. “Did something happen?” Thomas asks, finally registering the concern in the officer’s voice.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, you’re telling me that Jordyn is not at home right now?”
“No, she’s at a friend’s house. Cora Landry’s,” Thomas says but uncertainty pricks at the corner of his thoughts.
“Jordyn isn’t at the Landrys’ home at this time. That I can confirm,” the deputy says.
“I’ll go check her bedroom,” Thomas says. “Maybe she came home and I didn’t hear her. Can you hold on a second?”
Thomas lays the receiver on the counter and moves as quickly as he can to the bottom of the stairs. “Jordyn, are you up there?” he hollers. There’s no response. With a sigh he begins the ascent, one knee catching and crackling with each step, the other refusing to bend. By the time he reaches the landing, he’s out of breath, damp with sweat and thoroughly irritated.
“Jordyn!” he booms, pushing through the bedroom door, finding it empty. Grabbing tightly to the banister, Thomas makes his way back down the steps and picks up the phone, hoping that the officer hasn’t hung up, impatient for his return.
“She’s not here,” Thomas says, anxiety squeezing at his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“We’ll send an officer over to your house, Mr. Petit. She’ll fill you in on what we know.”