In Close. Brenda Novak
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Beneath the log, she ran across a list of typed “inconsistencies.” These didn’t appear to be written by David, but she was willing to bet he was the one who’d highlighted various passages. According to the date at the top, the list was Sheriff King’s summary after taking over from Sheriff Meade.
Tug said he was at work until he received Claire’s call. Concerned that Alana’s car was still in the drive and yet she was nowhere to be found, he left immediately.
The next part was highlighted.
Why would he be instantly worried? There’s never been a kidnapping or a murder in Pineview.
There’d been one murder since—Pat Stueben, the town Realtor—but that hadn’t yet occurred when this was written.
Unless she kept it to herself, Alana had never been threatened and wasn’t having problems with anyone. For all Tug knew, she’d walked down the block to talk to a neighbor and would be back any minute.
Was his reaction a bit too fast? There was always the threat of bears. They came around if people left out food. But no one in town, other than Isaac Morgan, who tracked and filmed wild animals for a living, had ever been attacked.
Claire’s arms and legs tingled with apprehension. Tug was normally the last person to assume the worst. Why had he reacted so quickly?
She tried to remember every word of the conversation that had passed between them when she’d called that day.
What do you mean she’s gone? she’d asked the minute she told him.
I’ve searched the whole house.
Did you check the bathrooms?
Of course.
She didn’t leave a note?
Not that I can find. You haven’t heard from her?
No. Stay there. I’m on my way.
At that point, it hadn’t occurred to Claire that her mother could be in danger. She’d expected him to say something like, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” But he hadn’t. And once he reached the house, he’d acted so tense, the same fear began to percolate through Claire. That was the first inkling she’d had that they were facing a major tragedy, and she’d taken her cue from her stepfather.
Had he already known what was wrong? Had he and Alana argued earlier, maybe when he came home for lunch? Possibly about Joe Kenyon? And had that argument gotten out of hand?
As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew things like that happened....
Chilled by the thought, she ran her free hand over the goose bumps on her arm. But it didn’t help because she found Sheriff King’s next point equally disturbing.
On the day Alana disappeared, she picked Leanne up at school at 11:15 a.m. for reason of “illness,” but someone who didn’t come to the office took her back shortly before two. The sign-in/sign-out log in the attendance office reflects this partial absence but Leanne has never mentioned that she was home for a portion of the day. And she has never said whether or not her mother was with her during that time.
“Impossible,” Claire muttered. After all the years of searching and questioning, how was it that Leanne had never spoken of missing school? Why would she keep it to herself?
There had to be a reason. Hoping it might become apparent, Claire kept reading.
If she was sick, how did she recuperate so fast?
Exactly!
At 2:00 p.m. she brought a note to the office excusing her absence and signed herself in. The attendance lady didn’t keep the note and doesn’t remember who wrote it—mother or father—but she stands by her log. When asked if she could’ve gotten the date wrong, she insists it would be almost impossible. “If that’s wrong, all the dates before it would have to be wrong, as well as the dates after.”
Another highlighted part.
All the days are accounted for and run Monday through Friday, as they should.
Stunned, Claire sat staring at the yellow circle her flashlight created on the page. What did this mean? Why had the sheriff or his deputies even thought to check with the school? At sixteen, she could be considered a suspect. Everyone close to the missing person had to be ruled out. But Leanne? She hadn’t yet had the sledding accident that broke her back, but she’d only been thirteen. What could she have done to Alana?
The discomfort of the hard floor and the scrabbling of some rodent in the corner began to bother Claire. It was too difficult to read for an extended period sitting in such an unfriendly spot, holding a heavy flashlight and trying to ignore the pack rats.
It was time to take the files home, where she could scour every interview, every note, at her leisure. No doubt David had been trying to find her mother for her. He was that kind of man. He probably hadn’t told her in case he didn’t come any closer than anyone else. He wouldn’t want to raise her hopes, only to see them dashed. Probably a smart move. He certainly seemed to have run into more questions than answers. But she loved him for making the attempt.
Relieved to be going, she closed the files. But just as she slid them into the accordion folder, a noise from below brought her head up.
What was that?
Movement? If so, whoever or whatever made that noise was definitely bigger than a rat.
She’d thought she heard footsteps when she first arrived—and there’d been no one here.
Irritated that she kept spooking herself, she climbed down the ladder. She’d just set foot on the stairs heading to the ground floor when a draft of cool air, smelling distinctly of smoke from the fireworks, swept up to meet her.
Fresh air. From outside…
“Hello?” she called.
No answer. No corresponding rustle, either.
She angled her flashlight in every direction to illuminate the dark recesses below, but the beam would only reach so far. “Anybody there?”
Silence.
Her mind conjured up the gruesome images that sometimes came to her in nightmares, images of her mother being tortured and strangled by some crazed psychopath. Most people were killed by someone in their circle of family and friends. But not all. Murders committed by strangers were among the most difficult to solve.
Was that why no one could figure out what had happened? Was her mother’s killer lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to move closer?
Half expecting the truth she’d been chasing for so long to become apparent in the most frightening way, she stood as if her feet were encased in concrete. The possibility of a violent ending didn’t escape her.
But there were no footsteps, no madman rushing toward her, no more movement.
Had she imagined the change in temperature? The noise? In such an old structure, even a slight wind caused creaks and groans.
She wasn’t convinced it was the wind, but she didn’t see how staying on the landing, holding her breath, was going to help. She needed to get out.
Tightening her grip on the files, she crept down the stairs, using her flashlight to scout for trouble—until she reached the living room. Then she aimed the beam straight ahead and ran for the door. But just as she reached it, she twisted around to look behind her.
And that was when she saw it.
A man’s booted foot.
Someone was crouching behind her mother’s old piano.
The scream curdled Isaac Morgan’s blood. He’d seen headlights pass by his place, knew it was probably Claire. It’d been a while since she’d come to her mother’s