Gone, page 11
I wonder how much wind it would take to un-slick it.
This must be the new detective Sheriff Owens said he’d be hiring.
The sheriff performs the introduction. “Detective Nell Brach meet Detective Vaughn London. He relocated here from Nashville. Today is his first official day.”
Vaughn stands more than a head taller than me, which is saying something. At five-ten, not many men do. His hazel eyes crinkle with intellect and kindness as we shake hands. He wears just enough aftershave to not overpower.
“I’ve heard great things about you,” he says.
“Thank you. I hope to live up to the accolades.” I look toward the woods. “What do we have?”
Lifting the yellow tape, the sheriff leads the way. “Couple of boys called it in. They were playing this morning before school and found the body.”
With a nod to a uniformed officer standing guard, we come to a stop. Surrounded by thick pines and partially covered by leaves, I stare down at the teenage girl. She lies curled on her side, her arms folded in front, dark hair matted with dirt, and blue eyes wide and glassy. She wears black leggings, one gray sneaker, and a long sleeve half-zip emerald-colored top. Scratches and bruising cover her face, neck, and hands.
“She’s partially wet. It’s not been raining,” I say, thinking about the area. “The rock quarry. It’s on the other side of the woods.”
Squatting down, Vaughn carefully studies her. “Jesus Christ, she’s just a kid.”
While he continues scrutinizing her, I pace away. The morning sun casts a prism of light. It dances as a gentle breeze stirs branches. About fifty yards east the woods give way to a neighborhood. The scent of breakfast meat floats through the air, smothered a bit by the nearby brewery. The faint sound of a baby crying trickles by.
Fifty yards. That’s all she needed, and she would have gotten help.
“Anybody talk to the boys yet?” I ask. “Door to door? What about K9? Have you ordered a search of the quarry?”
“Leaving everything for you and Vaughn.” Sheriff Owens walks to me. “You’re the lead investigator on this one. Your first time. You ready?”
More than ready. I’ve been waiting for this. “Yes, sir.” I give him a confident nod.
He hands me a small evidence bag with a credit card inside. “The boys who found her found this first while they were playing. Don’t know if it’s related.”
I note the name Jack Macadem on the card. “Detective London, mind questioning the boys while I follow up with this card?”
“Call me Vaughn. And not a problem.”
Monday, 9 a.m.
Jack Macadem lives within the county, just over the city limit line of White Quail. I pull up in front of a powder blue two-story home situated on an acre of land. A trampoline and swing set sits to the right of the house, to the left a flower garden, and in front is one gray Honda Accord. An open garage door shows multiple bikes, neatly lined, shelves with toys and tools, and a work bench currently being used to stain a cabinet.
I step up onto the porch where two rocking chairs bracket in a round table decorated with a potted plant. The front door is propped open with a glass storm door closed. It offers a view straight back into a kitchen. A woman stands there, sliding cookies from a baking sheet onto a cooling rack.
I knock.
She jumps.
After wiping her hands on a hand towel, she walks the short distance to greet me. Pretty and late thirties with curly dark hair, she opens the storm door. The sweet smell of sugar and cinnamon drifts out. Her blue eyes go straight to the badge hanging around my neck. Her flushed face pales.
She swallows. “Yes?”
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Nell Brach. Does Jack Macadem live here?”
Her hand tightens on the door. “Yes. Why? Oh, God, did something happen?”
“Are you Mrs. Macadem?”
She nods, jerkily. “Nina. You can call me Nina. Jack already left for work.”
“Where does he work?”
“The brewery. Why, what’s going on? Please tell me if he’s okay.”
“To my knowledge, yes, your husband is okay.”
“What does that mean, to your knowledge?”
I nod past her into her home. “Why don’t we speak inside?”
Nervously, she moves aside, showing me into a long living room with open French doors along the back that allow cool spring air in. Several feet in front of the French doors sit his and her powder-blue recliners with a table centered between them. On the table are two remotes and a glass bowl with wrapped candies.
“Let me just turn the oven off.” She hurries away.
A paisley-patterned couch sits against the wall on the right with a coffee table in front. That coffee table’s spindly legs wouldn’t last a day around my house. My brother would prop his big feet on it and promptly break it.
Frankly, I would too.
An unlit fireplace is centered on the left wall with one framed photo on the mantel. It’s a professional one, taken outdoors where everyone wears matching white shirts and jeans as they pose near a river. There’s Nina and a muscular blond man who must be Jack. They have three girls—one teenager and elementary-aged twins, all with the mom’s dark curly hair.
My attention narrows to the teenage girl and my stomach sours.
Behind me, a throat clears. “That’s my family. Jack, Scarlett, and our twins.”
Scarlett.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“You said your husband works at the brewery. Do you work?”
“Yes, part-time at the Catholic church. I’m a secretary.”
“The one over on Main Street?”
“Yes.”
“My grandparents went there.”
She doesn’t respond.
I turn fully to face her. “When was the last time you saw Scarlett?”
Tears rush to her eyes. “Why?”
“This morning?”
“No,” she croaks. “Yesterday afternoon. Sh-she spent the night with her best friend. She’s due home today after school.” Tears blur her blue eyes, welling and tumbling over. “What’s happened?”
OTHER BOOKS BY S. E. GREEN
The Lady Next Door
How well do you know your neighbor?
Killers Among
Lane swore never to be like her late mother. But now she too is a serial killer.
Monster
When the police need to crawl inside the mind of a monster, they call Caroline.
The Third Son
All he wants is a loving family to belong to, to manipulate, to control…
Vanquished
A secret island. A sadistic society. And the woman who defies all odds to bring it down.
Mother May I
Meet Nora: Flawless. Enigmatic. Conniving. Ruthless.
S. E. Green, Gone
