Page 75 of The Girl Who Was Taken

“Well, now that’s interesting.” Dr. Rettenburg paged through the photos that sat in front of Livia, then slid one out into the open. “The D’Amato girl was found with a burlap sack over her head.”

Livia looked more closely at the photo. She hadn’t noticed it the first time. “A sack over her headandinside a body bag?”

“Correct.”

“Did you run that sack?”

Dr. Rettenburg paged through a folder and slid the fiber analysis across her desk.

Livia pulled a copy of Nancy Dee’s and Megan’s fiber analyses from her purse and laid all three in front of her for comparison. “They all come back as hemp woven burlap. Same fiber width, same grade.”

Livia looked up at Denise Rettenburg, who raised her eyebrows.

“I’d say you have a compelling case, Dr. Cutty.”

* * *

Livia helped Denise Rettenburg reorganize the D’Amato file, then followed her out into the hallway and waited in front of the elevator doors.

“Gerald Colt was a year ahead of me in medical school,” Dr. Rettenburg said.

“Oh yeah?” Livia said. “Dr. Colt is a great mentor.”

“I hear he’s doing wonderful things in Raleigh.”

The elevator doors opened and they both entered.Dr. Rettenburg pressed the button for the lobby, and Livia waited for the doors to close.

“Is Gerald the one who made the ketamine connection?” Dr. Rettenburg asked.

“No,” Livia said. “I found it.”

“It’s a great catch. I thought perhaps Gerald’s wife played a role.”

Livia started to say something, then stopped. Confused, she finally said, “This case wasn’t on Dr. Colt’s radar. Otherwise I’m sure he’d have picked this up.”

“Of course,” Dr. Rettenburg said. She pressed the button to hurry the process of the elevator doors closing. In the lobby, she walked Livia to the front door.

“Thanks for taking the time on a Saturday,” Livia said.

“Good luck to you.”

Dr. Rettenburg watched Gerald Colt’s fellow drive away, then headed back to her office. She thought perhaps she’d misspoken in the elevator by suggesting Gerald’s wife had helped make the ketamine connection. At her computer, Dr. Rettenburg typed her query into the search engine and waited for the results. She scrolled down and read. Yes, she thought she was correct.

Gerald Colt’s wife was a veterinarian with a large clinic in Summer Side, just north of Raleigh.

CHAPTER 37

Butted up against Virginia, on the northern border of North Carolina, Tinder Valley consisted of eighty-two cabins set along a tributary to the Roanoke River. The cabins were made from galvanized log, and slept as few as two in the cozy models, and as many as eight in the larger ones with spacious floor plans. Located on the banks of the river, each cabin promised beautiful views of the water. Constructed in the eighties, Tinder Valley was, for a short time, a majestic lakeside resort where families escaped for long weekends. It was where kids steered paddleboats around the clear water while Mom and Dad watched from lounge chairs. Where couples walked the beach with dogs in tow, carving footprints in the sand. But Tinder Valley did not stay majestic for long. Over the years, poor management had allowed riverfront property to falter. Ownership changed hands many times, each new deed holder believing they could turn the place around.

The previous owner—an investment group from New York—could never turn a profit, and to come close required them to pay attention only to the mostegregious maintenance concerns. During the last few years that the group clung to Tinder Valley, the cabins and the grounds slowly perished as paint peeled, windows cracked but were never repaired, the dock skewed from sunken posts and missing boards, weeds and grass grew without restraint, and the beach bred a dense carpet of litter. The New York group eventually manipulated bankruptcy laws to free itself from the land. Finally, in a flurry of back-and-forth negotiations, the bank seized the land and the cabins and auctioned them off to the county. A three-year revamping plan was laid out by the county board to restore Tinder Valley to the majestic family-vacation spot it was always meant to be. The current clientele, however, until the revamp could get underway, were fishermen. And they cared little about aesthetics as long as the satellite dish worked and the toilets flushed.

Kent Chapple had long stopped believing a refurbished and rebuilt Tinder Valley could repair his family. He had stopped hoping to someday bring his wife and kids here to fish and kayak, laugh, and play board games, and drink wine with his wife on the cabin’s front patio while the sun set across the water. That was an image he’d once held, but it was so far away now that he could no longer conjure it. Instead, he came to theactualTinder Valley—ruined and weed-choked—to find something he could not find at home. He came to fill a void that was vacant and gaping the longer he stayed bound to his failing marriage.

But there was someone else now. Someone he’d allowed himself to think about. It was possible. The idea was not that crazy. He was, he convinced himself, worthy of her. She was new. She had different tastes anddifferent interests and she was unique in her ways. He found himself thinking of her often. Maybe it was time to make that life change he was so desperate for. He felt certain doing so would allow him to focus on his happiness. Perhaps he’d stop making bad decisions. She’d come along at just the right time.

He parked his car outside cabin forty-eight. It was on the corner of the riverbank, set back from the water and more secluded than the others. It was dark. Only every third or fourth lamppost was lit. He preferred it dark and quiet. Standing from his car, he removed his duffel bag from the backseat along with a container of food and supplies. He headed for his cabin and felt, as he always did, the weight of the world leave his shoulders as he approached the front door. His blood vessels dilated and his skin flushed with warmth. Could this work out? Could these feelings be a regular part of his life?

He walked up the front stairs and pushed through the door.

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