Page 86 of Last Seen
“Noah told me you did search for my sister. Thank you.”
He is silent for a moment. “Your sister, what she did. Killing your mother, I mean. Why in the world would youwantto find her? Wouldn’t you rather she was out of your life forever?”
You better believe it. But I want answers first.
“I have to admit, that’s a good question. I think not knowing is worse than knowing. I had no idea what happened. I still don’t have the whole story. And I guess I want to hear from her directly how she could do such a thing. Why she would kill our mother for wanting to send her to a wilderness camp. And if I’m being honest, I want to find out how the people who knew her—loved her, even—didn’t know that she was a monster.”
The sheriff turns down a narrow lane, cobblestones making the big truck shudder. Halfway down, he stops in front of a charming cottage, like something you’d see in the Cotswolds or a movie set. He turns off the engine. “This is Brooke Cottage. I’ll get you settled.”
“I’m fine—”
“I’ll get you settled.”
The place is adorable—gray stone with a pitched roof, two perfectly symmetrical chimneys, a red door with a brass knocker. There is a small zen garden in the front with a cedar bench, evergreen boxwoods in a half-circle labyrinth, and the promised golf cart under its own replica roof attached to the side of the house. It’s much too big for one person,but she’s hardly going to complain. Privacy is exactly what she needs right now.
The sheriff takes her bag and leads her up the walkway. Inside is as nice as the outside. There is an open floor plan with a stone fireplace and modern kitchen. The floors are stained a deep walnut, there are thick rugs, and the sofa and chairs are lush and inviting. English-country-house decor, bookshelves, wildlife paintings.
“Very nice,” she says.
“Bedrooms are through there. There’s wood for the fireplaces on the back porch. I’ll have some groceries delivered. Have any requests?”
“You don’t need to do that. I won’t be stayingthatlong.”
“Consider it my apology for the cuffs yesterday.”
She writes up a quick list of basics—coffee, eggs, bread, OJ, apples, peanut butter. Her tastes are simple, especially since there are so many food options close by that she can try.
Admit it. You want to talk to Noah Brockton again. Maybe he’ll be willing to talk about the other missing writer.
She wants to ask Brockton directly, but she’s enjoying their tenuous détente. She doesn’t need him shutting down on her now, especially since he seems to be on her side. She hands him the list. “The book? I’d like to look up the Esworthys’ number.”
“By the phone, of course.” He narrows his eyes. “Listen, Donnata Kade is trouble.”
“Then why do you let her live here?”
“‘Let.’ Like I said, it was temporary. And I don’t have control of who people rent to. I don’t know what she could possibly do to help you find your sister.”
“She’s FBI, right?”
“Was.”
“Maybe she’ll have an idea or two that you and I haven’t thought of.”
He starts to say something but bites it back. “I’ll leave you to it. Call me if you feel uncomfortable about anything. But I promise, no one will bother you here.”
Now that they’ve made sure I can’t leave.
She shakes the ice in her latte. “Thanks for the coffee.”
They stand in silence for a moment, then he nods once. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As he’s shutting the front door, she calls out, “I do appreciate the assist, Sheriff.”
“No worries,” he says, and then she’s alone.
She digs out her charger and plugs in her phone, then calls the hospital. They route her to her father’s room, and he answers the phone, a little breathless.
“Hi. Everything okay?” she asks.
