Page 48 of Twice Missing
Abigail's laugh was bitter. "If I can't, I doubt two white cops will. No one wants to throw themselves under the bus."
McKenzie leaned forward. "Did you ever get a report from the police? Get to see a file?"
"Nope. I requested it. But I was told it was an active investigation and they couldn't share what they have found so far. And before you ask, no, I don't think they've found anything. They've tried to get statements, but people won't give them."
Noah's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information. "The clothing that was found. What was it?"
"A pair of jeans."
"You think they belonged to Kayla?"
Abigail's eyes flashed with certainty. "I know they did. We have a photo of her wearing them. But the cops said anyone could have bought that design. Anyway, we handed them over and as far as we know, they're still being tested."
"Eight months later?" McKenzie's disbelief was evident in his tone.
"Yeah."
A heavy silence fell over the car, broken only by the low hum of the engine. Noah's mind whirred with possibilities, each new piece of information adding to the complex puzzle of Kayla's disappearance.
"Anything else you think we should know?" he finally asked.
Abigail's gaze was intense, her voice low and serious. "Be careful. You go prodding a hornet’s nest, you're liableto get stung." She glanced at her wristwatch. "My shift starts."
"Thanks again, Abigail," Noah said as she climbed out of the car.
They watched her disappear into the casino, the gaudy lights swallowing her silhouette. Noah turned to McKenzie, determination etched on his face. "I say we go pay Marcus a visit."
McKenzie nodded, a grim smile playing at his lips. "Let's do it."
The car wound its way through the reservation, leaving the bright lights of the casino behind. The paved road gave way to a dirt track, snaking through dense forest. Snow-laden branches loomed overhead, creating a claustrophobic tunnel effect in the headlights' beam.
As they climbed higher into the hills, the track narrowed, becoming treacherously icy. Noah's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he navigated the path. Finally, they rounded a bend and saw their destination.
A dilapidated trailer sat in a small clearing, its weathered exterior a patchwork of rust and peeling paint. The driveway was buried under a thick blanket of snow, untouched save for a narrow footpath leading to the front door. A pickup truck was barely visible beneath a mound of snow, suggesting it hadn't moved in days.
Noah killed the engine, and an eerie silence descended. The only sound was the tick of the cooling engine and the soft whisper of falling snow.
"Charming place," McKenzie muttered as they climbed out of the car.
They trudged through the knee-deep snow, following the narrow path to the trailer's door. The porch creaked ominously under their weight, the wood rotted and sagging.
Noah rapped sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. No response. He tried again, louder this time.
"Marcus? This is Detective Sutherland. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
Silence.
McKenzie peered through a grimy window, cupping his hands around his eyes to block the glare. "Can't see anyone inside. Place looks empty."
Noah nodded, a mixture of frustration and unease settling in his gut. "Let's check around back. Maybe there's another entrance."
They carefully made their way around the trailer, their feet crunching in the fresh snow. The backyard was a junkyard of rusted machinery and discarded furniture, all blanketed in white. A rickety shed stood at the far end of the property, its door hanging askew on broken hinges.
"Noah," McKenzie called softly, gesturing towards the shed. Fresh footprints led from the woods to the shed's entrance, then back to the trailer.
Noah's hand instinctively moved to his holster. "Someone's been here recently."
They approached the shed cautiously, alert for any sign of movement. Noah pulled the door open, wincing at the loud creak of rusted metal. The interior was dark and cluttered, filled with the musty smell of decay.
