Page 4 of Dead Man's Hollow
Her heart flip-flops and her voice quavers when she says, “We might have something here. It came in through the tip line form you set up.”
“Really?” Jordana’s spoon clatters to the table and she races around to peer over Maisy’s shoulder at the message on the screen:
New Message to The Farley Files Tip Line at [email protected]
Date: April 22, 2024
Subject: Thirty Years Without Answers
Ms. Farley,
Our sister, Heather Renee Ryan, vanished almost thirty years ago when she was just sixteen. She’s never been seen again. The police have never arrested a suspect in her disappearance, never recovered her body, never found her living somewhere else. Although her case is technically not closed, it’s clear to us she was written off as a runaway and nobody truly tried to find her. We need to know what happened to her. You’re our last hope.
Sincerely,
Diana Ryan, Amy Ryan Marino, Kristy Ryan Kaminski, the sisters of Heather Ryan
They stare in silence at the short message for a long moment, then Jordana exhales “A cold case. A missing teenager. Three sisters who’ve been waiting nearly three decades for answers.”
“It checks all the boxes,” Maisy says, half to herself.
“And with the anniversary of her disappearance coming up, we can generate some real interest.” Jordana’s marketing wheels are spinning.
“I want to help these women find out what happened to their sister.” Her face breaks into a wide grin. “We may have just found our second season.”
Jordana grins back for a heartbeat, then she’s all business. “I’ll do some preliminary research into the disappearance.”
Maisy frowns, but it’s a playful frown. “Now, you know I love to research. I’ll do that. Why don’t you reach out to the family and set up a meeting?”
She bobs her head. “On it.”
ChapterThree
Amy Ryan Marinouncorks the bottle of Shiraz left from the previous night’s dinner and pulls an oversized red wine glass down from the cabinet. She pours ruby-colored liquid into the glass, careful to stop when she reaches the line she’s drawn on the glass with a Sharpie at the five-ounce mark. Rich teases her about her precision, but as perimenopause has taught her, five ounces of wine is plenty; anything more disrupts her sleep, and the extra calories get harder to shake with every passing year. So, every wine glass in the cabinet sports a thin black marker line.
She carries the drink into the living room and sinks into her favorite chair, the one by the window with a soft, lightweight blanket draped over its back. There’s still a chill in the spring air, and she could use some coziness, so she pulls the blanket down over her shoulders, sinks into the chair, and sips her wine, willing the tension in her chest to ease.
The house is quiet, which means the kids must not be back from their movie, and Rich is probably puttering in his garage workshop. She savors the silence and stillness, trailing one hand over the arm of the chair and listening to her even breathing. She takes another sip of the wine before placing it on the coaster to her left and closing her eyes. Her breathing slows and her eyelids grow heavy, then flutter closed. She won’t sleep, she tells herself. She only needs a few minutes to decompress and relax.
But she must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing she knows, the front door slams shut and loud voices and stomping feet fill the hallway. She jerks and her eyes pop open.
“Mom, we’re home!” her youngest calls before thundering up the stairs to her bedroom. The instant Ava turned thirteen, she started to spend more time in her bedroom than anywhere else. Amy would worry if she hadn’t been through the same thing with the older two.
Evan, the oldest, pops his head into the sitting room. “You okay, Mom?”
“Just relaxing,” she tells him. “How was the matinee?”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“Well, thanks for driving your siblings,” she says. “Dad and I appreciate it.”
She means it. She’d forgotten the school district had a planned half-day when she’d accepted Diana’s lunch invitation. The kids are old enough to stay home alone, but they jumped at the chance to go to the movies instead.
“It was no problem. They saw their stupid superhero movie, and I met Becca to watch a real film.”
She smiles, indulging his belief that he’s a cinema aficionado. After all, she remembers going through the same phase when she was about his age. She and Heather fancied themselves sophisticated film buffs. They’d go into Pittsburgh to watch foreign movies and independent films at the Regent Square Theater. She and Rich went back a few times over the years to see film festivals. But the theater closed several years back. Now it’s an art gallery. Just another reminder of something she’s lost. Her smile fades.
Her son eyes her closely. “You met with Aunt Diana and Aunt Kristy today, didn’t you?”
