Chapters (57)
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Hear More from Gregg
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- A Letter from Gregg
- Acknowledgements
Tony Gray is leaning back in the world’s oldest office chair with his eyes closed. The chair has been repaired so many times that it appears to be upholstered with silver vinyl. On closer inspection, it’s clearly the work of a man who sees duct tape as the end-all, be-all. He’s well past early retirement, is married to a nurse he met at the hospital when he had a mild heart attack. He’s twenty pounds, maybe thirty, overweight and despite his constant complaining about dieting, I’ve never seen him eat anything that resembled doctor’s orders.
He’s either asleep or he’s succumbed from the empty contents of the Taco Bell bag that takes up the space in front of him.
“Sheriff,” I say.
His eyes flutter.
He bobs to alertness. “Detective. Just resting my eyes. Long day.”
“Tell me about it. It’s after six.”
He looks at his watch. “So it is.”
I fill him in on my adventure into the hills above Snow Creek with Wintergreen Ruth.
“I’m more of a peppermint guy myself.”
“Good to know.”
“Did I tell you about the time I went up there to arrest a bunch of freaks who were molesting their livestock?” he asks.
“Gross,” I say.
“Yeah, I even caught one in the act.”
I put my hand up. “No visuals please. But yeah, weird stuff goes on up there. Strange people. Probably more decent folks than freaks.”
“Not in my book,” he says. “People up there are there because they’ve got something to hide.”
He gets up, his eyes landing on the Taco Bell bag.
“Let’s not mention this to my wife.”
I agree. I know about keeping secrets.
We walk outside. The air is filled with the smell of rain after a warm day. Oil leaks from cars in the parking lot are rainbow-colored. I’m quiet, thinking about those secrets of mine.
“You okay, Megan?” he asks.
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow after I check out the Mexican orphanage.”
“Mañana,” he replies.
Five
I’m not fine.
Not really.
The thought of the Wheaton siblings and something sinister happening to their parents, stirs something inside of me. I have a gut feeling that something terrible has happened, something beyond a late holiday or time doing good works for some Mexican orphans.
I’ve been there. So, has my brother. One day in a blinding flash our parents were gone. We’d experienced the jagged range of emotions from fear to anger to constant dread—never really knowing what had happened.
My hands are trembling. I grip the steering wheel and turn onto the driveway.