I pick up.

“Detective Carpenter,” I answer.

“My sister is missing,” a woman says, pausing as if that should be enough information to catch my interest. In fact, it is. My cases of late have been property crimes, burglary mostly, and a missing dog.

That’s right. A dog.

The woman’s voice is hesitant, and I can immediately tell that it took courage to call. Not because she’s afraid of dialing the number, but because in doing so she’s fearful of what she’ll find.

What I might find.

“I’ll need to know more,” I say. “Ms.?”

Her words begin to tumble through the phone. “Turner. Ruth Turner. My sister Ida—Ida Wheaton—hasn’t responded to anyone in the family for weeks, maybe a month. It isn’t like her. Not at all.”

I wonder how close Ruth could be to her sister if she’s not sure when anyone has heard from her.

“I’ll need more details,” I tell her.

Hesitancy fills the line. “Of course,” she finally answers. “I’m outside in your parking lot. Can I come in and talk to you?”

“I’ll meet you at the front desk.”

I hang up and catch my reflection on the surface of my now very cold coffee. My hair is dark and clipped back at the nape of my neck. I wear no makeup other than a single application of mascara and a touch of blush. My lip color is courtesy of Chapstick, owing more to the breezy weather off the water than a need for lip coloring. I know I could do more with myself, but doing more only attracts more attention from men. I don’t want that right now. I doubt I ever will. I get up, bumping my desk, and the reflection disappears into a succession of ripples. My mother used to say I was beautiful. And even though that was a long time ago, and her word means very little, I know I’m many things. That might even be one of them.

I’m a little flummoxed as I make my way to reception. Outside in the parking lot? Who does that? And why didn’t she just come inside?

Ruth Turner stands awkwardly next to the desk. She’s lean, tall, gangly and hunches over to sign her name on the register. Not more than mid-fifties, her hair is gray and white and long, swirling into a bun that resembles the wasp nest that hangs over my garage. She’s wearing a long dark dress over a white cotton blouse. Her shoes are black Oxfords, shiny on top yet scuffed in the places where her foot rested as she drove from wherever she came from. She wears no makeup, save for a light touch of mascara on her lashes. Despite her austere appearance, when she turns to greet me her eyes are warm and full of emotion. They radiate a combination of hope and worry.