CHAPTER 4

The Horners live in the Sherwood Forest mobile home park on Highway 83 between Keene and Clark. The sky is as hard and gray as concrete as I turn onto the gravel street. Next to me, Glock studies the map I printed before leaving.

“There’s Sebring Lane,” he says, pointing.

I make a right and see a dozen mobile homes lined up like Matchbox cars on either side of the street. “What’s the lot number?”

“Thirty-five, there at the end.”

I park the Explorer in front of a blue and white 12 by 60 Liberty mobile home circa 1980. A living room extension juts from the side, giving it a haphazard look. But the lot is well kept. A newish Ford F-150 pickup sits in the driveway. I see green curtains at the kitchen window. Residual Christmas lights encircle the storm door. An aluminum trash can overflows at the curb. An ordinary home about to be shattered.

I’d rather cut off my hand than look into Belinda Horner’s eyes and ask her to identify a body I’m certain is her daughter. But this is my job, and I don’t have a choice.

I get out and start toward the trailer. The wind penetrates my parka, icy spears driving into my skin. I shiver as I climb the steps and knock. Beside me, Glock curses the cold. The storm door swings open as if someone is expecting us. I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair and tired, bruised eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept for a week.

“Mrs. Horner?” I flash my badge. “I’m Kate Burkholder, chief of police in Painters Mill.”

Her eyes dart from me to Glock, lingering on our badges. I see hope in her eyes, but that hope is tempered with fear. She knows a personal visit from the cops isn’t a good sign. “Is this about Amanda? Have you found her? Has she been hurt?”

“May we come in?” I ask.

She steps back and opens the door wider. “Where is she? Is she in some kind of trouble? Was there an accident?”

The trailer is too warm and cramped with a dozen pieces of mismatched furniture. I smell this morning’s bacon, last night’s meatloaf and the lingering remnants of hair spray. The television is tuned to a game show where some lucky contestant is bidding on a jukebox. “Are you alone, ma’am?”

She blinks at me. “My husband is at work.” Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “What’s this about? Why are you here?”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Something wild leaps into her eyes. Some terrible precursor to grief. She knows what I’m going to say next. I see the awful anticipation as clearly as I’ve felt it in my own heart.

“We may have found your daughter, ma’am. A young woman matching her description—”

“Found her?” A hysterical laugh squeezes from her throat. “What do you mean found her? Why isn’t she here?”