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Strings of tangent thoughts demanded attention, but she couldn’t give in to any of them. Her chest tightened to the point she couldn’t take a full breath without shuddering. Had Michelle reached out to her? There’d been so many requests for so long, she rarely answered the phone other than from numbers she’d memorized, and she never bothered listening to her voicemails. Afraid and angry of what might be waiting on the other end of the line. As more time had passed, the fewer notifications she’d received. She was sure she would’ve recognized a Lebanon area code in the mess.
She scrolled down the screen. Comments left on Michelle Cross’s post ranged from congratulations and excitement to beratement and warnings.
Leave it alone, Michelle.
I can’t believe you’re doing this. Haven’t we been through enough?
The lofty name of Lebanon implied a sort of exotic open-mindedness and diversity, a place of growth and betterment. It was a lie. The comments proved as much. Instead, the people in this town were traditionalists. They wanted their dinner on the table at 5:00 p.m. sharp, their news delivered in the paper every morning and on time, and their business kept as their own. But Troy’s and Derek’s deaths had upset that way of life, and they were doing everything in their power to get it back. Showing only what they wanted outsiders to see. Welcoming them but keeping their secrets to themselves. Right up until someone threatened to unravel all their hard work.
A final comment on Michelle’s post pulled her to sit up straighter.
You’re going to end up like them if you don’t stop.
She tapped the profile handle, but the account came up private. No identifying details or a photo about who was behind it. No posts. It was amazing what people thought they could get away with behind an anonymous social media account. Asking for the IP address or account owner wouldn’t do any good. Social media platforms were experts at losing federal subpoenas, but she made a note to submit the court-ordered request anyway.
Leigh let her hand fall from the track pad. Michelle Cross had made her book deal public. If getting to the truth of what’d really happened to Leigh’s brother and his best friend was the goal, Michelle had set herself in dangerous sights. With the victim’s location and an array of other photos taken on her property and around Lebanon, it wouldn’t have been hard for someone determined to bury that truth to track her down. Damn it. What had Michelle Cross thought would happen? That she alone would deliver justice and help Lebanon heal from its dark past? That she’d be a hero?
Leigh sat back in her chair. Her elbow accidentally scattered the pile of newspaper articles she’d separated from the victim’s notes to the floor. She darted to catch them, only managing to grip one as a dozen photos of her father gazed up at her.
Rugged. That was the word she’d use to describe him then. He didn’t resemble an elementary school STEM teacher, just as Chandler Reed didn’t resemble a federal investigator. If anything, Joel Brody looked as if he’d rather be climbing a mountain or chopping down the trees behind their house for firewood. Streaks of gray tracked along his temples in one black-and-white photo. She’d teased him about it mercilessly as a teen, calling him a grandpa. He’d countered by telling her the only way he could be a grandpa was if she’d gotten pregnant. That shut her up real fast. Her throat convulsed on a swallow. Working here in Lebanon was the closest she’d been to him in almost two decades. The agreement she’d made with the FBI when she’d signed on with CJIS limited interactions with felons. It was a risk the bureau hadn’t wanted to take.
She bent to collect the articles when the headline of the one in her hand became clear.
Montana Town Upended in Search of Missing Boy.
She left the rest of the cutouts at her feet as she read through the first few paragraphs of the article. A small town of 5,400 residents all searching for a five-year-old boy who’d disappeared from his bedroom three months ago. Canine units, septic tank searches, state and county police, prayer circles—no stone had been left unturned according to the writer. And no leads had been found. Even the town’s residents had aided in the search.
Leigh turned the thin paper over in her hand. Nothing written on the back to indicate any relevance to Michelle Cross’s research. So why had she included it?
All of this—the surveillance photos, the newspaper articles, the daily records—had been centered around proving Chris Ellingson was connected to her father’s case and the investigation into her brother’s death. What if…
Leigh typed the name of the town into her internet browser. Fruitland, Montana + missing boy. She’d kept tabs on all missing persons cases involving male victims over the age of ten since leaving New Hampshire as Derek Garrison had been the youngest at the time, but a five-year-old? Her heart urged her not to go down this path, but she had to know. She hit Search.
Police Provide Update on Missing Fruitland Boy. A smiling face took over the screen, one with a sharp chin, sandy blonde hair, and gapped front teeth. A smaller photo of the shirt he’d been wearing at the time took up space to the right. Michael Agutter. Missing since last July. His scent was traced by K-9 units to the end of his street but had ended abruptly. Police believed he’d gotten into a white Honda Pilot, although nobody in the neighborhood could identify the driver. There was a reward for over $50,000 upon his safe return, but Leigh’s instincts said Michael’s parents would never see him again.
Fruitland. It was a small town. Isolated away from main cities just like Lebanon. Strong ties to agriculture. Plenty of places to hide a body if needed. Was this where Chris Ellingson had gone? Was this how he’d tried to cover his tracks?
Footsteps pounded down the hall and breached her focus.
An officer raced past the open conference room door.
Then another.
Grabbing the mess from the floor, she tried to put it back together as best she could before leaving the table. She shut the lid of her laptop and followed the officers out into the hall. The station erupted into a chaotic dance of orders and response.
Something had happened.
She could feel it. A sick cold leaked into her gut. Time seemed to race right in front of her. She was moving toward the front of the station, caught up in the craze.
A third officer pushed past her.
She barely managed to recognize him in the chaos.
Officer Donavon Pierce called back over his shoulder to someone. Maybe her. He shoved through the front double doors and out into the parking lot. The back of one index finger—clear against the glass—had been stained black.
She tried to force her brain to wrap around the situation, but everything was moving so fast. One face stood out among the others.
Boucher wedged the front desk phone between his ear and shoulder, barking orders through the line. “I don’t care what you have to do. I need someone from the medical examiner’s office now, damn it.”
