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Sloan nodded. “Sure, that would be great.”
“How about this.” Nora handed Sloan a business card. “That’s my photography studio. It’s in the heart of town, in the middle of The Block. Come by tomorrow afternoon. Annabelle was sort of my protégé. She and I bonded over our love of photography. I was teaching her everything I knew. Throughout her pregnancy, she dabbled in photography and took some great photos of you just after you were born. That whole summer, really. I’m sure I still have them somewhere, Annabelle’s pictures. If you’d like to see them, I’ll dig around my house and look for them. I know we stashed them somewhere.”
“I’d love that.”
Nora smiled. “I’ll look tonight.”
She pointed at the business card in Sloan’s hand.
“The address of my studio is on the card. One o’clock tomorrow? I’ll have Reid and Tilly meet us there.”
Sloan smiled. “See you then.”
“Sloan,” Nora said before she was out the door. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know what happened to you and your parents, but I’m sure glad I found you.”
Sloan smiled. “Me too.”
Sloan waved to Nora Margolis as she backed out of the driveway, and it occurred to her that, without too much effort, she had managed to get her foot in the door of the elusive Margolis family. Whether there was anything to find once she was inside was to be determined.
CHAPTER 24
Cedar Creek, Nevada Saturday, July 27, 2024
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BEFORE THE SUN WAS UP, SLOAN WENT ON a run and explored the town of Cedar Creek. She’d been at it for forty minutes when the sun crept from under the horizon. She made her way along the running trail that hugged the water, pausing as she crossed the Louis-Bullat Bridge that arced over Cedar Creek. Below her, the water’s surface was peaceful and calm as it reflected the cotton-ball clouds bruised lavender by the rising sun. To the south she saw the other two bridges that curved over the creek and connected each half of the town. To the west, the Sierra Nevadas absorbed the glow of the rising sun. From her perched position atop the bridge, the white courthouse was visible in the center of town, and she resumed her jog in that direction.
She worked up a nice sweat and good burn in her lungs and legs as she approached the town center, picking up her pace and taking the two dozen courthouse steps in a staccato of high knee raises that drained the last bit of energy from her quads. When she reached the top, she placed her hands on her head and sucked in the morning air as she slowly walked along the courthouse promenade, which was made up of two giant, rounded doors flanked by four thick pillars on either side.
When she had her breathing under control, she examined a placard near the front door that listed the mayor of Cedar Creek, the district attorney of Harrison County, and several county board members. Of the twelve names, nine were Margolises. It dawned on her, as she stood in front of the courthouse in the center of the town that was owned and operated by the Margolis family, that her sudden reappearance had the potential to turn Cedar Creek upside down.
She took one more look around The Block, then skipped down the stairs and jogged back to her rental home. Showered and dressed an hour later, she drove out of Cedar Creek and into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, following the GPS as she navigated to the address Eric Stamos had given her. It took thirty minutes to traverse the serpentine roads and navigate the switchbacks that snaked through the mountains. Eventually Sloan found the wooden bridge that crossed the gully below, the one Eric had told her marked the final leg of the journey to his cabin.
She turned right at the end of the bridge and a quarter mile later found the driveway’s entrance. The mailbox was hidden, and the address was poorly marked. She turned and drove through the canopy of trees until she reached the cabin and found Eric sitting in a chair on the front porch. He raised his hand as Sloan parked and climbed out of the car. The A-frame cabin was surrounded on three sides by thick forest and butted up against the gully she had crossed in her rental car. The one-lane, wooden bridge was visible in the distance behind the cabin. It was the very definition of isolated.
“Find it okay?” Eric asked from the porch.
“Just barely. You like living out here so far from civilization?”
“It’s my family’s cabin. Come on in, I’ll show you the place.”
Sloan walked up the porch steps.
“Good to see you again,” Eric said.
“You, too. And I promise I won’t mace you this time.”
They both shared a laugh. Eric had fully recovered from the pepper spray incident, and Sloan was able to see both his eyes today—still a light caramel brown that accented his dark olive complexion, evidence of a life spent outdoors. He wore a T-shirt that stretched under the tension of his broad shoulders and revealed the powerful cords in his forearms, suggesting that he found the gym as often as Sloan.
“My grandfather built this place in the fifties,” Eric said as Sloan followed him inside. “He used it as a family getaway spot and a hunting cabin. It’s only thirty minutes from town but feels like you’re in another dimension.”
“That’s for sure.”
“I inherited the place when my grandfather died last year. I’ve since turned it into ground zero for my research and investigation into what happened to my father.”
Sloan followed Eric through the cabin. Everything was bold oak and leather. The ceiling of the A-frame peaked thirty feet above their heads and was lined by broad wooden beams. The dining room table—a heavy slab of polished oak with a long bench on one side and four chairs on the other—was covered with boxes and papers.
“This is everything I’ve collected on my father’s case. It includes everything I could get my hands on pertaining to the disappearance of you and your parents, as well as the old hit-and-run case that was linked to your birth mother.”
Sloan approached the table and the stacks of papers it contained.
