Inside the store, a fluorescent light flickered as yacht rock played over the store’s sound system. Jo headed for the nearest cashier, a woman with a massive bosom and the imperious air of middle management. She was ringing items up for an elderly couple who seemed eager to get home with a shopping bag filled with unusually phallic vegetables.
“Pardon me,” Jo said. “I’m looking for Amber Welsh.”
“Well, when you find her, you can tell her she’s fired,” the woman snipped without lifting her eyes from the scanner. Her name tag identified her as Linda Setzer, Manager. “I know she has problems, and she’s got my sympathy. But I just can’t run a store this way.”
“I’m sorry, what way?” Jo asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The woman finally looked up at her. “Amber was a no-show today. I couldn’t get anyone else to cover, so I’ve been manning the cash register since noon.”
“Shit.” Jo muttered. She knew what would come next. Every true crime podcast started much the same way—with a woman not showing up for a shift.
“Tell me about it,” the manager said. “You ever worked a till? My legs are numb from standing all day and my back is spasming. I’m going to be crippled for the rest of the week.”
“I’m sorry,” Jo said, and the manager shrugged. “So you haven’t heard from Amber at all today?”
“Nope,” she said as she began to fill a paper bag with the elderly couple’s assorted vegetables. “And at this point, I am no longer interested in hearing from her.”
Jo hurried out and hopped back into the car. Whatever had happened to Amber, she knew it couldn’t be good.
“Where are we going?” Nessa asked as Jo peeled out of the parking lot.
“Amber’s house.”
The first time Jo had visited the trailer, she’d had Amber to guide her. Finding the entrance wasn’t as easy the second time. When she reached the end of the bumpy dirt drive, it seemed she’d made a mistake. The site was empty. There was no rusting trailer. No broken-down car. No potbellied little boy. Only dirt, rubble, and trash.
“I must have taken a wrong turn,” Jo said. As she steered the car around, the headlights hit a patch of scrub and she saw something gleam beneath it. She stopped the car and got out to investigate. Parked under the bush was a little metal truck with no wheels. A boy had written his name on the hood in crooked capital letters. DUSTIN.
“Holy shit.” The truth slammed into Jo and spun her around. Amber and her family were gone. Aside from the toy truck, there was no sign they’d ever been there. At some point in the past twenty-four hours, they’d disappeared.
The Chief
Fluorescent lighting gave the police station interior the ambiance of the Alien Autopsy set. Nessa tried not to imagine the origins of the gruesome stains on the chairs she and Jo had been offered.
“An entire family vanishes from the face of the planet in less than twenty-four hours, and you’re telling us we shouldn’t be worried?” They’d agreed it was best to let Nessa do the talking, but even she was having trouble staying diplomatic.
According to the sign on his desk, the man sitting across from them was Chief of Police John Rocca. The shelves on the wall behind him were lined with framed commendations and softball trophies. Franklin stood off to the side, listening silently with his arms crossed over his chest. Franklin had lived in the area for six months, while Rocca knew everyone in town.
“It’s unusual, Mrs. James,” Rocca agreed. “But so are the Welshes.”
Nessa glanced over at Jo and saw her friend’s fists clench. The moment Franklin had brought them in to speak to the chief of police, she’d known the conversation would go nowhere. Rocca was in his early fifties, with the robust physique of a triathlete and the personality of a barbell. He had to hear them out, but he wasn’t going to pretend to give a damn that the Welshes were missing.