The loose skin around his jowls swayed as Jupiter looked from left to right. And coming to a decision, he headed east. Jupiter was onto something now, and Sylvia had to trot to keep up with his pace. They moved down the road at a quick clip; gray dust collected on Sylvia’s shoes and Jupiter’s paws. His long, droopy ears turned ashy as they brushed across the ground.
Sylvia could feel Jupiter’s excitement through the length of rope. He had picked up the girl’s scent. They moved farther from the Doyle home but Jupiter stayed primarily on the road. Every few hundred yards or so he would veer off into the tall grass or down into a ditch. When this happened, Sylvia’s pulse would quicken. Though she wanted to find the missing child, she didn’t want to find her lying among the switchgrass and chicory at the side of the road.
Periodically, a vehicle drove slowly past, the driver lifting one finger from the steering wheel as greeting. The tires kicked up dust and the minuscule scent particles that Jupiter was tracking.
Gravel dust clung to Sylvia’s sweaty skin and coated her lips. She unhooked the water bottle strapped to her belt and took a long swallow. Up ahead was a farm. Or what used to be one. It looked like a salvage yard. A large barn listed dangerously to one side, and rows of farm equipment and broken-down vehicles filled the yard. A wall of tires blocked Sylvia’s view of the rest of the property and a burnt rubber smell permeated the air.
Jupiter suddenly yanked the leash to the left, nearly lifting Sylvia off her feet, and disappeared into a ditch thick with prairie grass, pulling Sylvia down with him. The grass came up past her waist and the dry, rough leaves rasped against her skin.
Suddenly, the leash went slack. The only way Jupiter would stop was if he found what he was looking for.
Sylvia cautiously moved forward, using her arms to part the vast green sea of prairie grass. Flies buzzed noisily around her head, and as she followed the limp length of rope, she knew Jupiter had a hit.
Sylvia found him waiting for her, sitting at attention. His eyes mournful. Lying on the ground next to Jupiter was a rag, stiff with what Sylvia knew was dried blood.
She patted Jupiter and fished out a treat from her pocket and offered it to him. “Good boy, good boy,” she said, then pulled out her radio to call for help.
34
Present Day
It was nearing 4:00 a.m., and Wylie was running on fumes, but she couldn’t rest. The woman and girl sat next to one another on the sofa, while Wylie used the fire’s light to read through the manuscript.
The book was finished. There was little left to add. She considered adding a Where Are They Now section that explained what happened to the major players in the story, but there really wasn’t too much to say there. Everyone was either dead, impossible to locate, or simply wished to remain in the shadows, limping along in their broken lives.
Once this nightmare was over, after the storm ended and after she made sure the woman and her daughter were safe, Wylie would get the hell out of Blake County and go home.
She would deliver her manuscript to her publisher and try and repair her relationship with Seth. She’d even try a little harder to get along with Seth’s father.
Wylie looked up to find the little girl staring at her from her spot on the sofa. The girl’s mother was curled up so that the uninjured side of her face rested on the pillow, the quilt pulled up to her chin.
“How did you get your name?” the little girl asked.
Wylie was surprised that of all the things the girl wanted to talk about, it was her name. She was used to it. Upon learning her unusual name, everyone wanted to know how she got it. “It’s a family name,” Wylie said simply.
“What’s your name?” Wylie tried, hoping the girl would let it slip.
“My mom says I can’t tell you,” she answered, slipping out from beneath the covers and coming to sit on the floor by Wylie.
The light from the fire illuminated the girl’s face—her large brown eyes, the grimy residue left behind on her face by the duct tape that had been used to cover her mouth. Wylie couldn’t fathom what the girl had been through.
“How about your last name?” Wylie asked. “Mine is Lark. What’s yours?”
“I don’t think we have one,” the girl answered as if considering this for the first time.
Well, that wasn’t possible.
“What’s your dad’s name?” Wylie kept pressing.
The girl’s forehead creased with worry and she stayed quiet. “It’s okay,” Wylie said, glancing at the sleeping woman. “You can tell me.”