Opie lay on the floor outside the bathroom while Gracie took a shower and changed into gym shorts and a cotton shirt. The house was air-conditioned, but the early summer heat pressed against the walls and roof from all directions. Gracie fixed a salad that included a generous helping of local peaches and watermelon. Lunch at one of the restaurants clustered around the courthouse square was usually her big meal of the day, and unless she had a community or church event to attend, she ate a light supper.

  Gracie’s mother and father lived on a 150-acre farm near the eastern edge of Milton County. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away. Maxine Blaylock was an avid vegetable gardener and every spring planted a full acre of tomatoes, green beans, okra, cantaloupe, watermelon, and peanuts. Gracie’s father owned a herd of fifty Black Angus cattle, mostly cows with calves, a few steers, and an ornery bull confined in a smaller enclosure. A meal at her parents’ house usually included something grown on the property.

  As a young girl and teenager, Gracie enjoyed walking in the woods, playing with one of the family dogs, or holing up in her room with a book. She still read but now preferred to unwind by watching movies. She liked everything from romantic comedies to comic-book action flicks. She also kept a few nature shows saved in her TV queue. Opie’s ears always perked up when the sounds of wildlife came through the speakers in the small den Gracie had converted into an entertainment area. He especially liked shows about African wild dogs and would stand directly in front of the screen with his stubby tail straight up in the air when the dogs yapped in communication. The roars from a lion pride made him nervous.

  Gracie kept a chore list on her refrigerator. This evening she was scheduled to clean and dust the living room and den, using a special liquid product on the old wooden floors. While she was dusting the den furniture, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. It was her mother.

  “Hey, baby girl,” her mother said when Gracie answered.

  Gracie was the third of four children, but her mother still liked to call her “baby girl,” mainly because Gracie was the first female child.

  “How’s the team shaping up?” Maxine asked.

  Gracie gave a quick coach’s summary and then asked a gardening question: “Are you irrigating yet?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s been dripping for over a week. Will you be able to come out for dinner on Sunday? Noah and Bethany will be here with their kids.”

  “Probably.”

  “Just let me know.”

  Gracie could sense something else was on her mother’s mind but knew it wouldn’t come out until the older woman wanted it to. For her mother, no conversation should be rushed.

  “How’s Daddy feeling?” Gracie asked.

  “Hating the hot afternoons, but he feeds and waters the cattle early in the morning and gets in a nap in the hammock after lunch.”

  “If he wants to come in one day and have lunch with me, just let me know.”

  “He mentioned that this morning, but he thinks you’re so busy that he’d be bothering you. I told him that was nonsense.”

  “You’re right. His vote counts too.”

  Maxine chuckled, then was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to bother you either,” she said, “but I heard about a sad situation from Frances Mulhaven this afternoon and wanted to talk to you about it. It has to do with her granddaughter Reagan. Is she on your team this summer?”

  “She came to the first couple of practices, but I haven’t seen her since.”

  Gracie told Maxine what she’d heard from one of the girls during the prayer time at softball practice.

  “That makes sense,” Maxine said. “Frances called me about an hour ago to tell me Reagan ran away from home, and they don’t know where she is.”

  “Did she leave by herself?”

  “It seems that way, but it’s hard to know. She turned seventeen a few weeks ago. I asked if she’d gotten into drugs or was running with a bad crowd. Frances didn’t have a clue, and my questions made her cry so I shut up. You know Sammy and Crystal Landry, don’t you? They’re Reagan’s parents. She’s the youngest of their five children.”

  “Sammy works for Linton Construction?”

  “That’s right. He’s a supervisor. Crystal taught preschool for years. The family has been calling everybody they can think of without success. The sheriff’s department knows about it and set Reagan up as a missing child because she’s not yet eighteen, but they haven’t located her either.”

  “It sounds like the family is doing all they can.”

  “Yes, but after I talked to Frances, I thought about Buddy Smith. Is he still tracking down children kidnapped by one of their parents?”

  “He is. I referred a woman to him yesterday.”

  “Do you think he might be interested in helping with this?”

  “I don’t know,” Gracie said slowly. “Buddy is a lawyer, not a private investigator. And he gets involved when a parent wrongfully takes off with a child.”

  “Think about it. I’m worried Reagan will end up on a poster like the missing children you see at Sam’s Club. I know most of those kids have been gone since they were little. It hurts my heart to see them, and to think about Reagan being someplace bad and in danger . . .” Maxine paused.

  “I’ll talk to Buddy,” Gracie said.

  “Thanks,” Maxine said with relief. “It makes me feel better to know that at least I tried to help.”

  “But don’t say anything to Frances. Not yet.”

  “Right, right. I almost brought it up but had sense enough not to. One other thing. Have you talked to Lauren recently?”

  “Not this week.”

  “She really wants to come over to your place one evening after the boys are in bed so you can work together on the internet dating thing.”

  Gracie bristled. “And she asked you to say something to me about it?”

  “Yes, she did,” her mother replied slowly. “And before you say no, it won’t hurt anything to give it a try. I had my doubts until Lauren met Jeff, but I couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law. He came out last Saturday and got our small tractor running. I’d told your father we were going to have to buy a new one, but now it’s running great.”

  “I don’t think Lauren included ‘must be tractor mechanic’ as a requirement for the type of man she was looking for.”

  “I know. But anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to give one of those websites a try. You could just do the one that worked for Lauren and Jeff.”

  Gracie was the only one of her siblings who wasn’t married, and whether her mother intended to put pressure on her or not, she occasionally did.

  “I’ll set something up with Lauren.”

  “Good.”

  “And tell her not to put you up to calling me about it,” Gracie added. “She’s thirty-three and I’m thirty-five. We should be able to communicate as adults.”

  “You’re right. Hope to see you on Sunday for dinner after church.”

  “Love you,” Gracie said. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Love you, baby girl. Remember, I’m always proud of you.”

  After the call ended, Gracie started to text Lauren but decided not to. She’d waited half a biblical lifetime to meet the right man. Another day’s delay to begin the process wouldn’t hurt.

  Once she finished cleaning the two rooms, Gracie plopped down in her TV room to watch a movie. She selected a chick flick, but the plot involved a teenage girl who ran away from home in an effort to make her estranged parents begin to communicate. Gracie felt uneasy. The girl in the movie hid out in safety at a friend’s house, but the story was too close to the darker dangers possibly facing Reagan Landry. Gracie turned off the movie halfway through.

  * * *

  Buddy bought a smoothie before stopping by to see his mother. Beatrice Smith lived in a historic home on Franklin Street, a tree-lined boulevard with Victorian- and colonial-style houses built in the 1880s and 1890s. General William Tecumseh Sherman and his Union troops burned Clarksburg to the ground in November 1864. As a result, no antebellum structures remained in Milton County. Post–Civil War upheavals delayed significant rebuilding for more than a decade. As things slowly improved, the few prosperous families who wanted to live in town settled along Franklin Street.

  Rascal Smith sold the house on Lexington Avenue where Buddy and his two sisters grew up and bought the Franklin Street residence as a way to validate his financial success and social status to anyone who looked down their nose at a man who got his start selling weekly-premium life insurance policies to millworkers. But in a town like Clarksburg, new money never impressed old money unless there was a lot more than Rascal ever had in the bank. As a trader, he encumbered existing property to fund future expansion, which occasionally made cash flow tight and bankruptcy two or three bad deals away. But he was a survivor. Now that Rascal wasn’t on the scene, Buddy was paying off debt while keeping his mother comfortable.

  He parked his Audi behind his mother’s Mercedes. The German luxury vehicle was another effort by Rascal to establish his bona fides. Beatrice, who cared little about the make of the car she drove, liked the lines of the cream-colored Mercedes vehicle and deemed the tan seats more comfortable than the leather couch in her living room. She only drove about twelve thousand miles a year, and Buddy hadn’t yet suggested she trade in the aging vehicle for a new model. He texted his mother to let her know he was in the driveway. She didn’t like him to barge in unannounced.

  Beatrice met him at the door wearing a blue-and-yellow housedress and white sandals. Unlike her husband, she came from a respectable family with deep Milton County roots. Everyone who knew the Smiths shared the same opinion—Beatrice was the best thing that ever happened to Rascal. He didn’t deny the truth, and his desire to provide for his wife and family was Rascal’s most admirable quality. Recently turned sixty-seven, Beatrice looked several years younger and could have attracted suitors if she wanted one. Buddy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Good afternoon, Mama,” he said formally. “I got too hot and sweaty walking to the courthouse to give you a hug.”

  “Come in where it’s cool,” she replied. “I’ll get you a glass of tea.”

  “I just finished a smoothie.”

  “If you squeeze a couple of lemon slices into your tea, it can be a fruit drink too.”

  Buddy followed his mother into the kitchen. The spacious room had the most natural light of any part of the house. Black-and-white tile squares covered the floor. The wooden cabinets were white, and there was a round antique farm table in one corner. Neatly stacked on the table were newspapers, books, and different types of magazines. Beatrice always kept a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea in the refrigerator. She filled a cut crystal glass and positioned three lemon wedges on the rim.

  “What have you been reading?” he asked, thumbing through the collection on the table.

  “A little bit of everything.”

  Buddy picked up a thin book about bonsai trees. Beatrice liked to grow flowers, and the beds around the house featured various colors at different times of the year. The most spectacular display was the early spring explosion of purple and white azalea bushes along Franklin Street. The large mature bushes formed a wall of blossoms that caused people to slow down and admire the vivid colors.

  “Are you thinking about taking up bonsai?”

  “Heavens, no. Reading about them is close enough for me.”

  Beatrice sat down at the table with a smaller glass of tea. “I should have asked—are you hungry?”

  “No, I might have a snack later.”

  “A bowl of ice cream around nine o’clock?”

  “Maybe.” Buddy smiled and shifted in his chair. “I need to talk business with you for a minute. It’s about the Grant family. They’re behind on their rent.”

  “If I was going to grow bonsai, I’d try to train an azalea,” Beatrice said, picking up the book and showing Buddy a photograph of a miniature bush with pink flowers. “It would be quite a conversation piece.”

  “Is that your way of telling me not to bother you about the Grant family?”

  “Yes. Your daddy took care of that sort of thing. I know you want to keep me informed, but I don’t want the responsibility.”

  “Okay, but at least let me tell you what I’m thinking. Ken Grant bought a bunch of lawn maintenance equipment that’s sitting idle at his house. I thought he could satisfy part of the rent by cutting grass for us. I would surprise the tenants by offering his services free of charge for a month. Then, if Ken did a good job, some of them might hire him. I wouldn’t ask him to come here. I know you like the crew you already have.”

  Beatrice nodded. “That’s a clever way to handle it. I bet Doris Fletchall would welcome it. Her husband had a stroke and can’t go outside in the heat. Another one is Gracie Blaylock. I saw her cutting her grass the other day when it must have been ninety-five degrees outside.”

  “I hadn’t thought about Gracie. She refers cases to me from time to time, so I owe her a favor.”

  Beatrice took a sip of tea. “Gracie stops by to see me sometimes when she goes out for a walk. I love talking to her, and she has the friendliest dog.”

  “Are you interested in another dog?” Buddy asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Beatrice shook her head. “Once Starr had to be put down, that was it for me and pets.”

  Starr was a cuddly bichon frise who lived to be eighteen. Rascal liked the furry white animal so much that he let him ride around in the car with him.

  “What else have you been reading?” Buddy asked.

  Beatrice handed him a book of poetry. It was a book of cinquains, five-line variations on Japanese haiku. Each poem featured a watercolor painting. The paintings caught Buddy’s attention. He liked to draw and sketch, mostly with pen and ink.

  “I like these illustrations,” he said. “They’re precise. I never could control watercolors.”

  “I like everything you’ve ever drawn.”

  “Spoken like a true mother,” Buddy said, draining the last drops of tea from his glass. “Is there anything you need me to do around here before I leave?”

  “The lightbulb in the stairway to the basement burned out, and I’m not tall enough to reach it.”

  “I’ll be glad to change it.”

  Taking a new bulb from a closet near the kitchen, Buddy went halfway down the stairs and replaced the light. His mother had no business trying to descend into the dark and musty basement without a bright light. When the bulb came on, Buddy noticed a large cardboard box on the bottom step. It was a trip hazard, so he went down the steps to move it out of the way. The box was surprisingly heavy. He lifted the lid. It was filled with papers bearing his father’s spindly handwriting. Glancing up the stairs, Buddy picked up a few sheets. They were kind, romantic notes written by his father to his mother. Buddy was tempted to read them but didn’t. His mother didn’t talk about her grief and filled her life with many friends, but Buddy knew she often felt sad and alone. She must have come down to spend time reading what Rascal wrote to her.

  About to return the lid to its place, Buddy saw a long, narrow envelope with the corner of a check sticking out. He opened it. Instead of notes or letters, the envelope contained canceled checks. The first one he took out was dated ten years earlier and made payable to “Bearer.” Buddy’s eyes widened when he saw the amount. Drawn on his father’s money market account with the First National Bank of Milton County, the check was in the amount of $10,000.

  Buddy quickly removed all the checks from the envelope. Each of them was for $10,000 and made payable to “Bearer,” which meant anyone in possession of the check could walk into a bank, endorse it, and deposit the money, or, in the case of the issuing bank, request $10,000 in cash. There was no rational, legitimate reason to conduct business in such a way. There were fourteen checks, one per year, totaling $140,000. Buddy’s heart sank as he considered the possibility that his father might have been involved in something fraudulent or illegal. He turned the checks over to see had who received and deposited them. There was an illegible scrawl in the space for endorsements until Buddy reached the earliest check.

  Written clearly in a woman’s handwriting on the back of the check was the name Amber Melrose. Amber always shaped the “o” in Melrose so that it looked like a heart. In faded blue ink on the endorsement line was the familiar tiny heart. Issued seventeen years earlier, the check was dated around the time Amber and Elise left Milton County and dropped out of sight.

  Shocked, Buddy stared unseeing across the basement toward the fiberboard wall where his father hung his tools. Within seconds several things were clear. Rascal had financed Amber’s escape from Clarksburg. But he didn’t stop there. His father not only aided Amber’s initial flight but enabled her to permanently disappear, an act that stymied Buddy’s later efforts to track down his former girlfriend and daughter. And Rascal maintained contact with Amber until several months before his death. The final payment was less than sixty days prior to his fatal heart attack three years ago. Buddy felt sick. Rascal was aware of how desperately Buddy wanted to find Amber and Elise, yet he never told his son that he knew where they were.

  Buddy quickly rummaged through the box. Somewhere in the jumble of papers might be hidden the information he’d been desperately seeking since he began his search: Amber’s address. There were receipts for repairs to rental houses, property surveys, real estate closing documents, even a list of Christmas gifts for Beatrice. Buddy reached the bottom of the box. Nothing. He began again, this time going much slower. Partway through the second search, his mother opened the door at the top of the stairs.

  “Buddy, are you all right?” she asked. “I started worrying you might have fallen.”

  “I changed the lightbulb,” he replied, shielding the cardboard box from his mother’s line of sight with his body. “I’ll be up in a minute or two.”

  “Okay. I’m going to water the flower beds.”