Missing
Chapter 8
"She was here." I stood at an uncomfortable angle, bent over to avoid hitting my head on a branch. "She was definitely here."
Terry sat on the worn planks of the tree house, his legs dangling over the edge. He still looked as flustered as he had when I'd banged on his door to tell him the news. "We shouldn't be up here, man, it's not my property anymore."
"You see the Hershey bar wrappers, she was here."
He stared at the back of the big house, swinging his feet slightly. He looked like a little boy. "Some of the neighbors around here don't take well to trespassing."
"Who cares about trespassing? This proves it, right?" I asked excitedly, gesturing towards the wrappers again.
"I don't know," he hedged. "For all we know, those've been there since I was a kid. I didn't do much tidying up back then."
I frowned, picking up a wrapper. "Look at the expiration date. Hell, look at this contest they're advertising on the back. All entries have to be received by September 30, 2007. Two thousand seven, Terry! You think contests run for twenty-something years?"
"The family who lives here now has a young son. I've seen him up in the tree house before. He could like chocolate."
I closed my eyes and counted to five. "Logically, it makes sense that she was here."
"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe."
This small admission bolstered my enthusiasm. "I've got to get moving."
Pushing past him, I scrambled down the tree.
"Wait." He was jogging after me. "Wait, you're... wait."
"Can't wait." I crossed the street, heading back toward my car.
"Where are... are you leaving?" He sounded almost relieved, and it suddenly occurred to me how similar we were. Or at least we were before I met Sara. Two quiet men, living alone, cherishing our silent and predictable lives. This whole mess had interrupted his peaceful day. Well, mine too.
"Not leaving," I grunted, leaning into the car.
"What? Why not?"
I rifled through my back seat, then checked my pockets. "Where's that photo?"
"What?"
"I showed you a photograph of Sara before, where did I put it?"
He shook his head. "I don't-"
"Oh." I remembered setting it next to my iced tea glass. "It's inside. Can I-"
"Sure." He waved toward the house. "Course. Go ahead."
I hurried into the house, heading for the living room and catching sight of the photo next to my coaster. Sara smiled up at me from the picture as if to say You're close, Gil, you're really close to finding me now.
Hurry, Gil.
Spinning on my heel, I ran back out of the house. Terry was leaning against my car, and from his expression I gathered I looked a little crazed.
Well, I felt a little crazed.
More than a little.
"You okay, man?"
I pulled out my cell phone. "Got to call local PD, put out an alert. Go door-to-door with Sara's photograph-"
"But-"
"See if anyone remembers seeing her-"
"Hold up."
"I can't," I told him, trying to steady the rush of excitement as I headed toward the nearest neighbor's house. "Sara was here, she was-"
He held up a hand. "Okay. Maybe. But what if she tries to contact you at home, and you're not there?"
"She..." I blinked, stopping short. "She'd try my cell phone."
"Look, why don't I continue the search here," he said gently, taking my elbow and steering me back to the car. "That way you can go back in case she calls or comes back to Vegas."
"But I need to be here," I protested. "I'm an investigator, it's what I do. I stand the best chance of finding her. I know what sorts of things she likes, dislikes. Did you know she's a vegetarian now?" Terry shook his head, bemused. "Nobody else knows her like I do."
"Yeah, maybe," he acceded, "but I know my neighbors. Some strange guy from out of town comes knocking on their door with a photo of Sara Sidle, they might not tell him anything. Me, they know. Me, they'd talk to."
I cocked my head. He had a point. "You can help!"
"What?"
"I'll go door-to-door, and you can come with me."
"But-"
"Yeah," I said, warming to the idea. "You can be a sort of ambassador."
"But-"
"Introduce me around, vouch for me, say I'm a good guy..."
"But I..." He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ground.
I froze suddenly. It was as if my brain had been jogging ten feet behind us during the conversation. By the time it caught up with me, out of breath and flummoxed and gasping out the message, I'd already come up with it myself. "Hey Terry?"
"Yeah?"
"I never told you I was from Vegas."
He kept staring at the ground. "Sure you did."
"No. I didn't."
He lived alone, in that big old house.
All alone.
"I must have just guessed by your Nevada plates," he said, still not looking up. "Everyone in Nevada lives in Vegas, right?"
The neighbors were far away.
No one could hear her scream.
"Where is she, Terry?"