“Did you know Gemma well?”
“We were never all that close. I think it had to do with that no-good Marissa wanting to keep her away from the good witches. Why do you ask?”
“She went to live with her aunt and uncle and I’m concerned about her. Her phone goes straight to voicemail and I haven’t heard from her in days. Do you happen to know where they live?”
“The Amish aunt and uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“I believe in Lancaster. That’s as narrowed down as I can get. She mentioned going there for the holidays before.”
“Thank you! And would you happen to know their names?”
“All I know is their last name is Fisher. Sorry I can’t help more.”
“That helps a lot. At least I know where to start looking.” Granted, Lancaster has over thirty thousand Amish in it, but still. It’s a start.
“She mentioned an old schoolhouse before. It was built in the early 1800s and you can pay to take a tour of it now. I think she lived near there. Does that help?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“When you find her, give her this.” Lyra takes a beaded crystal necklace from around her neck and hands it to me. “It’ll help guide her home.”
“Thanks. Let’s hope it works.”
“Yes. She belongs in the city with people who understand her.”
“It has to be rough living with people who don’t understand different beliefs.” My mind goes to Jared, and I’m glad I reached out.
“It’s more than not understanding,” Lyra says quietly, as if she’s afraid someone will overhear her badmouthing Gemma’s family. I’m the only one in here. “They’re a very religious people and probably not the most tolerant.”
“Poor Gemma.” I make a face, feeling more and more like this is time-sensitive. “Thanks again.”
“If you find her…try to get her to come back.”
“I will,” I say, thinking that won’t be hard to do.
* * *
I close my computer,having narrowed down Gemma’s possible location to two places that offer schoolhouse tours. I’m about a two-hour drive away, less if traffic isn’t bad, and I figure it’ll take a few hours of driving and walking around until I find Gemma. I should be back before sunset, but just in case, I rip a sheet of paper out of a notebook and leave the guys a note.
I go upstairs and grab my gun and badge as well as a sage smudge stick. The same weird feeling comes over me, compelling me to check on the runes. The thought of someone taking the guys from me is more than I can bear. I’ve grown to love them all so fucking much.
I tape the note to the inside of the basement door and turn on a light in the kitchen just in case I’m not back in time. The guys can see in the dark with no issues, but this way it’ll look like someone is home. I eat lunch before I leave, looking up anything I can find about Lynn. With her death being several years ago, her Facebook account has been deactivated by someone, and I only find her name tagged in a few social media posts. She seemed pretty normal and not psychotic.
Then I go to her boyfriend’s Facebook profile and he seems normal too…normal for a douchebag twenty-something-year-old who thinks people actually admire his “no regrets” back tattoo. He posts a lot on Facebook, making it difficult to sift back through his old photos.
Difficult, but not impossible. I click through photo after photo, going back through the years until I find a photo of him and Lynn. The last one he posted of her was three weeks after her death, with the caption “I miss you baby” followed by a broken heart emoji. Slower this time, I flip forward until I find a photo of him with a new girl, taken two months after Lynn’s death. Now, I know everyone grieves in their own time, but the over-showcasing of PDA and the super cheesy caption makes me raise a brow.
Taking all emotion out of this, there’s no way I can prove her boyfriend is a bad person, let alone a killer. Finishing my sandwich, I close my computer, put my dishes in the sink, and grab a water bottle from the fridge. I twist off the cap as I walk to the front door, double checking the lock before heading out.
* * *
It’safternoon by the time I get to Lancaster thanks to traffic and road construction. According to my GPS, I’m getting close to the schoolhouse. I slow, passing a horse and buggy, getting waved at by smiling kids in the back of the buggy. I wave back, impressed with how calm the horse is.
Mom loved horses. I took riding lessons the summer before she died, and was supposed to start up again in the spring. I go another mile or two and get into what I think is the tourist part of Amish Country. I’m half a mile away from a place that offers buggy rides. Maybe I stereotyped a little too much, because things look way more up to date than I expected.
I pull onto a gravel driveway and park in a lot outside a large white barn. It’s really pretty here, and the quiet hush of the country is peaceful. But hey—I get that quietness at my place, too. There’s another car in the lot next to me, and a family gets out and starts taking pictures.
