Her feet had taken her down the steps and around the corner of the house by the time he’d caught up with her.
“Ms. Newton—Sarah—don’t push it. I’m not about to let you break the law,” he cautioned.
At the side of the house, farthest from the street, she crunched through the snow and pressed her face to the nearest window.
Kitchen. Vase after vase of flowers lined the counters.
Her heart skipped a beat, then started to pound frantically.
On the center of the island was the only vase of red roses. A full dozen, at least. Clear glass vase, water almost exhausted. Several of thevelvety heads drooped with the passage of time, but others still stood tall and open. Petals had fallen on the white counter, their deep crimson color like drops of blood.
She faced Conner. “You have to call Chief Willard. There could be prints on the card ... on the vase.” The possibilities raced around in her head. “This may be the only break the investigation gets.”
Conner held up his hands. “Just wait a minute. We don’t know that this means anything.”
But it did. She knew it. Urgency swam through her veins. “Never mind.” She considered what she was about to suggest. Definitely the best strategy. “We can talk to the chief later.” She leveled a take-no-prisoners look on Conner. “We need to go to the Appleton home. Now. If they’ve gotten the roses already ...” She swallowed back the threat of defeat. “It may be too late.”
But they had to try.
The changing expressions on Conner’s face told her he wanted to say no. But the possibility that she was right wouldn’t allow him to.
“All right. But you watch what you say.”
“I understand. Let’s just go.”
The ten-minute drive to Calderwood Lane had her literally suspended on the edge of her seat. Her hand was on the handle, ready to open the door and bail out of the Jeep the instant he stopped.
Two endless miles past the big sign proclaiming Appleton Farms land for as far as the eye could see, he slowed for the turn.
“That’s the grandparents’ home.” He pointed to the rambling farmhouse on the left of the driveway. “Farther back”—he nodded toward the gravel road that served as a secondary drive beyond the paved one—“is where Alicia and her family live.”
As soon as he braked, she was out of the car. She didn’t slow but he caught up with her.
“Remember what I said,” he cautioned as they climbed the steps to the front stoop.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Sarah pressed the doorbell, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Yes?” An older version of the missing girl stared at Sarah a moment before shifting to Conner. “Kale,” she said, acknowledging him personally.
“We’re sorry to bother you, Ms. Appleton,” he said with obvious shame. “This is Sarah Newton, and she’d like to ask you a few questions about Alicia.”
The hesitation that followed prevented Sarah from taking a deep breath. She needed to talk to this lady. She needed to see if red roses had been delivered.
“Ms. Appleton,” Sarah blurted, unable to bear the silence any longer, “there are questions in your daughter’s case that I believe haven’t been thoroughly considered or even raised yet. I’d like to speak to you about those.”
Sarah was surprised that Conner didn’t kick her or dispute her suggestion. His silence and tolerance was all she could ask for.
“All right.” Though clearly disappointed that good news hadn’t arrived, Ms. Appleton stepped back and opened the door wider. “My husband isn’t home right now,” she explained as Sarah and Conner entered her home. “He took the boys in to town for lunch.”
Alicia had two younger brothers who still needed parents. Sarah sympathized with how difficult this must be for them as well. “Thank you,” she said with all the sincerity she could pack into the two impotent words.
The house looked lived in. Big overstuffed furniture, a little worn. Magazines and newspapers lying about. A home where people gathered and enjoyed each other’s company. But it felt empty. Stark and empty. And too quiet.
Like the Gerard home.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Rachel Appleton’s voice was empty of emotion. Her pale, drawn features spoke the same. How did one face the day knowing their child, however old, was missing, possibly dead?
