“Second story,” Sergeant Taylor commented without getting full clarification. “Could be either a kidnapping or a runaway.”
“Cami wouldn’t even ride the Ferris wheel at the county fair. I doubt she would be brave enough to climb out of her bedroom window.” Reed scoffed on the other line, and Sergeant Taylor glanced at Emil, who had his face in his hands as he stared at the floor, deep in thought.
“Any clues she was unhappy at home?” Sergeant Taylor asked.
“None. In fact, she was excited for my wedding that fall. I was supposed to marry my long-time girlfriend, Josephine,” Reed spoke. “She had just gotten her bridesmaid dress fitted.”
“Supposed to?” Sergeant Taylor asked as she jotted down the tidbit of information.
“Well, the wedding has been on hold with Cami’s disappearance and the death of my parents.” Reed’s voice grew quiet. “It’s just me now. I buried both of them in the span of a few months. I don’t want my big day to happen without my baby sister, and Josephine understands that.”
Sergeant Taylor bit her lip as Emil wiped the sweat from his brow. She shot him one glance to see if he was all right, and he nodded in response.
“I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m also sorry we can’t confirm this is your sister, but we’re doing all we can,” Sergeant Taylor replied.
“I understand, and you have my gratitude.” Reed’s voice echoed through the line, trailing off before continuing. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are the next steps here?”
Sergeant Taylor sighed, resting her chin in her left hand. “Well, we have a suspect. That’s how we started navigating down this path of the story. Once we can fit together a better timeline and confirm identities, the next step is putting a BOLO on the license plate.”
Emil shot her a warning glance. Too much information. She had disclosed more than she should have as a cop, and thenewbie seemed to know better than her. Sergeant Taylor’s eyes widened, and she cleared her throat. “Let’s backtrack on that, though. You have my number, so please call if you can provide any other information in the meantime, and we’ll stay in touch.”
Sergeant Taylor and Reed exchanged the best ways to reach each other before hanging up the phone, and Emil cleared his throat before groaning in frustration. “That was risky, Sarg. You better hope he isn’t the type to take matters into his own hands before we catch the guy. What were you thinking, giving him the man’s name?”
Chapter 25 – May 23, 1994 – Camille
May in Northern Wisconsin was worlds away from May in Mississippi. Still warm, but not nearly as humid. It was downright bearable compared to what I knew.
The river bubbled nearby as I swung my legs on the porch steps, watching Erich curse as he toyed with something underneath the car. He was on his back on the ground with a flashlight and a wrench. The Nova had been making strange sounds for a few days, and after our trip to the grocery store, Erich decided it was time to play mechanic.
The sun beat down over our peaceful five acres of trees. I wore distressed jean shorts, which gave away my pale legs, and a baggy, light brown, bleach-stained “Miller Lite” T-shirt with a ducktail I tied in the back so it would fit better. My hair was tied up in a messy bun, and I debated using the opportunity to get some color in my fair skin while I waited for Erich to tell meto hold the flashlight or something equally simple compared to what he was doing underneath the car.
“All good down there?” I called out from my shaded seat on the steps.
Erich mumbled in response, and I leaned forward to see if I could catch a glimpse of what exactly he was doing. All I could see were his boots and the bottoms of his jeans from where I was, even if I tilted my head sideways. “Fucking… goddamn it.” He voiced louder, and my lips turned up in a humorous smile.
“Do you know what’s wrong yet?” I asked before the ominous “clank,” presumably of the wrench hitting something it shouldn’t have. The flashlight was turned off, and my roommate emerged from underneath the vehicle, his jeans covered in damp brown dirt and car grease. Earlier in the day, he ripped the sleeves off his already distressed white T-shirt so he wouldn’t overheat underneath the car, but it wasn’t helping much. The sweat and oil mingled together and smudged his face. I could see the drops of sweat beading on his forehead from where I sat, causing his hair to stick to his temples.
Erich got to his feet and grabbed the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing his glistening chest and the fading black ink of the tattoo I had seen once before. “Should be fixed,” he answered through the staining white cotton.
“I’m curious. Where did you learn how to fix cars? I have a feeling Mystique has never held a wrench in her life.” I crossed my legs at the ankles and reached for the pitcher of lemonade I had made an hour earlier. I poured it into the two glasses and held one out to him, hoping it would be tempting enough that he’d take a break before he overheated or ditched the shirt altogether and summoned an army of thirsty Wisconsin women armed with six-packs of Leinenkugel Honey Weiss who might be tubing down our part of the river that afternoon.
Erich’s breathing came off labored as he sat down on the porch next to me, accepting my glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. I could feel the heat coming off him in waves, and his white shirt was starting to soak through from the sweat. “You’re right,” was all he said before he took a sip.
“So…” I trailed off, waiting for the rest of the answer.
He raised an eyebrow, the glass still at his lips as his steely eyes watched me through thirsty gulps. The chirping of cicadas was drowned out by the flow of the river, and the heavy thud of the glass as Erich drained it and set it on the porch. “It started with tractors.”
“What?” I asked, gently holding my own glass as I fought back a giggle.
“I worked on tractors.” His breathing was becoming less heavy as he leaned forward, clasping his hands on his knees. A few locks of hair freed themselves from his sticky forehead, falling forward with the movement. A drop of sweat rolled from his cheek and fell to the bottom step.
“I would’ve never guessed.” I tapped my foot gently as I enjoyed the sickly sweet citrus drink in my hand. “You don’t look like a farmer.”
“I’m not,” he confirmed.
“You’re really bad at this,” I pointed out, feeling my own temples succumb to the unusual heat of a late May day. “It’s been a year. Tell me about farm life already.”
Erich snorted, lifting his head up before unclasping his hands and flicking my forehead. “A year and you haven’t learned the art of dropping it.”
