Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
I turned and walked out of the cottage, the air outside smelling of hot dust and cut clover. Clara followed me closely, her boots crunching on the gravel as we reached the Buick.
“We have to go to the bank,” I said, my hand shaking as I turned the ignition key. “Your father is already there.”
We drove into town without another word, the county road stretching out gray and empty under the afternoon sky. George was waiting in his sedan in the corner of the bank parking lot, his window rolled down three inches.
I parked next to him and got out, my knees feeling weak as I approached his side of the car. George cleared his throat loudly, a sound that always meant he had already made up his mind about something difficult.
“Miller would not help?” George asked, his hands resting on the top of the steering wheel.
“He said the files are locked up,” I said, leaning against the warm metal of his door. “Dad, we need the retirement certificate.”
