Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Where are the flowers, Andrew?” she asked, her Southern drawl turning sharp.
“Cut down,” I said, setting the box on the porch table. “Every single one except the stalk this was tied to.”
My father, George, stepped out onto the porch, clearing his throat loudly as he surveyed the damage from the top step. His stern eyes locked onto the white cardboard.
“Did you see anyone on the road last night?” George asked.
“Nobody,” I said, shaking my head. “The dog did not even bark.”
“Let us take it into the kitchen,” Clara said, her quiet tone carrying a firm authority that stopped Patrick from reaching for the ribbon.
Inside the kitchen, under the hum of the window air conditioner, we set the box on the yellow linoleum table. Clara adjusted her glasses, leaning down to study the neat, tight knot of the satin ribbon.
“There is no name on it,” Clara said. “No postmark, no writing at all.”
A heavy step sounded on the gravel outside, and through the window I saw my cousin, Vince, walking up the garden path. He was tapping his brass key ring against his palm, a rhythmic metallic clicking that always set my teeth on edge.
As Vince reached the porch, I noticed the thick, wet river mud caked around the soles of his leather boots. It was the same dark clay that lined the banks of the county road pond, but I remained quiet.
“Hey, Uncle George,” Vince said, his voice raspy and low as he stepped into the kitchen. “I saw the patch from the road. Some real jerks must have done that. You want me to get my shears and help clean up the stalks?”
“We are not worried about the stalks right now, Vince,” George said, his short sentence cutting off the offer.
