Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“They did not look at the culvert gate,” Clara said. “They assumed the gate was clear because the county road crew had cleaned the debris two weeks before.”
“Let us go see it,” Patrick said, his voice rising with that eager speed. “We can drive there right now. It is only two miles.”
I looked at Clara, who gave a slow, single nod of her head, and we walked out of the library into the late afternoon light.
The drive back to the county road was quiet, the truck tires humming against the hot asphalt. Patrick leaned his head against the passenger window, his eyes fixed on the passing fields of young corn.
We parked on the gravel shoulder just before the bridge, where the road dipped slightly toward the pasture. The damp smell of river mud rose from the creek bed, thick and heavy in the evening air.
The clay of the bank was dry on top, but near the water it turned slick and dark, matching the color of the river mud. My boots sank two inches into the wet earth as I reached the bottom.
