Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
Patrick scrambled down the steep clay bank before I could stop him, his sneakers sliding on the loose gravel and dry weeds.
“Patrick, slow down,” I called out, my voice sounding thin against the wide space of the fields.
He was already standing at the mouth of the concrete pipe, his hand pressed against the rusted iron bars of the gate. The water in the creek was low, barely reaching our ankles, but the concrete pipe of the culvert was dark and went back thirty feet under the road.
Patrick was breathing hard, his hand trembling as he held his sister’s pocket watch. The silver case of the watch was cold against his palm, reflecting the grey sky.
The lower corner of the grate was warped, peeled back from the concrete wall like the lid of a tin can.
“There is something caught in the rusted hinge,” Patrick said, his voice rising with that eager, breathless speed. “Dad, look.”
I climbed down the bank, the mud sucking at the soles of my work boots.
