Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
By nine o’clock Sunday morning, they were locked in the small metal box under the pantry stairs, waiting for the bank to open on Monday.
I sat on the farmhouse porch steps, my boots resting on the gravel, trying to find a breeze in the heavy morning air.
Down by the county road, the water in the pond was still, reflecting the grey Ohio sky like a sheet of old tin.
A gravel-spitting truck turned into our driveway, its rusted muffler rattling louder than usual as it cleared the culvert.
Vince climbed out of the cab, carrying a white cardboard box from the bakery in town.
He walked up the wooden steps with a slow, heavy gait, his brass key ring tapping against his palm with every step.
“I brought those cinnamon rolls from Miller’s,” Vince said, holding out the box.
I looked at the grey grease spot already widening on the cardboard bottom.
“You did not have to do that,” I said, rubbing my left temple where the dull ache was starting again.
