Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“The photo is real, Vince,” I said, though my own voice lacked the certainty I wanted him to hear.
Clara came out onto the porch, her wire-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of her nose as she looked at our cousin.
She was wearing a yellow sleeveless dress that she usually saved for church, but her face was grim.
“There is fresh coffee inside if you want a cup, Vince,” she said, her southern drawl quiet but flat.
“No, thank you, Aunt Clara,” Vince said, standing up quickly and smoothing his jeans. “I actually came by to see if Patrick wanted some help down in the garden.”
He looked toward the side yard where the ruined patch lay under the morning light.
“He has been trying to clear them on his own since sunrise,” I said.
“A twelve-year-old shouldn’t be doing that kind of heavy hauling alone,” Vince said, already stepping down the porch steps.
I followed him down the path, the damp smell of river mud drifting up from the creek behind the barn.
