Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
It looked like fresh paint or some kind of heavy pollen, sticky and thick against the silver metal.
“What did you hit?” I asked, pointing to the yellow stain.
Vince glanced down at the bumper, his hand dropping to his pocket where his brass key ring jingled.
“Must have brushed against a low sign down by the county road,” Vince said, kicking the front tire with his boot. “The state road crews have been painting the guardrails yellow all week.”
“I did not think they used that bright of a shade,” I said, reaching out to touch the sticky residue.
“They use whatever is cheap,” Vince said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Do not worry about the truck. It will run when we need it to.”
He turned the key, and the engine roared to life with its familiar, raspy rattle.
I stood back as the exhaust blew a grey cloud over the dry grass.
Vince leaned out the window, looking at Patrick who was still standing by the kitchen porch steps.