Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Patrick,” George said, his voice stern and quiet. “Look at the paper.”
“No,” Patrick said, his chest heaving as he pulled the photo toward his face. “You just want to give up. You always want to give up.”
“We are looking at the truth, son,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.
He pulled away from my touch, his eyes wide and wet.
My mind went back to the driveway, to the image of Vince’s truck bumper with the thick, sticky yellow smear on the chrome.
Vince had said it was paint from the state road crews painting the guardrails down by the county road.
But they hadn’t painted any guardrails yellow this summer. The state road crew only used white paint on the county road signs.
The yellow stain on Vince’s bumper was the exact shade of the sunflower pollen that had coated my hands when we found the broken stalks this morning.
He had driven his truck directly through the tall patch behind the barn to plant the white box on the last standing stalk.
