Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“It was Vince,” I said, the words falling flat in the quiet room.
George looked up from the table, his brow furrowing. “What did you say, Andrew?”
“The yellow on his bumper,” I said. “It was not paint. It was sunflower pollen from our own garden.”
Clara adjusted her glasses again, her hand stopping in mid-air. “Andrew, are you sure?”
“He was the only one who came by this morning,” I said. “He was the one who offered to help clean up the stalks before we could examine the ground.”
“He wanted to clear the tracks,” George said, his hand closing into a fist on the table.
Patrick looked between us, his face pale and confused. “No. Vince is helping us. He said we have to stick together.”
“Patrick, look at the collarbone,” I said gently.
“It is her,” Patrick screamed, his voice shaking the quiet of the kitchen. “She is alive!”
“She is gone, Patrick,” I said. “She has been gone for six years.”
“She is not,” Patrick said, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
