Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“A picture does not mean anything,” Vince said, his voice raspy and low. “People find old photos in drawers every day.”
“Not in a box tied to our sunflower stalk, Vince,” I said, pausing to let the words settle.
Vince shrugged, his eyes darting toward the window. “I am just saying. It looks like a scam to me. Some internet trick.”
“How could they know about the sunflowers?” Patrick asked, his voice sharp. “Nobody knew we planted them every year except family.”
Vince tapped his key ring faster. “Maybe someone saw you from the road. You guys are out there every August.”
The photo was clean, without a single speck of dust on the white border. I looked at the quality of the image, noting how the lighting cast soft, even shadows behind her head, like a portrait taken in a professional studio.
It did not look like a quick snapshot taken on a roadside.
“This is not a regular Polaroid,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked, looking up at me with desperate eyes.
