Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
He scrambled to his feet, knocking his heavy oak chair sideways. The legs scraped hard against the wood floor, but he did not look back. He bolted through the kitchen door, throwing it open so hard it banged against the outer siding of the back porch.
I stood up, but my knees felt like water, and I had to lean my palm against the table to steady myself.
“Let him go for a minute, Andrew,” George said, clearing his throat loudly before he spoke. “He needs to clear his head.”
“He is headed for the garden,” I said.
I did not wait for my father to answer. I walked out after my son, my work boots heavy on the porch steps.
On the porch bench, Vince’s heavy iron garden shears sat in a small wooden crate, left behind from when he had offered to help us clear the stalks. I glanced at them but did not stop.
The afternoon air was thick and heavy, smelling of the damp river mud from the county road pond down the hill.
