Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
I opened the car door, the hinges letting out a dry groan that seemed to echo off the high stone walls of the pit. The damp air of the quarry floor smelled of wet clay and decaying leaves, a heavy, stagnant scent that lingered in the shadows of the high stone ledges.
The man in the slicker stopped ten yards away, his boots sinking slightly into the damp grey gravel. He did not look at me directly, keeping his chin tucked down into the collar of the yellow coat.
“You are late,” he said, trying to flatten his voice into a gravelly whisper, but the raspy Ohio drawl came through anyway.
“I wanted to make sure we were alone,” I said, pausing between my words to keep my voice from shaking. “The road is quiet this time of day.”
He took a step closer, his eyes hidden behind the dark plastic lenses, but his mouth was set in a tight, nervous line. He did not look like a kidnapper or a desperate criminal; he looked like a man who had spent too many nights staring at unpaid bills on a kitchen table.
