Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“You are making a mistake, Andrew,” he said, still trying to keep his voice low, though the disguise was already falling apart under the weight of his own name. “You do not know who you are dealing with.”
“The only mistake was trusting you when you came to the garden on Friday morning with those mud-stained boots,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pressing the small plastic button on the recorder. “We knew it was you before we even left the house today.”
A faint click came from my jacket fabric, but Vince was too busy watching the Buick to notice. His eyes darted from the steering wheel to the back seat, searching for any sign of another passenger.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” he said, taking a half-step backward toward the creek path, his boots slipping on the loose stone. “I came down here because I saw your car.”
“We found the white satin ribbon in your kitchen drawer, Vince,” I said, my voice dead and level. “The exact same ribbon you used to tie that white box to the sunflower stalk.”
