Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“I needed the money, Andrew,” he said, his raspy voice cracking on the last word. “You do not know the kind of people who are calling my house. They are not local. They do not care about the farm.”
“From your own family?” I asked. “You took forty thousand dollars from George and Clara?”
“I knew you had the cash, Andrew, and you did not need it,” he said, his face turning a dark, mottled red as he took another step forward, his hands raised in a gesture that was half plea and half threat. “You have been sitting on those savings bonds for years. George has more in the bank than he can ever spend before he goes.”
The gravel shifted behind the rusted sorting shack, a heavy, deliberate sound of leather soles on stone.
My father, George, stepped out from behind the pile of limestone screenings, his stern face set like concrete under his grease-stained cap. His hands were tucked into his belt, but his shoulders were square and unyielding.
