Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Your mother wants us to clear the whole square before the midday heat,” I said.
Patrick paused, leaning his weight against the long wooden handle of the rake.
“Is Vince still in the county jail?” he asked.
I rubbed my left temple, feeling the dull ache that had stayed with me since the quarry.
“He is,” I said.
We worked in silence for ten minutes, piling the split stalks into a heap near the drainage ditch.
My father’s green John Deere tractor rumbled in the south pasture, the sound carrying across the flat county road.
I watched Patrick reach into his pocket to touch the silver pocket watch, his thumb tracing the round casing through the denim.
“We need to get every root out,” I said, digging my spade into the earth near the lone standing stalk.
He nodded and cleared his throat, pulling a thick clod of grass apart with his fingers.
“Are we going to plant the same ones?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
