Beneath Blackwater River by Leslie Wolfe (love story books to read txt) 📕

Still squinting, Kay recognized the fuzzy slippers first, the woman’s face still hidden against the powerful glare. She exhaled and took her hand off her Sig. “Martha, what are you doing outside in this cold?” It was the second time the woman had snuck up on her. She had an innate talent for stealth, despite her age and large body.

The woman smiled widely, stepping in front of the beam of light coming from the car. “Not to worry, dearie, I have this shawl, I knitted it myself.” She extended a trembling hand and Kay squeezed it. “I couldn’t let you leave without saying hello.” She stared at the door that barely hung on its hinges, then shot Kay an inquisitive look.

“You shouldn’t be out here in the dark,” Kay said, knowing her words were falling on deaf ears, wasted on the woman who’d willingly risked her life and health just for the thrill Kay’s presence there meant. “And you should never sneak up on a cop. That could be dangerous.”

“You’re going inside, aren’t you?” Martha asked, rubbing her hands together. Kay wasn’t sure if her excitement or the biting cold was to blame. “I’m so happy,” she said, then touched the corner of her eye to swipe a tear that contradicted her statement. “Someone is actually interested to find out what happened with poor Rose, that sweet little child.”

“We won’t rest until we find out what happened to Rose,” Kay said, her words gentle yet determined, followed by a hint of a sad smile. The best of her efforts could prove too little, too late.

Kay opened the door and entered, glad to see the smell wasn’t much worse than she’d sensed outside. Musty, cold, with hints of rotting wood and moist soil, just like fresh-picked mushrooms would smell. She focused her flashlight on the room, checking every corner, looking for animals that could pounce or signs that the structure might collapse, but it seemed to be safe to enter.

Walking through each room, Kay slowly, carefully, noticed every object, every piece of furniture or clothing, every item that had been left behind.

“She didn’t take her things, poor Shelley,” Martha said, startling Kay again. She thought she’d left the woman outside, by the car, but she was right there, one step behind her, silently watching her work. “She dropped down one day, and that was it. They sealed the place up and didn’t care. I emptied the fridge and took the trash out, because I thought she’d be a while and then she’d come back. I never thought she’d—” A stifled sob took the air out of her lungs. “I miss her, you know. Her mother was my best friend. Shelley was like a daughter to me.”

Dirty dishes were still piled up in the kitchen sink, and Kay’s flashlight caused panic among some insects who disappeared in an instant behind the edges of the counter. Some of the cabinets were still open, as if Shelley had been taken away in the midst of cooking dinner.

Clothes littered the living room sofa, and the dining room table was cluttered with old bills, a set of keys, and a red scarf, too small to be an adult’s.

“This was Rose’s,” Martha offered, seeing the flashlight beam lingering on the item. “Shelley made that for her. She, um, was hoping the cops would bring the police dogs to trace her, but they never came. She was going to give this scarf to the dog to sniff, because she wore it just before she went to bed that night. Rose liked the shiny fabric, and she wore it everywhere, even if it was summer.”

“Which room was Rose’s bedroom?”

“This one,” Martha replied, her voice perking up. Seemingly delighted to be of use, she pointed toward the first bedroom, and Kay opened the door slowly, repeating the earlier routine and checking every corner for possible perils. Then she stepped inside and turned toward Martha. “Let me finish here first, then you can join me.”

“Okay,” Martha replied. “I know why. I watch crime shows on TV.”

The child’s room still showed the love Shelley and Elroy had had for their little girl. The bed was dressed in matching sheets and pillowcases with cartoon characters, decayed and fraught by the passing of time. If Kay would’ve touched them, they would’ve probably disintegrated. A sketch of Mickey Mouse had been painted on one of the walls, the round ears of the character fuzzy from the cobwebs that extended down from the corners of the room. From the ceiling lamp hung a baby mobile with animal shapes, handcrafted by Shelley most likely.

“She loved that mobile,” Martha clarified from the doorway. “Shelley wanted to give it away, but Rose wouldn’t let her.”

Kay approached the window, where stains left by fingerprint powder had been covered by a thick layer of dust. Detective Scott—or whoever had run forensics on that crime scene—had only looked on the inside of the windowsill for prints, not outside.

Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Kay unlocked the window. The sash slid with ease up and down, sending particles of dust swirling in the beam of her flashlight. Behind the glass panel, a mosquito screen was attached, its frame held in place by the fiberboard that covered the window on the outside.

Kay went outside of the house and removed the board from the bedroom window, then shone the light onto that screen frame. It barely stood in place, and she could remove it with two fingers. Then, just as effortlessly, she snapped it back in position.

If she’d had to kidnap the kid sleeping in that bedroom, it would have only been too simple. The screen was easy to remove, the window lifted effortlessly. Shelley remembered she’d left the window open just an inch, and that meant it hadn’t been locked. All the kidnapper needed to know was which room Rose slept in.

She studied the