Cold Death by Mary Stone (best e reader for android TXT) 📕

of his finger, he shut off the stereo and reveled in the silence that followed. Music was usually a constant companion in his SUV, but Clay couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so exhausted. Physically? Sure, but not emotionally. If someone informed him that he and Luke had covered half the state visiting soup kitchens over the past couple of days, he’d believe them. But the driving was only a tiny part of the fatigue.

Failure was by far the larger component weighing him down. Each time he and Luke showed up and checked a soup kitchen off their list without coming closer to finding Caraleigh, a little more hope died.

What happened when they reached the end of the list with no sign of his sister?

The light changed, and Clay swung the SUV into the left turn. The buildings that lined the streets here had gradually turned seedier, with weed patches growing through cracks in the sidewalk and trash collecting in the gutters. Near the end of the block, he pulled into an empty spot by the curb and switched off the engine.

“Here we are.” The soup kitchen was located in a warehouse just ahead. Luke gazed out the passenger window without speaking, and Clay turned to the man, concerned. “How are you holding up?”

He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. Luke hadn’t uttered a single word since noon that day, right after another unsuccessful visit. Clay wasn’t too concerned. Thinking back, Caraleigh used to go nonverbal every once in a blue moon too, especially when she was overstimulated and overtired. It was almost like her operating system was powering into recovery mode.

Clay resisted the urge to reach over and pat Luke’s arm or offer any other physical comfort. “I hear you loud and clear. Truth be told, I’m hanging by a thread myself.” He heaved a sigh and studied the building through the bug-splattered windshield. “I’ve spent too many hours to count imagining the moment when I’d find Caraleigh again, in hundreds of different ways. In lots of those fantasies, I fill the hero role and rescue her. In others, she just shows up on my porch out of the blue, or I’m walking down the damn street, and there she is.”

Luke still didn’t say a word, but Clay noticed that his face had relaxed a bit. Taking that as a good sign, he continued to talk, hoping to soothe him even further.

“Half the time, she’s still the same little girl who was at the fair that day she disappeared. The other half of the time, she’s a grown woman who’s the spitting image of those age-progression sketches. The only thing that stays the same in all of my fantasies is that, the second I realize it’s her, I wrap my arms around her, lift her feet off the ground, and swing her in a circle while she squeals with joy.”

He shook his head with a rueful smile and let himself fall deeper into the daydream, talking about how they would spend their reunion and all the places they would go when they were back together.

“Too many movies, probably. I’ve never told anyone that, but I figure you understand better than anyone.”

Clay glanced over to check Luke’s expression and found half his forehead plastered to the passenger window and his lashes fanning his pale cheek. His t-shirt rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

The tight knot in Clay’s chest loosened. “Good for you, buddy. You need sleep even more than I do.”

Writing a quick I’ll be right back note and placing it in Luke’s lap, Clay eased open the door and slipped outside. He hit a button on the remote. The click of the doors locking rang loud in his ears, but Luke didn’t stir.

He pocketed the keys and headed down the weedy sidewalk toward the white building that housed the soup kitchen. When he opened the door, the scent of warm tomatoes hit him first, masking the ripe odors associated with bodies that lacked regular access to showers.

A line snaked out from a series of tables arranged in a row, with big bowls and plates of steaming food heaped atop them buffet style. Servers, young and old, doled out helpings with smiles as the patrons shuffled by, some quiet and hunched while others stood tall as they laughed and chattered with each other and the volunteers.

After performing a quick survey of the faces in line and the ones already seated at the plastic camping tables and coming up short, Clay swayed on his feet as the tiny flame of hope extinguished. He’d been through this same ritual so many times now that he was starting to feel like Don Quixote. Except, unlike the hero in Cervantes’s classic novel, Clay’s folly involved running down soup kitchens rather than windmills.

Buckle up, Lockwood. You know how this works. All it takes is talking to one person, the right person, and this case turns on a dime.

That was the same optimistic line he’d shared with any number of colleagues and families over the years. A truth he still believed. But being so emotionally invested in this case made each aspect about a thousand times more intense and each stumbling block that much more painful.

He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

After two deep breaths to clear his head, Clay shook off his fatalism and was ready to go again. He meandered among the crowd with the sketch of Caraleigh in hand, asking if anyone recognized her.

As usual, a few of the diners refused to interact with Clay or glance at the picture at all, but most were accommodating. The first three who answered studied the image before shaking their heads, so Clay moved on to a gray-haired man wearing a ratty raincoat over a tie-dyed sweatshirt.

The man scratched his scruffy chin. “Yeah, I reckon I’ve seen her around.”

The first time Clay heard that reply, his heart had leapt in his chest. Twenty similar replies later,