and she and Christopher were fighting over it. He’d been reading it, or so she’d thought.”
“Then I’ll keep looking for it.”
They put the papers and book away and ate supper out on a deck shaded by lush trees. The day had been hot, but there was a breeze as Abigail looked out across the rolling hills and valleys. The sun was setting and the air was golden and filled with the sounds of summer insects. Far in the distance she could see woods and tiny houses. The steaks were delicious, the company was pleasant, and the scenery was captivating.
“That view was the reason I bought this piece of property and built here.” Frank noticed where her attention was. “I’d spent too many years staring at concrete and steel, alleyways and people in their cardboard boxes. Jolene really loved the city. But when she was gone I wanted my final years spent enjoying trees and sky.”
She could understand that, she felt the same way and told him so as they lounged on the deck and watched the sun set and night creep into its place. In the soft glow of Tiki lamps they ate ice cream for dessert, talked and played with Frank’s German shepherds, which he’d finally let out, as they romped around on the deck with them.
“You really miss your wife, don’t you?” She couldn’t help but ask.
“Every second of every day. But it’s better than it was. I don’t bawl as often. Coming back home and building this house was my way of healing. Like the writing.”
She was unable to imagine this man besides her crying. Not many men would admit to such a weakness. “By the way, how’s the book coming and what made you want to write one?”
“It’s nearly finished and, believe it or not, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But being a cop paid better and had retirement benefits. I’d been writing on this book for years, a little at a time, long before I retired. Being a detective I’ve seen so many crimes go unsolved that solving one of them in a book gives me great satisfaction. Even if I don’t get it perfectly right, it makes a good story.”
“And me,” Abigail murmured, “I’ve spent so many years clocking in for a paycheck, now I just want to do my art because it makes me happy.”
“You remind me of Emily when you talk like that. The memories of her are coming back more often now. She had to make a living but she dreamed of taking college art classes or going to art school someday. Of being a real artist. She was good. I saw some of her drawings.”
“You think of Emily often, huh?”
“Only lately. You started it with all your questions.” Frank cleared his throat. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t want to spoil our dinner, but I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own. I have a police buddy back in Chicago, my old partner, Sam Kako, and I had him do a computer search on Emily and her kids. See if they were ever spotted or heard from again after 1970. Any paper trails.”
“And?”
“Not a trace. Sam also contacted the DMV and there’s been no license renewal for Emily Summers since 1968–in any state. She could have remarried, I know, changed her name, but Sam did a credit search, too…no credit card receipts, not even a credit application is on the record. And here’s the clincher. There are no school records for the kids, nothing. Ever. Not under Summers or Brown, which is their biological father’s last name. Sam did a worldwide missing person’s search and there’s no paper trail for any of them.”
Abigail wondered what that meant.
“Unless they went underground and changed their names,” Frank went on, “it seems more likely now that something happened to them. They didn’t run away, Abby, they really disappeared.”
“After Sam did the computer search and came up cold, he did one on Todd Brown, the kids’ father, and located him. Made a telephone call and discovered that Brown never saw Emily or his kids alive again after that summer either. He
“Then I’ll keep looking for it.”
They put the papers and book away and ate supper out on a deck shaded by lush trees. The day had been hot, but there was a breeze as Abigail looked out across the rolling hills and valleys. The sun was setting and the air was golden and filled with the sounds of summer insects. Far in the distance she could see woods and tiny houses. The steaks were delicious, the company was pleasant, and the scenery was captivating.
“That view was the reason I bought this piece of property and built here.” Frank noticed where her attention was. “I’d spent too many years staring at concrete and steel, alleyways and people in their cardboard boxes. Jolene really loved the city. But when she was gone I wanted my final years spent enjoying trees and sky.”
She could understand that, she felt the same way and told him so as they lounged on the deck and watched the sun set and night creep into its place. In the soft glow of Tiki lamps they ate ice cream for dessert, talked and played with Frank’s German shepherds, which he’d finally let out, as they romped around on the deck with them.
“You really miss your wife, don’t you?” She couldn’t help but ask.
“Every second of every day. But it’s better than it was. I don’t bawl as often. Coming back home and building this house was my way of healing. Like the writing.”
She was unable to imagine this man besides her crying. Not many men would admit to such a weakness. “By the way, how’s the book coming and what made you want to write one?”
“It’s nearly finished and, believe it or not, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But being a cop paid better and had retirement benefits. I’d been writing on this book for years, a little at a time, long before I retired. Being a detective I’ve seen so many crimes go unsolved that solving one of them in a book gives me great satisfaction. Even if I don’t get it perfectly right, it makes a good story.”
“And me,” Abigail murmured, “I’ve spent so many years clocking in for a paycheck, now I just want to do my art because it makes me happy.”
“You remind me of Emily when you talk like that. The memories of her are coming back more often now. She had to make a living but she dreamed of taking college art classes or going to art school someday. Of being a real artist. She was good. I saw some of her drawings.”
“You think of Emily often, huh?”
“Only lately. You started it with all your questions.” Frank cleared his throat. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t want to spoil our dinner, but I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own. I have a police buddy back in Chicago, my old partner, Sam Kako, and I had him do a computer search on Emily and her kids. See if they were ever spotted or heard from again after 1970. Any paper trails.”
“And?”
“Not a trace. Sam also contacted the DMV and there’s been no license renewal for Emily Summers since 1968–in any state. She could have remarried, I know, changed her name, but Sam did a credit search, too…no credit card receipts, not even a credit application is on the record. And here’s the clincher. There are no school records for the kids, nothing. Ever. Not under Summers or Brown, which is their biological father’s last name. Sam did a worldwide missing person’s search and there’s no paper trail for any of them.”
Abigail wondered what that meant.
“Unless they went underground and changed their names,” Frank went on, “it seems more likely now that something happened to them. They didn’t run away, Abby, they really disappeared.”
“After Sam did the computer search and came up cold, he did one on Todd Brown, the kids’ father, and located him. Made a telephone call and discovered that Brown never saw Emily or his kids alive again after that summer either. He
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