by Rita Herron
Loyalty to her adoptive parents warred with her need for the truth about herself. How could she know where to go in life if she didn’t know where she’d come from?
Inside the café, noisy children and excited families filled the tables. She spotted Vanessa Morely, a former classmate and the only real friend she’d had in elementary school, seated across from her daughter Mandy. A flicker of sadness washed through Ellie that they’d parted ways. At ten, Vera was pushing Ellie toward the Little Miss Bluff County pageant, but she’d balked. Instead, she had been infatuated with mystery books and the history of the area. When Vanessa’s grandmother entered her in the pageant, Vera commented that the girl wasn’t pageant material. It not only caused a rift between the families, but it hurt Vanessa. After that she wasn’t allowed to come to Ellie’s, and their friendship had fallen apart.
She considered saying hello, but Mandy slammed her fork down, rattling dishes, and Ellie realized the mother and daughter were arguing.
Turning away, she focused on her surroundings. In contrast with the morbid scenes of the day before, red, white and blue streamers adorned the interior and a sign detailed the upcoming Fourth of July parade festivities. Flyers advertising a book called Mind Games written by a local author sat on the counter, highlighting that the bookstore had just gotten in copies.
Lola, the owner of the café, pushed a cup of coffee in front of her and handed Ellie her standing order, a bag with a sausage and cheese biscuit. The ladies from the local garden club, Carol Sue from the Beauty Barn, and the Stitchin’ Sisters who owned the quilt shop, had gathered at a round table to the left.
Knowing they were friends with Meddlin’ Maude, who’d run a smear campaign against Ellie for not stopping the Weekday Killer before he murdered her granddaughter, Ellie handed Lola cash, then took her bag and headed back outside.
We have to prove to the town we care about them, her father had said. This is our home.
It was hers, and she had to remember that. Had to keep her head high and do her job.
Impatience tugged at her as she slipped into her Jeep, sipped her coffee and wolfed down her breakfast. Taking a deep breath, she called the social worker’s office. A woman answered on the second ring.
“This is Analise Hoberton. Detective Reeves?”
“Yes, I was calling for Gillian Roach,” Ellie said, clenching the phone.
“I know. I’m her receptionist and listened to your message.” Her voice cracked a notch. “I thought maybe you had news about her.”
Ellie frowned. “What do you mean? You thought I might have news?”
The woman’s breath rattled out. “Well, I’ve been worried about her. Last Thursday, she packed up her things and hurried out of here and I haven’t heard from her since. I tried calling her home number, but she didn’t answer. That’s not like her. She had several appointments scheduled this week and hasn’t bothered to cancel or reschedule them.”
The hair on the back of Ellie’s neck prickled. “You said she left suddenly?”
“Yes, she’d just gotten off the phone, and she looked upset. She grabbed her computer and some files and ran out the door like something was wrong.”
“Does she always take files with her?”
“Never.”
“Does she have family?”
“No, she lives alone. Once, she commented that dealing with the troubled families we work with disturbed her too much to have one of her own.”
Families just like the one Ellie had come from.
8
Cleveland, Georgia
Ellie’s gut instincts warned her that Gillian Roach was in trouble. Ellie had done her homework on the agency. Raintree Family Services offered counseling, respite care, foster care and adoptions. And dealing with troubled families meant dealing with questionable characters.
Questions nagged at her as she maneuvered the curving mountain road toward the social worker’s address. Fruit stands, signs for boiled peanuts, and outbuildings hosting flea markets dotted the rural landscape. The small town of Cleveland was nestled in the North Georgia mountains and decorated with ribbons, banners and signs about its own upcoming Independence Day celebration.
She almost missed the turn-off for the cabins where Gillian lived, and had to swerve at the last minute, skimming the edge of the road as she swung left. Gravel spewed from her tires as they chugged over the rutted road, which seemed to disappear into the overgrown foliage. The sharp switchbacks slowed her, and her ears popped as she climbed the steep mountain.
Three miles in and she spotted a sign for the cabins built along the Chattahoochee River, where wildflowers sprang up amidst the greenery.
Passing three log cabins, Ellie reached the end of the dirt road and turned down a mile-long drive. The A-frame house looked old and weathered. An old ringer washing machine had been turned into a planter, filled with red, purple and pink impatiens, and birds flitted through the trees.
Ellie shivered at the sheer isolation of the house and the crows circling above the chimney. Why had Gillian chosen to live out here alone?
Slowing her Jeep, Ellie pulled to a stop, the uneasiness inside her intensifying.
Once she opened that door, she could never go back.
9
Moody Hollow
Seventeen-year-old Jerry Otterman and his buddies had been looking forward to summer break all year long. Now the Fourth was almost here, he and Will Huntington had decided to celebrate by hiking to the waterfalls at Moody Hollow.
His backpack on his back, a six pack of beer tucked inside, Jerry hiked through the woods, batting at mosquitoes and scratching at the bug bites he’d gotten last night sleeping on the ground. He could smell smoke, which meant there had to be a fire burning a couple of miles from them.
The heat was a bitch, but the ice-cold Chattahoochee River would feel great. They’d already dived into the swimming hole where teens gathered in the summer to jump off the high cliff into the water below.
His mama said he was a thrill seeker. His daddy said he was a loser.
They’d both warned him that no good came from being out after midnight, that dope was like the apple Eve had picked from the forbidden tree, and that he better keep his dick in his pants. Well, his mama hadn’t used those exact words, but her hellfire and damnation speeches warned him he’d be down under with the devil if he didn’t toe the line.
His daddy had bought him a pack of condoms and told him he’d better not knock some girl up or he’d end up like him, working a job he hated, listening to a wife who despised him, and living in a trailer with barely a pot to piss in.
But he was young, and this was his time, and he was damned well going to do what he wanted.
And today he was meeting Jaylee Morris at the falls. He hadn’t told Will though, knew he’d rib him if he did.
“This heat sucks,” Will complained as he lit up a cigarette.
Jerry huffed and wiped sweat from his chin as he reached the top of the ridge, then looked down at the sharp angles of the steep overhang.
Will offered Jerry a cigarette, but he shook his head. Jaylee didn’t like smoking. He trudged ahead, and they hiked another half-mile toward the falls. Will finished his smoke, then tossed the butt onto the ground. The orange embers crackled and popped against the dry, brittle pine straw, and smoke curled upward.
“Better put that out,” Jerry warned. “The po-po are asking questions about those wildfires.”
Will cut him a scathing look. “You sound like your old man.”
“Just don’t be stupid,” Jerry said, throwing him a dark look.
The sound of a scream echoed from somewhere below.
He and Will halted and peered over the edge of the ridge. Smoke hung in the air, a trail of it twisting into the sky. Thick pines, cypresses, and oaks clogged the view, and patches of honeysuckle blended with poison ivy. Water crashed and ebbed over the jagged rocks, the shrill scream boomeranging off the mountain walls.
Jerry spotted the
screamer standing at the edge of a lower ridge and took off running. It was Jaylee, the girl he’d planned to meet. Sweat dribbled down his back, soaking his shirt, and he tripped over a tree stump and stumbled. Righting himself, he flew between the trees, weaving between rocks and shoving at the weeds as he negotiated the path.
When he finally reached her, she was staring wide-eyed and shaking.
His stomach clenched into a sick knot. There was a circle of rocks, and inside it was a charred body, smoke coiling into the air surrounding it.
10
Cleveland
Hot air barely stirred around Ellie as she knocked on Gillian’s door. The cabin appeared dark inside, the quiet almost eerie. Tapping her foot, she glanced down at the stoop and noted the newspapers piled on the porch floor. Their dates went back several days.
Another knock, and silence again.
Senses alert, Ellie called the woman’s name, then twisted the knob. Surprisingly, the door creaked open, and instantly the scent of something rotten assaulted her. Pulling her flashlight from her pocket, she shined it inside.
“Gillian?”
The interior of the house was as stifling as the outdoors. No sounds of an air conditioner or a fan. A faucet was dripping from a back room, and the floor squeaked as she crossed the living room.
She flashed the light along the wall until she found a switch and flipped it on, then spotted the source of the rancid odor. A bowl of decaying fruit sat on the kitchen counter, fruit flies swarming. A vase held lilies that had wilted, the dead petals strewn across the pine table.
Ellie took a quick look around. A worn, outdated country sofa, faded from the sun slanting through the windows. The dark wood-paneled walls were from the seventies and scratched from wear and tear.
Down the hall, she found a bath and two bedrooms. The first room was stacked with bins of miscellaneous items, as if the woman had been collecting stuff for a garage sale or a charity. Swatting at a fly, she moved onto the master bedroom. A black iron bed, a chair in the corner, and a rickety dresser. A peek inside the closet revealed conservative slacks, blouses, and shoes, all nondescript. The suitcase on the floor, her car outside and the toiletries in the bathroom suggested that the social worker hadn’t taken a trip. Wondering about the files she’d taken from her office, Ellie searched the closet, the dresser and beneath the bed, but found nothing.
Returning to the living room, Ellie rummaged through the coat closet, the desk in the corner then the kitchen drawers, but saw no sign of the files. No computer, cell phone, or personal notes scribbled on the writing pad. No photos of friends or coworkers or pets. Nothing to indicate she had a relationship with a partner or significant other.
A sunroom connected to the French doors of the dining area. More and more curious about this woman who helped other families yet seemed to have no one in her own life, Ellie stepped into the room, surprised at the airy feel compared to the rest of the cabin. Sunlight flooded the space through the floor to ceiling windows and offered a view of the gurgling creek out back. She imagined Gillian sipping coffee as she looked out the window in the morning or enjoying a glass of wine at night, listening to the sound of trickling water.
There were no files but a paint canvas in the corner drew her eyes, and she noted other canvasses stacked against the wall. Ellie walked over, expecting to see landscapes of the woods beyond the house.
Instead, it was an eerie black and white sketch of a small child, tears trailing down the little girl’s cheeks.
Ellie’s breath caught. Was this a child who’d come through the system? The look in her eyes was so haunting that Ellie wondered if Gillian had her own share of nightmares at night.
Her hand shook slightly as she bent down to look at the other canvasses. Her unease mounted at the images of the small children and babies, all looked heartbreakingly alone, their eyes filled with sadness.
Although there was no sign of foul play here, a shudder coursed up Ellie’s spine. Pulling her phone from her belt, she called Deputy Heath Landrum. The young cop was a whiz with technology and research and had been an asset on the last two cases they’d worked together.
“Heath, I need you to find out everything you can on a social worker named Gillian Roach. She works with Raintree Family Services.”
“What’s up?” the deputy asked.
She wasn’t ready to share that Gillian might hold the answers to her own past. “Her receptionist called and said she thought Gillian might be in some kind of trouble, that she hasn’t been to work in several days. I’m at her house now and she’s not here. I need to know if she has any friends who might know her whereabouts. Also, run this license plate and verify the car belongs to her.” She stepped back to the front porch and read him the tag number.
“Anything else?”
“She worked with troubled families and domestic cases. It’s possible a disgruntled parent or family member came after her. Check hospitals, emergency rooms, and urgent care facilities. I’ll talk to the receptionist about her cases and find out if there’s a shelter she might have gone to or an underground organization that would have helped her disappear if she was in danger.”
If Gillian was running from someone, she might not want to be found. But if she was in trouble, Ellie was determined to help.
“Hang on, Detective Reeves,” Deputy Landrum said. “The captain just got a call. Some teenagers found a dead girl at Moody Hollow.”
Ellie’s pulse jumped. “I’m on my way. Please just look for Ms. Roach.”
“Copy that.”
Ellie’s gaze fell on the sketches of the children again, tears pricking her eyes. If Vera and Randall hadn’t adopted her, she might have been one of them.
11
Moody Hollow
The midday sun beat down on Ellie, creating pockets of blinding light that flickered off the stream as she negotiated her way across the makeshift bridge. The wooden slats were half-broken and rotting, and mud had dried, caking the bank.
Teens flocked to this place, their backpacks loaded with snacks, sodas and beer. High schoolers and college coeds dared each other to swing from the tree ropes and drop into the ice-cold water at least thirty feet below. Jumping off the ridge and plunging into the swimming hole below had been the highlight of her summer when she was a kid. She and Vanessa had come here dozens of times with Randall before their mothers had that falling out.
Flies and gnats buzzed around her face as she followed the trail straight downhill to the base of the falls. The scent of smoke from another wildfire drifted through the air, making the woods look foggy.
On the drive over, she’d talked to her captain, who’d already phoned the ME. The forensic anthropologist had arrived to analyze the bones of the burn victim, freeing Laney to join her here. They’d met at the entrance to the park to hike to the scene together, and a recovery team was on its way.
Ellie spotted Cord in the clearing where two teenage boys and a teenage girl sat hunched on a bunch of rocks. The girl was crying into her hands while an ashen-faced blond boy was trying to console her. The other boy looked pale and shaken, sitting silently, as if too stunned to speak, his gaze latched onto the ground.
She’d thought she was invincible at that age and these kids probably thought they were, too. Being faced with a young person’s death opened a chink in that innocence.
Ellie’s gaze dropped to the ground by the water, her gut clenching at the sight of the female body lying face down against the rocky ground in the middle of what appeared to be a makeshift firepit. The body was partially burned, although the fire had sizzled out before completely destroying her.
Her left arm was twisted sideways, the bone sticking through the skin of her elbow. Her left foot was bent as well, turned completely sideways, obviously broken. The scene read as if she’d fallen, jumped or was pushed off the ledge.
Then Ellie realized the stones were not a firepit but were standing stones in a circular pattern, like the ones at Winding Rock. Damn. This w
as not an accident or a suicide.
Her mind replayed the grisly image of the victim she’d found the day before. Her first instinct was that they had to be connected, but this body was not completely destroyed by the fire as if it had been snuffed out by something—or someone.
“Poor sweetheart,” Laney murmured as they approached. “She’s just a baby.”
Ellie swallowed back a response. Cord stood by the teens, somber, his body blocking the view of the girl as if to protect the teens from the grisly image. Even after all he’d been through, he was still a protector.
Laney stooped to analyze the scene, gently examining the girl’s burned hands and arms, then easing the hair away from her face, exposing bruising and dried blood on her battered cheek.
“She’s in full rigor,” Laney said. “Contusions to the face, broken arm and ankle.” She gently rolled her to her side and even with soot and ashes covering her face, Ellie saw her nose was crushed, lips bloody as if teeth were broken. Was the damage caused by falling or had she taken a beating?
“I won’t know exact cause of death until I do the autopsy, but she suffered a severe head injury and may have internal injuries that aren’t obvious,” said Laney.
Ellie scanned the area. Footsteps marred the brush and dirt near the girl, but the prints might belong to the teens who’d discovered the body. CSI would take plaster casts and run comparisons to the kids’ shoes for elimination purposes.
Suspicions stirring in her gut, Ellie gestured toward the ridge above. They needed to look for footprints up there as well. “My guess is she was pushed or fell while running to escape an attacker.”
