Page 42 of High Frequency

“For real? That’s amazing.”

“Yeah. I was looking at him, thinking I can’t wait to be sitting out on the porch, drinking a beer after work, and having this for a view.”

I find myself smiling because that sounds pretty amazing. I turn to my right, where the river is but I can’t see much of the view now, it’s pretty dark. Sully and Pippa opted to build their house perpendicular to the river, but Dan’s place is built parallel to the water.

“I bet,” I affirm. “How is the house coming along?”

“Roof is on, believe it or not, and I’m hoping to get the bulk of the interior framing done over the next four days. I took a few days off.”

“That sounds like a lot of work for four days.”

“Some of the guys are coming out to give me a hand. Still, it’s a tall order to get it all done. We’ll be able to put a decent dent in the work though.”

“That’s good. Talking about work…”

It’s tempting to stay out here, talking to him, but I really want to try and find the girl’s family.

“I hear you. Maybe sometime over the weekend, when you have a moment, pop up the road and share a beer and a sunset with me on the porch.”

I feel myself flush at his invitation but don’t allow myself to think too long before I answer.

“I think I’d like that.”

“Good. Night, Sloane.”

I can hear the smile in his voice and wonder if he can hear mine as well.

“Night.”

Ending the call, I save the image of the elk as wallpaper on my phone.

Thirteen

Sloane

“Nita Isadore.”

I slide the missing person’s file from the Lake County Sheriff’s Office I printed off across Junior’s desk. A measly one-page report.

“Check the description of what she was last seen wearing,” I point out.

“That’s the jacket,” he observes.

The yellow winter jacket was described in great detail, including the unicorn zipper tab. The rest of her clothing matches what we found with the body. Even the long sleek hair as seen in the snapshot of the pretty, smiling girl matches. As soon as I looked at that picture, I knew the remains we found belong to Nita Isadore.

The single sheet of information lists the particulars on Nita, and the report made by the girl’s mother that her fifteen-year-old daughter had gone to the Quicksilver Express at the Exxon gas station in Pablo to pick up some milk and was never seen again.

A note at the bottom of the report stood out. One word; runaway, followed by a question mark.

“Now look at this one.”

The second report I hand over is the original, taken by the Confederated Tribal Police in Pablo. It is several pages long and far more detailed. Nita and her mom live in a trailer home only two blocks from the gas station. According to these additional notes, Nita was a good student, worked part time on Friday nights and Saturdays at the hair salon in town where her mother works. According to the woman, her daughter had ambitions to become a beautician.

A few handwritten notes show the few steps tribal police took to find the girl, but not much appears to have come of it. There were no official searches done.

“They wrote her off,” my boss observes.

The same thing I was thinking. She was labeled a runaway, despite anything even remotely suggesting that might’ve been the case. It doesn’t even look like they talked to anyone but the mother and the clerk at the gas station store.

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