Page 37 of The Summer Guests

Maggie decided that a nonanswer was the best. “I don’t know,” she said.

“But what do youthink, Maggie?” asked Callie.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Youknowabout these things.”

“The police know a lot more than I do.”

“That’s not what Grandpa says.”

What the hell is Luther saying about me?she wondered. Things he probably shouldn’t say. While Luther did not know the specifics about Maggie’s former career, the bloody events over the winter—the sniper in the woods, the abduction of Callie—made it obvious that Maggie had a dangerous past, one she wanted to put behind her.

She opened the henhouse door and out came her girls, clucking, heads bobbing as they flounced down the ramp and flocked around the feed basins. “Good morning, ladies. And gentleman,” she added as the lone rooster strutted through his harem. He was a good-natured boy who’d never given Maggie any trouble, unlike his predecessor, who once planted a razor-sharp spur into her boot.

That rooster had ended up in the stewpot.

She did a quick head count of the flock and was happy to see she hadn’t lost any hens overnight. Earlier that year, more than a dozen of her birds were taken by raccoons and bobcats and one particularly clever fox, who’d treated the henhouse like the local diner. She looked up at the sky and spotted no eagles soaring overhead. They were yet another predator that was always circling, always waiting for the chance to feast. That was the downside of owning chickens: one must grow accustomed to losing them.

She lifted the side panel of the henhouse, exposing the top row of nesting boxes. Here was her favorite task of the day, collecting the gifts her girls left for her. It was like a treasure hunt, plucking up the brown, white, and blue eggs, some of them so fresh they were still warm. The long summer days had boosted the hens’ production, and today she collected a bounty of eggs, which she would spot-clean and arrange in cartons to sell at the weekly farmers’ market, where she and Callie shared a booth. This was the part of being a farmer that she loved, the reward for rising every morning at dawn to haul water and feed, for the weekly chore of moving the mobile henhouse to fresh pasture and replanting the electric fences. She would never get rich owning chickens, but the work of keeping them healthy and fed and safe frompredators was a welcome distraction from thoughts of missing girls and nameless skeletons and her own haunted past.

“Grandpa says you’re smarter than the police,” said Callie, who had picked up one of the Araucana hens and now cradled it in her arms, brushing her cheek against its head feathers. The bird seemed to know it was in safe hands, and it nestled against Callie, clucking softly.

“Your grandpa says a lot of things.”

“When the police couldn’t find me, you did.”

Maggie set down the basket of eggs and turned to Callie. “Sweetie, I wish Icouldhelp the police, but I don’t know any more than they do. I’m afraid we need to be prepared for the worst. If Zoe didn’t run away, then the chances are—”

“She didn’t run away. She was going to come back to the farm. She wanted to try milking the goats.”

Yet another reason to fear the worst. Another reason to believe the girl had been abducted.

“She could still be alive, couldn’t she?” said Callie.

“Of course.”But not likely.

“Then you should tell them where to look. You could ...” Callie paused, her gaze suddenly riveted elsewhere.

Maggie turned to look at what had caught Callie’s eye and saw the flashing blue lights of a police vehicle. It was parked outside Callie’s house.

“Grandpa. Something’s happened to him,” said Callie. She dropped the chicken and took off at a sprint.

“Callie? Callie, wait!”

But the girl was already dashing across the field, hair flying behind her.

Maggie scrambled into her farm RTV and chased after the girl, her wheels jouncing across woodchuck holes and hummocks of grass. A police cruiser with flashing lights. Not a casual visit.This is not good.She rolled onto the driveway just as Jo Thibodeau put Luther, his hands in cuffs, into the back seat of her patrol car.

“What the hell is going on, Jo?” Maggie demanded.

“I’m just doing my job.” Jo closed the car door. “And I could use your help. Can the girl stay with you?”

Maggie looked at Callie, who was pressed up against the cruiser window, crying as she stared in at her grandfather. “How long are you going to hold him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

---