Page 17 of Whispers Left Behind

During the Gantz trial, Beck had finagled an introduction with her at the Bucket. She had unfortunately been leaving when said encounter had taken place, so he hadn’t been able to make any inroads into the subject matter that had brought her to his attention in the first place.

Kinsley Aspen was more than just an intriguing subject for his ongoing investigation—she was the key to unlocking the truth behind Calvin Gantz's disappearance.

Beck quietly observed her pull away from the curb and drive slowly down the neighborhood street. He could have gotten in his own vehicle and followed her, but he didn’t want to play his hand quite yet. He had been patient for the past year, and he would continue to do so until the time was right.

He had originally returned home after the trial to spend time writing an in-depth piece on how a town had turned its back on one of its own. After scoring an exclusive interview with both George Aspen and Calvin Gantz, Beck had several calls from those at national papers and online sites bidding for the said article. Such a sale had afforded him a nice cushion in his checking account, but he was now aiming for a lot more. But his objective had changed since then.

Calvin Gantz had left town.

Vanished without a trace.

Simply disappeared into thin air.

Beck had reason to believe such departure wasn’t by the man’s own volition.

His rationale was two short sentences handwritten on a thin piece of paper. Eleven measly words that had haunted Beck for the past twelve months and had prompted him to spend the past year investigating Calvin Gantz’s disappearance.

The message had all but imprinted itself in Beck’s mind.

If you’ve received this note, I’m dead. Kinsley Aspen killed me.

Chapter Eight

Kinsley Aspen

October

Friday — 1:11 pm

The tires of theunmarked police cruiser crunched over the gravel as Kinsley drove through the gates of Tobias Zayn's dairy farm. She should have stopped at the station to switch out vehicles. She was always more comfortable in her Jeep, especially on the winding back roads from Fallbrook to Halliday.

The vast stretch of Tobias’ farm was a patchwork of grass-covered pastures where dairy cows ambled and grazed about under the overcast sky. Thick clouds had gradually rolled induring her commute, though there was no hint of rain in the forecast. Beyond the fields was a solitary horse near a weathered fence, its tail flicking away at the pesky flies.

As Kinsley drove closer to the farmhouse, she noted several outbuildings—a large barn painted red with white trim, a milking parlor, a squat silo, a coop teetering on ancient foundations, and a tool shed that looked as though it had been there since the land was first tilled. Unlike Lionel Cooper’s farm, this one was working at full capacity.

At the end of the drive to the left was a beautiful farmhouse, its white clapboard siding and forest green shutters faded from the elements. A wraparound porch hugged the structure with inviting rocking chairs lining each side. In the front yard, an old dog lay sleeping, completely undisturbed by Kinsley's arrival.

She killed the engine, the ticking of cooling metal breaking the silence. The back road she had intentionally taken to reach her destination had revealed something interesting—whoever had run Rachel off the road had patience. The route had no escape route for a good two miles. Given the area where the crash had taken place, the guilty party would have been monitoring his target for quite some time.

Had the killer followed Rachel from Fallbrook to her destination and then back toward home? Or had he picked up her trail near Halliday? Either way, such behavior was premeditated and extremely calculated.

As Kinsley opened the car door, the hinges creaked softly. The old dog had waited until she exited the vehicle to slowly make his way over to her. She leaned down and gave him some attention, estimating that he was at least ten years old from his coarse hair and graying snout.

“I take it you haven’t found the bastard who killed my granddaughter?”

Tobias Zayn had emerged from the house. He was a tall man, his frame wiry by years of labor. His weather-beaten skin appeared to be as tough as boot leather, too. Silver hair peeked from beneath a cap that had seen better days, but his narrowed eyes told her that he was sharp as a tack.

He was also grieving, as was evident by his bloodshot eyes.

“Not yet, Mr. Zayn.”

Tobias carried two steaming mugs of coffee. She had called ahead, so it wasn’t a surprise to find him waiting for her. The screen door slammed behind him as he made his way over to a small table nestled between two rocking chairs.

“Well, take a seat.” His voice was as gravelly as his driveway. She also heard a hint of anguish. “What do you want to know?”

By the time Kinsley had ascended the porch steps, Tobias was already in one of the rocking chairs. He didn’t sway it. Instead, he carefully took a drink of the steaming beverage while monitoring her motions over the rim of his mug.

“First, you have my condolences,” Kinsley said softly as she took a seat in the rocking chair. It was sturdy, and if she had to guess, Tobias had made it with his own two hands. “As I said on the phone, I’m Detective Kinsley Aspen. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

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