Page 53 of We Are All Guilty Here

“Okay, well, do you know where Adam is?” He huffed out a forced laugh. “No, he’s not in trouble. I just wanted to see if he was going to pick you up, or should I?”

Emmy saw Walton’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. He was sweating in the heat.

“Well that’s typical. I haven’t heard from him, either.” Walton looked down at the porch as he listened to her talk. “Okay, sugar, just give me a holler when you get to Trina’s and I’ll swing by.”

Emmy watched his chest rise and fall as he ended the call. He was bracing himself.

“Sheriff,” he said, “what happened?”

Gerald told him, “Call Adam.”

Walton nodded, like he understood that he just needed to accept this. He dialed a number. Listened through the rings. Finally, he shook his head. “Voicemail’s full. Tell me what I can do.”

Gerald said, “Need to search your house.”

“Okay—uh, yes. Of course. Come in.”

Gerald was halfway up the stairs by the time Emmy entered the foyer. She saw a suitcase beside the door. Black Samsonite, carry-on size. A red nylon man’s wallet with the Georgia Bulldogs logo was shoved into the zippered pocket. A colorful golf umbrella was hooked through the handle.

Walton said, “Forecast called for rain in Bridgeport.”

“Do you have any guns in the house?”

“Uh …” He shrugged. “I might have some of my father’s old pistols lying around. He was into target shooting. Used to take me plinking when I was a boy, but I’ve never liked guns.”

Emmy felt like a bird was caught inside her ribcage. She’d thought it was Adam when she’d seen the car, but now she was deadly certain. He’d really taken the girls. He would know where Cheyenne’s body was. He might have Madison trapped somewhere, tied up, chained, still alive.

She asked, “How do I get into the basement?”

“There’s a side entrance off the kitchen.”

“You can’t get in through the house?”

“No, it’s just a tiny room. Used to be my workshop. Adam built it out when he lost his job at the factory.” He looked flustered. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this. I’ll get the spare key.”

Emmy followed him down a long hallway past the living room, then the dining room, then into the kitchen. The walls were painted bright yellow, the appliances were mismatched. Walton opened the drawer by the fridge, but he was looking at the single key fob on the counter.

He said, “That’s to my car. I left it upstairs on my dresser.”

Emmy could hear the strain in his voice. “Dr. Huntsinger—”

His eyes met hers. He was afraid. “This isn’t like the other times, is it?”

“No, sir.”

She watched him rummage through pens, pencils, screwdrivers, scissors and scattered business cards. He opened another junk drawer and started looking again. Emmy clasped her hands together, reminding herself of holding Madison’s hand under the oak tree. The annoyed look on the girl’s face when Emmy had told her that she was loved. Madison wasstillloved. She could still be alive. There was a chance that Emmy could bring her home.

Walton opened another drawer. Emmy was going to give him twenty more seconds before she broke down the basement door. Every cop in the county was looking for Adam Huntsinger. There was an APB on his green Chevy truck. Officers were talking to his former co-workers, his friends, his enemies, his drinking buddies. The US Marshals were setting up a task force to coordinate with all law enforcement officers in Georgia, Alabama and Florida.

There could be a clue in the basement, a receipt, a note, that led Emmy straight to wherever Adam had taken the girls. Madison could still be alive. She had to be alive.

“I-I’m sorry.” Walton had found the key, but he held onto it. “Whatever he’s done, I’m so sorry.”

Emmy grabbed the key. She rushed out of the kitchen door, then down the stairs, then made the turn to the basement. She was fitting the key into the lock when she felt a sudden sickness in her body. This wasn’t a tickle, or a bad feeling, or aDon’t Feel Right. This was like live wires electrifying every nerve. Emmy’s brain had needed a few seconds to process what she’d seen. Not inside the house. Not through the basement door window. At the bottom of the kitchen stairs. Lying in the grass. The sunlight had caught a flash of something shiny and gold.

She turned around, her breath catching. The sun hadn’t moved. She could still see the glint of gold in the grass. She carefully went to one knee. She reached for the object, but sanity prevailed. Emmy didn’t have to touch it to know what she was looking at. Nor did she have any question about to whom it belonged. The curly gold script spelled out the owner’s name—

Cheyenne.

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