Page 48 of We Are All Guilty Here

“And?”

She closed her eyes for a second too long. The image of Madison waiting for her in front of the bleachers was so real that Emmy could still feel the anxiety that had radiated off the fifteen-year-old like heat from a roaring fire. Why hadn’t Emmy taken a moment? Why hadn’t she held onto Madison’s hand again, told her she could be trusted, listened to what the girl had to say?

Gerald said, “Something stopped her.”

Emmy took a moment to reset. She imagined Madison watching her sulk off to the toilet. Then leaving the bleacher area. Finding her bike. Dragging it up the concrete stairs.

She said, “Madison took her bike to the parking lot. It was dark. The lights were off. The fireworks were about to start. The kidnapper shows up in his sedan. He’s got Cheyenne’s bike in the trunk. Madison can see it because the fireworks have started. She goes to the car. Something happens. Maybe Cheyenne tries to bolt. Madison goes after her. The kidnapper drives onto the field. The girls try to take shelter under the trees. The kidnapper jumps out of the car and shoots Cheyenne.”

Emmy couldn’t stop herself from flinching. She could practically smell the gun oil, could see the recoil on Dale’s Glock 20 as the hammer came down, the bullet sliced through the air and broke open a hole in Cheyenne Baker’s skull.

“And?” Gerald said.

“The sound of the fireworks covers up the gunshot. Meanwhile, Madison takes off on her bike across the pitch. The kidnapper chases her on foot. He grabs her. Subdues her. Leaves the bike. Carries her back to the car. Puts both girls inside, then drives to whatever remote location he planned out ahead of time. There, he probably abuses Madison one last time before he kills her, too, then he disposes of both the bodies.”

“Where?”

“I mean—” Emmy tried to remember the statistics. “In most predatory kidnappings, the bodies are found within twenty miles of the abduction site. The area is generally familiar to the kidnapper. He oftentimes revisits the scene to relive his crimes. He usually conceals the bodies in some way—covered with leaves, buried in a shallow grave, submerged in water, hidden in an abandoned building or shed, disarticulated and disposed of in a landfill.”

“Think smaller.”

“There’s no smaller until we know more about Dale,” Emmy said. “Was he a hiker? Did he camp? Fish? Kayak? Go for long drives? We’re surrounded by trees. There are forests everywhere. Parks everywhere. There’s the Flint River. Dozens of lakes. Drainage ditches. Logging roads. Old fire trails. The Okefenokee Swamp is only four hours away.”

Emmy felt her heart racing, because she wasn’t just sputtering off scenic views. In her mind, she was picturing the girls in each location. Cheyenne’s gunshot wound bleeding onto dry leaves. Madison’s weighted-down body at the bottom of the swamp.

She asked her father, “What if we never find their bodies? What if Hannah has to wonder for the rest of her life whether Madison is alive or dead?”

Gerald reached across the console and held onto her hand.

Emmy realized that a tear had slipped down her cheek. The festering wound had opened again. The heartbreak of losing Madison. The fight with Hannah. The crushing guilt. She stared out the window, watched the trees blur by. Emmy didn’t have a right to cry about anything. She needed for her father to be wrong. She needed Lionel Faulkner to break down DaleLoudermilk. To get a full confession. To find out that Madison was still alive. To return to Hannah the most precious thing in her life.

To know that somehow, against all odds, everything would go back to normal.

Gerald let go of Emmy’s hand as he turned onto the backroads. The series of unnamed tracks crisscrossed between several farms—cattle grazing, peanuts, soybeans, horses. All of the farmsteads had passed down from one generation of Rich Cliftons to the next.

Currently, they were on Taybee and Terrell’s land. Emmy knew it by the crisply painted white fence that bordered their property. The red clay surface had been packed smooth from tractors and horse trailers and animal haulers going back and forth for nearly 200 years. Everyone in town had used the backroads at some point to cut through or past an area they were trying to avoid. As girls, Emmy and Hannah had ridden their bikes on their way into town or to look at the horses or to hang out at the pond that stretched across the bottom half of Aunt Millie’s property.

She asked her father, “Do you know why Millie keeps calling me?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

Emmy had forgotten that Millie wasn’t speaking to Gerald. This was what Hannah meant by her fucked up family. Cliftons were frequently falling out with each other. The four years of silence between Myrna and Celia was nothing compared to the grudges that went back decades. Millie was the third oldest living Clifton. She had a very long memory.

Gerald slowed the cruiser. Up ahead, Emmy could see a white van with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation logo on the doors. The forensic unit was still processing the scene where the gold necklace and blood had been found. They’d set up a large perimeter using metal stakes to hold up the bright yellow crime scene tape.

Emmy knew why her father had brought them here. She quoted one of his better pieces of advice. “If you don’t know what to do, start at the beginning.”

“Yep.” Gerald got out of the car.

She braced herself for the sharp slap of heat. Emmy felt a bit light-headed when she stood. She’d forgotten to eat breakfast and it was past lunch time. Her phone started ringing as she approached the van. She expected to see Millie’s number, but the caller ID read GOOD DOLLAR.

Emmy had known Louise Good since kindergarten. They had gotten closer when they’d both attended Mercer, but then Louise had transferred to the College of Pharmacy so she could train to work at her family’s store. The Good Dollar serviced all of North Falls and most of Verona. It was also a bike ride away from both Cheyenne and Madison’s houses.

Emmy held up a finger to let her father know she’d be a minute, then answered, “Hey, Louise, thanks for calling.”

“If this is about the phones we sold last week, Brett’s already been by.”

“No, it’s something else.” Emmy kept her voice low, choosing her words carefully. “What kind of birth control is Madison Dalrymple taking?”

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