Page 40 of The Witch's Orchard
FOURTEEN
ISTAND ON THE PORCHwith AJ, leaning against the railing while Deputy Flora goes around the cabin looking for prints that likely aren’t there.
“You don’t risk the trouble of burgling a PI unless you have at least some sense of what you’re doing,” I say. “It’s a dangerous business, stealing from someone whose job it is to track.”
AJ nods and says, “I’ve been telling Max to put cameras out here, but he said the fishermen who usually come like it rustic and don’t care for the intrusion on their privacy. He needed the money.”
“So he could hire a PI.”
He nods.
Max and Shiloh have returned to Max’s farmhouse, where, undoubtedly, Shiloh is whipping up some kind of warm, healing homemade bread. My belly growls, and I remember again that I haven’t eaten since last night.
“You got anything sensitive on that laptop?”
I snort. “You mean like naked selfies?”
I’m basically whistling past the graveyard but, at this point, it’s all I can do. If I let myself dwell in the misery and misfortune of every case I worked, I’d surely be lost for good. Instead, I watch as an almost imperceptibleblush creeps up AJ’s thick neck and deepens the color in his cheeks. I bump him with my shoulder and he shakes his head, a sheepish grin stretching his mouth.
“I just meant—”
“No, I know. There’s a lot of sensitive casework on there. I wiped it remotely when I saw it’d been taken. It’s backed up on a drive back at my office.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“The worst thing is Max’s casebook,” I say. “He’s had it for years.”
“I know,” AJ says. “He showed it to me when I became a cop. But it’s more of a scrapbook than a case file.”
“It’s got no value to anyone but him,” I say.
“You think somebody came looking for it?” he asks.
“I doubt it. I think someone figured I’d have some expensive spy shit laying around. Little did they know the extent of my gear is a six-year-old laptop and a car that’s older than I am.”
We both look out at Honey, and I smile at the beautiful amber hue of her paint and the sleek, elegant line of her body and send up a silent prayer of thanks that she, at least, wasn’t harmed today. Lucky for me, most folks don’t see the beauty in rusty 1970s Japanese imports.
“Don’t forget about that piece,” AJ says. “Think I haven’t noticed the dang designer gun you’re toting?”
“Been looking at my ass?”
He blushes again, and I laugh. I feel glad for the company, glad for his closeness. I’m not generally a lonely person, but the day has worn on me and AJ’s warmth is an unexpected comfort.
We watch the field for a few moments, watch the long brown grass waver in the breeze, watch as a crow swoops through the sky and disappears down into the gorge.
“AJ, you know Molly went missing from this town. And she was found again, this morning, in this town, not even a mile from where she was taken.”
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh.
“So, either someone took her and then brought her back…”
“Which—”
“Could be because someone heard about Max hiring a PI,” I say. “Some kind of perversion, returning to the scene of the crime when attention falls on it. Out for some kind of thrill?”
We look at the field some more, the faraway trees, and I consider that option for a while.
He says, “You know, we’re not that far past the ten-year anniversary of when they were taken. If they took the girls away, then maybe the kidnapper brought them back as a kind of reunion.”
