Page 131 of Secrets Along the Shore
ELEVEN
The worst partof my job is the darkness I’m faced with on a regular basis. I imagine it’s not as bad as what’s experienced by police detectives who investigate homicide all the time. Most of the work I do—stolen secrets, missing heirs, deadbeat parents, corporate sabotage—doesn’t involve murder. Bodies and serial killers fall on the rare side for me.
Still, I spend a lot of time facing the unthinkable depths humans will go to in this life for all kinds of selfish reasons, leaving raw, broken people in their wake. It’s a heavy and sobering truth which might lead me to question whether there really is a benevolent God with a plan, if I weren’t convinced to my core that there is.
It’s that certainty that grounds me when I’ve seen too much, felt too much. When I have to meet with families like Aria’s, Hailey’s, and Teresa’s—and soon, Kamden’s. It’s what keeps me focused on what’s constant, what’s good, what’s forever. What no crime, or evil…no Kurt Fogerty…can steal. I need that to be more true than the depravity I help keep at bay.
That’s why I’m sitting in Willow Peak Church at eight-twenty on a Sunday morning, when it would be more practical to be on my way to Birmingham. Because this is one appointment I’m not willing to forego. In my job—although I believe it’s true for everyone—if youdon’t have an anchor, the river of shadows will ultimately carry you away.
The sanctuary is simple, with lots of neutrals, upholstered metal chairs linked into rows, and stark white ceilings. Massive arched windows travel down the sides, each with a smaller stained-glass window in the center that portrays a unique account from the Bible. Risers at the front lead to a modest platform which holds a band during worship time. Currently, its sole occupant is Dr. Gus Thompson, positioned behind a clear podium.
Sunlight streams through the windows on the eastern wall, spraying color indiscriminately. It’s warm inside, and not by accident. This is the early service, attended primarily by senior members of the community. I’m probably the only person here under sixty-five.
I usually attend the later service—because by ten-thirty I’m three coffees in and actually coherent—but it’s always a special treat when I end up at this one. Afterthisservice is over, I’ll be mobbed by whoever happens to be in my row, everyone checking on me and making sure I’m not working too hard or eating too little. It’s kind of like having grandparents again.
I love it.
My heart tweaks at the thought of my grandfather. He’s the reason I ended up in law enforcement. Grandpa was with the Boca Raton police for thirty-seven years. He started as a beat cop and finished as a captain. He used to take me to the precinct sometimes, and once put me in a holding cell where we took some pictures as a joke. Mom didn’t think it was funny, but she wasn’t much of a fan of anything Grandpa did.
He was so proud when I graduated from the police academy. That’s when I introduced him to Daniel. We met during our first class—when we were paired up for a physical tactics exercise—and I dropped him on the mat in less than five seconds. After that, we were inseparable. Grandpa loved Daniel, supporting us even when everyone else in the family turned their backs on us.
After Daniel and I got married and moved back here, to his home state, Grandpa was the person I missed the most—and the only one who didn’t cut me off. It rocked us both when he died, especiallybecause we weren’t able to get down there to see him before he passed. I sometimes wonder what he would think about me quitting the force after Daniel’s death. I’ll never know, but for me, there was no other choice. Not after what happened to Daniel.
Muffled laughter rings through the sanctuary, but I don’t know why. I’ve managed to completely disappear into my thoughts. I refocus on Dr. Thompson, who is grinning slyly, whatever he said obviously hitting home with the congregation. He’s one of my favorite people in River Ridge. He’s widowed, like me, but after forty years of marriage instead of five. He was a source of immeasurable comfort and wisdom when I lost Daniel and remains a cherished advisor and friend. He smiles when he spots me in the next-to-last row, and if I’m not mistaken, tosses me a little wink. His words today about hope in the face of trials drench me, washing away at least some of the stain left behind by Kurt Fogerty and the discovery of another body.
I scoot out of the church as soon as he’s done, sadly, before any of my would-be grandparents can corner me. Any other day, I’d be all about it. Today I’m on a mission and I’m already getting started later than I’d like.
Interstate 65 Northis wide open—fields of emerald grass, gentle hills, sunshine, and no traffic to speak of. The road is begging to be driven, and I push the pedal a bit harder than normal, making it to the northeast side of Birmingham in under ninety minutes.
I’m not far from the airport, in a commercial area built up in the sixties and seventies. The majority of the buildings are squat, one-story structures with flat roofs, surrounded by ample parking lots and clover-covered curbs. Litter dots the landscape, and utility lines crisscross the sky. I pass a hair salon called “Cutz Above,” then a Taco Bell, followed by a strip mall with an H&R Block, Alfa Insurance office, and a pawn shop claiming to give you the most for your jewelry.
I turn down a side street beside the mall and enter a neighborhood full of ranch-style and split-level homes. It’s not an organized subdivision,but rather street after street of half-century-old residences guarded by giant oaks that kiss the sky.
I meander for five minutes before reaching the house of Serenity Flores, one of the few people identified in a photo on Kamden’s Instagram accountandwho answered the phone when I called. Kamden lived with her and my hopes are high that she can help fill in some blanks.
Her orange-brown brick rancher has a two-car garage and a small, off-center porch protected by a tiny overhang. The overgrown landscaping, in dire need of weeding, rises halfway up the windows. Despite the existence of a garage, two vehicles sit in the driveway—a beat-up, rust-spotted black Honda Accord and a red Toyota Corolla, in slightly better shape, but still sporting a few dents.
I make my way up the sidewalk, careful not to trip on the cracked sections pushed up by massive tree roots, and press the doorbell. Several moments pass with no answer, so I lift my forefinger to ring again, when suddenly the door rips open.
“Hey, hey, hey!” a twenty-something woman hoarsely whispers, eyeing me with undisguised disdain. She’s wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and fuzzy pink socks, and stands five feet tall at most. A thick, disheveled braid of chestnut hair hangs over one shoulder, the same color as the bags under her eyes. “Baby’s sleeping!” She purses her lips. “You the cop?”
“Not a cop. As I explained on the phone, I’m an investigator with the Mitchell County Sheriff’s?—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on,” she says, standing to the side and waving me in.
I follow her to the living room, on the way dodging a toy truck and a doll missing one arm. The shaggy carpet sports a pizza-sized orange stain in front of a threadbare couch with depressed cushions overrun with more toys. A bowl of soggy cereal perches on the edge of an end table beside an armchair occupied by a mountainous laundry basket.
Serenity tips her head at the couch, though I’m not sure which toy I’m supposed to move in order to sit. As I tuck myself into the only empty space I can find, screaming from at least two kids, if not three, erupts down the hallway.
That baby isn’t gonna sleep long.
“Ignore it. It’s almost naptime,” Serenity says, moving the laundry basket so she can sit in the chair.
“It’s not a problem. I’m sorry to come on a Sunday, but this couldn’t wait.”
“’Bout time somebody started looking for Kamden.”
I didn’t tell her much on the phone. I prefer to witness live reactions when I’m doling out information, whenever possible. “I’m hoping you can help me piece together what happened to her.”
