Page 109 of Ground Truth

Hanna didn’t speak.

“You don’t have to come with me. But let’s at least try, okay?”

Hanna remained mute.

Flint said, “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll leave. I’ll take you back to Houston.”

Hanna tipped her head almost imperceptibly in reply. As if she didn’t trust her voice.

He waited a couple of moments.

She coughed into a handkerchief and then stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

“Let’s do this,” she whispered. “But leave the doors unlocked in case I have to come out alone before you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Flint pressed the button to unlock the doors and they stepped out into the rainy morning.

The wind had whipped up. Sharp salty air blew in from the North Sea, stinging his eyes.

Hanna leaned her head forward against the rain and stepped quickly across the gravel through the soupy fog.

Flint draped his arm around her slight shoulders. He scanned the area surrounding the farmhouse. There were trees and verdant grass and colorful flowers in the garden.

He saw nothing alarming. Yet.

Hanna stepped onto the stoop under the overhang and used her hands to wipe the water from her face.

Flint reached for the door knocker and dropped the heavy brass twice against the thick wooden door.

After a brief wait, the heavy door creaked as it was pulled open. A woman stood deep in the shadows.

“Come in, come in. The weather’s horrible out there,” she said, gesturing as if they might not grasp the meaning of her Americanized language. She lacked the heavy Scottish accent they’d been hearing since they landed in Inverness.

For a brief moment, their little tableau froze in place.

She was older and plainer than her publicity photos from the Orlando television station four years ago. But her expressive blue eyes were the same. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she gently raised her fist to her mouth.

Hanna hesitated at the threshold staring at the woman. Neither seemed capable of making the next move.

Flint gave Hanna a little push on the small of her back, but she didn’t budge. The howling wind and blowing rain whipped around them as they stood, waiting for Hanna.

Finally, Flint reached across her back and grasped her shoulder. He gave her a reassuring squeeze and guided her across the threshold. He followed her inside her sister’s warm, welcoming home.

“Mrs. Tumbler,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Michael Flint. We talked on the phone.”

“Call me Gretchen.” She shook hands with him naturally enough, but her attention was glued to Hanna.

After a few moments of awkwardness, she tossed her concerns aside and embraced Hanna in a hearty hug.

Soon both women were crying. They moved to a sofa, where they hugged and cried and talked quietly for a good long time.

Flint wandered around the great room and into the kitchen. He saw no sign of the boy. Knowing Flint and Hanna were coming, the boy’s father must have taken him out this morning.

Flint noticed the teakettle was still warm. He refilled it, turned the burner on, and rummaged through the cabinets for tea.

When he glanced through the large window over the sink, he caught a flash of movement in the side yard in his periphery.

He took three strides to the back door and stood alongside the window where he’d have a better view.

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