Chirp(9)

Marla


Marla Montgomery pressed one phone to her ear and the other against her breast. “You listen, Felix. I’ve been patient, but you have no more information about my stepdaughter than you did six months ago. You’re fired.” She slammed the receiver down, ran her hand over her linen skirt, and took a moment to compose herself before starting the next conversation. She lifted the cell to her lips. “Sorry, Mr. Fraser, but my nerves are stretched thin. If hired, you’ll be my fourth PI.”

“Well, I’ve looked over all the files you sent, and honestly, I’m not sure she’s still alive. I know that’s hard to hear, but when she disappeared, you reported it as a kidnapping, but no ransom demand came. With no sign of forced entry or a struggle, the cops labeled her a runaway. Since she was almost eighteen, that pretty much tied their hands.”

Marla clicked a perfectly manicured nail against the cell. “Either way, I need closure. Even though she’s not my child, I love her and need to know what happened. I owe that to her father, and I can’t bear the thought of my sweet girl’s remains abandoned somewhere, with no proper burial.” Marla drew a staggering breath. “If she is . . . gone, I want to lay her to rest beside her dad. Only that will give me peace. Do you grasp what I’m saying?”

“Yes, ma’am. But I want you to understand the results might not be what you expect.”

“Mr. Fraser, I’ve lived with this for a long time and not given up hope of finding her alive, but I realize the odds aren’t in my favor. You’ll see from the previous reports she’s not a stable girl. If she ran away, and I’m not convinced she did, it’s because she suffered some type of psychological break. She worshiped her father, and his death devastated her. Can you promise me you’ll find her no matter what?”

“Like I told you earlier, in all my years with the FBI, I never failed to close a case, and I don’t intend to start now.”





5


Blaze


When Blaze got home, Rance’s motorcycle was nowhere in sight. She wasn’t sure which emotion was more intense: relief or disappointment. Happy not to face him or depressed about postponing the inevitable. He didn’t want her living there, but she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Once inside, she spotted the dirty breakfast dishes. He was baiting her. If he thought he could run her off with messiness, he was nuts. She had experience with people not wanting her around. At least he hadn’t let the cats out. She took care of them, then cleaned the laundry room.

Next, she removed his clothes from the dryer, hung up his shirt and jeans, and folded his underwear and socks. They didn’t look new, so maybe he’d been out for a while. Most likely on the run. No, that couldn’t be right. Nobody had shown up looking for him, so perhaps he’d admitted his crime and gotten paroled.

She took out the package of meat she’d moved to the fridge that morning to thaw, laid it on the counter, and washed two potatoes and got them ready to bake.

While the steak fried, she made a salad and set the table. Her phone buzzed as she finished. “Hello?”

“Why didn’t you call me about Rance?” Hanna asked.

Blaze lowered the flame on the burner. “I’m sorry. Was his escape on the news?”

“No. He was in the store today. He always claimed to be innocent, and the real criminal finally confessed. So his record is clear. But are you okay?”

Thankful she wasn’t living with a fugitive, Blaze smiled and transferred the steak from the pan to a platter. “Yes.”

“If you say so, but if not, call me. And one more thing. Don’t mention Noah.”

“Okay.” Blaze clicked off and wondered why Hanna didn’t want Rance to know about her son. Was he Noah’s father? Shaking the notion away, she put a counter attack in place.

She clipped small twigs from a redbud tree in the backyard and stuck them in a vase Dessie kept on the hutch. On the bottom, carved into the pottery, was Rance, 1995. A Bible school project when he was eight. It was one of his grandmother’s most treasured possessions.

Blaze brought a pitcher of tea and set it next to the glasses. Outside, a motorcycle rumbled and died. Her heart kicked up a notch.





Rance


Rance finished his business at the building center, arranged for delivery of supplies, and got the names of a plumber, electrician, and concrete company. Before heading home, he’d stopped by the Ford dealership to make a purchase. Bright, shiny, and red. The salesman would deliver the truck tomorrow.

He brought the Harley to a stop. Unfortunately, the kid’s car was in the drive. He grabbed the carton of smokes and bottle of Jack from his saddlebag.

As he stepped onto the porch, a familiar aroma enveloped him like a warm blanket on a cold night. Damn. Could it be? Gran’s chicken-fried steak? He salivated at the memory.

The girl stood at the stove, stirring what looked like gravy. She glanced over her shoulder. “Wash up. Supper is almost done.”

Said it as if she belonged there, but she looked out of place. A waif playing grown-up. It dawned on Rance how careful he needed to be. She could frame him like Jack had. Come up with an abuse story or worse. Who’d believe a big, burly ex-con over a fragile girl who’d cared for an old woman during her last days? His innocence didn’t matter; there would always be the stigma. His stomach churned. “We need to talk.”