Moth(20)

The following morning we pack up the SUV the guys are using and head out for a road trip. I’ve considered calling the people to let them know we’ll be stopping by, but this is a sensitive conversation. These people assume their daughter to be dead. We’re going to conjure up the feelings they’ve tried to heal from. It won’t go over well, and we need to be careful, because if the fake Windy finds out we’re on to her she might bolt and I’ll be back to the drawing board.



The bungalow styled home is located down a gravel driveway off of a cul-de-sac. It’s a deep blue cedar shake on the top half and a red brick on the lower part. Ivy vines have grown up both sides giving it an natural aged appearance. The yard is situated in between two patches of woods while everything is pristinely landscaped. It’s a place I wouldn’t mind calling home someday; a great place to have a family and raise children.

After driving for what seems like forever in the company of my two team members, I’m eager to hop out and stretch. I hear them bickering about who is going to drive first on the way back. Ignoring them, I start heading in the direction of the front door. As I reach for my badge, a woman approaches from a nearby garden. She’s a tall woman with silver hair. She’s removing a pair of gardening gloves as I address my presence. “Hello. My name is Agent Douglas. I’m looking into the disappearance of Windy Lewis. Are you her mother?” I don’t include that I’m with the DEA. She’d be on the phone with whatever police detective is on the case, but that’s a can of worms I don’t need opened.

“Yes. I’m her mother. Is there new information about her disappearance?” I can tell she’s optimistic.

“I’m hoping a new set of eyes can shed light onto it. Do you mind answering some questions? Would it be okay if my associates take a look at some of her things?”

She looks them over. I can tell she’s questioning their authority. I knew I should have forced them to get haircuts.

“Who did you say you were with?”

Shit!

I sigh. I can’t lie about it. “I’m with the DEA, ma’am.” I flash my badge again and she closes in to take a second look.

“DEA? Why would the DEA be looking into a disappearance?”

“That’s why I’m here, ma’am. We’re trying to figure out the same question. Your daughter’s name came up in an ongoing investigation we’ve been focused on.”

She nods, but seems questionably confused. “Come inside. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring my daughter home.”

I don’t waste time flagging the guys in. They’ve gathered their gear, including gadgets that can hack any computer, and a high tech camera to capture photos, which may give us some leads. I’m still not sure this isn’t anything but a dead end, but I have to follow every lead in order to form a timeline to work from. If I have to go back to the day the girl vanished, that’s exactly what I’ll do. The key to being a good agent is to have patience. Sometimes crimes take years to solve, and on the legal side of things, I don’t want anything overlooked. If my director seems to think going into the investigation from this direction is a good idea, I have to follow his judgment.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” I suggest while looking around the small parlor room. Everything is in order. There aren’t books or magazines on the tables. There’s not a speck of dust that my eyes can find. I look for a crumb, or a misplaced book on the large shelf covering the back wall, and everything is in perfect order. In fact, they are organized by size and color. I pay close attention to her body language. She’s annoyed I’m here, but not because she’s hiding something. She thinks I’m not capable of doing anything more than what’s already been attempted to locate her daughter. She thinks I’m beneath her, incompetent and a waste of time. Her posture is confident. From the jewelry she wears I’d say she’s grown up in a comfortable situation. Every time movement happens from her daughter’s bedroom upstairs, she jumps, as if she’s startled. I half expect her to call the detective assigned to the case while I’m sitting across from her.

This woman is obviously meticulous. I could tell that from the landscaped curb appeal. Her OCD only follows into the home. I wonder if she’s this particular about small things, wouldn’t she be a difficult parent to live with? Did Windy run away because she couldn’t stand living under a microscope? I have to assume all possibilities. “Can we go over the day you reported your daughter missing?”

She folds her hands together. “It was a Thursday evening. We’d just gotten home from dinner at the country club. I’d left her several messages during the week and they’d been unanswered. That’s not like Windy. She’s always been good about checking in.”

“How long did you wait to contact authorities?”

“First I called the college. When someone got back to me that following morning I had them look into her attendance. She hadn’t been in class for days. Then I got in touch with her roommate. She claims Windy left for class on Monday and never returned. I contacted the local police where she attended school immediately, then my husband and I followed up by driving over.” Her body language doesn’t change as she begins explaining. I’m looking for her to become emotional, at the least readjust because it makes her uncomfortable, but she remains in her posh position.