Chapter Twenty-Four
Lightning streaked across the sky. A boom of thunder reverberated in Olivia’s bones. The storm picked up intensity with the speed of a moving train. Within minutes, the wipers couldn’t arc fast enough to clear the windshield.
Lincoln switched on the headlights and maintained a slow but steady speed.
Water poured from the sky in a solid sheet. Olivia white-knuckled the armrest as the SUV swerved sideways. Mud spewed from the tires. The mud puddles looked deep enough to mire even a four-wheel drive.
Lincoln fought the slippery conditions with a grimace.
When the tires hit the paved main road, Olivia exhaled in relief. Lincoln lifted his hands from the steering wheel one at a time and flexed his fingers.
Nicki, who hadn’t spoken since the rain began, exhaled with her. “That was hairy.”
“It was.” Lightning flashed again, and Olivia started. The clouds turned an ominous shade of greenish gray.
Nicki leaned sideways, looking up at the sky through the sunroof. “Feels like the storm is right on top of us.”
“Because it is.” Sharp slowed the vehicle and straddled the yellow line in the center of the road.
Water gushed from the sky faster than it could run off the road.
The SUV hydroplaned. He eased off the gas pedal even more.
The sign for the Roadside Diner beckoned.
He checked the side mirror. “I can’t see.
I’m going to stop. We can have lunch while the storm passes. ”
They lost two hours before the rain let up enough that it was safe to continue driving.
Back in the Jeep, they entered the address for Harold Martingale into the GPS.
Lincoln took the exit and followed the directions toward the town of Summerton, which was nestled at the base of Devil’s Mountain.
The tires rumbled as they drove onto a two-lane bridge.
Olivia peered over the guardrail. Water teemed and roiled just a few feet below. “The water seems high.”
Lincoln glanced out the driver’s-side window. “Too high.”
They continued into town. Hours behind schedule, they drove onto a lovely street lined with stately old homes and giant oak trees.
Harold Martingale lived at the top of a hill.
His expansive two-story home sat behind a sloping green lawn.
A small porch held a swing and boasted a spectacular view of the valley.
It was so wholesome looking that it screamed picnics, baseball, and apple pie.
Olivia squinted through the window. “Makes me want a glass of lemonade or a mint julep.”
“It’s charming.” Lincoln parked at the curb.
The leaves on the oak tree in the center of the front lawn were turning and sported bright splotches of color in an otherwise gloomy day, like a solitary colorized item in a black-and-white film.
The wind gusted. Clusters of gold and red leaves tumbled across the deep-green lawn.
Olivia imagined Zoe coming here after the deaths of her parents.
She’d been sixteen, lost, and grief-stricken.
With no family, she’d been forced to go to strangers.
She must have been in shock to have her whole life ripped out from under her.
What had the home she’d been raised in been like? Had she been close to her parents?
How could Olivia be friends with Zoe for fifteen years and not know any of these answers? Because her friend had always shut down personal conversations about her childhood.
Lincoln parked on the street where he had a clear view of the house. He squinted through the windshield and stiffened. Olivia followed his gaze. Large gashes marred the wooden front door, as if someone had tried to break in.
“Do you see those?” Lincoln said.
“Yes.”
“What?” Nicki asked, peering out the side window. “Oh. The front door! That’s not good.”
“No.” Lincoln checked his weapon.
Olivia glanced over her seat. “You wait here.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Lincoln opened his door. “Lock up.”
Nicki sulked but agreed. “OK.” She slid down in the seat and crossed her arms. But Olivia heard the click of the door locks as she walked away from the vehicle.
Olivia followed Lincoln to the front porch.
The rain had slowed to a light drizzle. The house had been built on a raised foundation.
She’d need a ladder to look in the first-floor windows.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she pressed the doorbell and waited while chimes echoed inside. Nothing happened.
Lincoln motioned for her to move away from the center of the door. He’d warned her in the past about being in the line of fire if someone inside a house shot through the door. He pulled his weapon from its hip holster.
She pressed the doorbell again. The chime sounded again. No one responded. She pressed the button a third time. The chime repeated, sounding louder. Fabric rustled and something moved at the back of the house.
Olivia banged again, then called out, “Mr. Martingale? Are you all right?”
Shuffling footsteps sounded inside. A shadow appeared at the end of the hallway. It paused, then approached. A shaky voice asked, “Who are you?” He sounded old.
Olivia called, “My name is Olivia Cruz.”
“I don’t know you,” the old man answered. “Go away.”
“I really need to speak with you. I’m a friend of Zoe March.” She waited, but he didn’t respond. “Please, Mr. Martingale. She’s missing.”
“Be quiet,” he admonished. “Stop yelling her name. Someone might hear you!”
“Then talk to me.” Something was very wrong here. Zoe was still missing, and Olivia was ready to play hardball.
The dead bolt slid away, and the door cracked. A blue eye and half of a wrinkled face appeared. “She’s not here, and I don’t know where she is. Now go away before someone sees you.”
“If you don’t want someone to see us on the porch, let us in,” Olivia said. “We’re not leaving.”
The old man hesitated, then opened the door and stepped back. “Come in quickly.” He motioned for them to hurry.
When they were in the foyer, he closed the door and locked it again.
He was a tall, lean man in excellent shape for his age.
He didn’t require a walker or cane. His trim frame was dressed in jeans, a button-up shirt, and loafers with tassels.
He looked like a college professor. As her eyes adjusted to the dim, she could see his face more clearly.
Wrinkles creased his skin, and his hair had thinned and faded to cotton-ball white.
He also had a black eye and a swollen lip.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
A red splotch marked an impending bruise darkening his cheek, his shoulders stooped, and he held himself with stiffness that suggested pain.
Lincoln moved past him, scanning the house. “Is anyone else here?”
“No.” The old man stared at his gun. “Who are you?”
“I’m going to make sure the house is empty.” Lincoln walked down the hallway, clearly intent on confirming they were alone.
“It’s OK,” Olivia said. “He’s a retired police detective. We’re not criminals. We’re not here to hurt you.”
Harold didn’t look convinced.
“You’re Harold Martingale?” Olivia asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Martingale—”
“You can call me Harold.” Pain scratched in his voice. “And you are?”
Olivia introduced herself again. “Do you remember Zoe March?”
“Of course I do. I remember every one of the kids we helped raise.” His words were sharp. “Why are you asking about Zoe?”
“She’s my friend, and she’s missing.” Olivia studied his injuries. “What happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing.” He touched the scab on his mouth with his fingers.
She tilted her head. “Someone hit you. Obviously more than once.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Olivia said. “Do you need to see a doctor?” The color of his bruises suggested the beating was fresh.
Harold held up a hand. “I’ll be fine.”
Lincoln returned, shoving his gun into its holster. “House is clear.”
“I already told you it was,” Harold snapped.
Lincoln ignored his response and looked him up and down. “Who beat you up?”
Without answering, Harold turned and limped down the hallway.
Olivia and Lincoln followed him. They passed a study.
Built-in bookcases gleamed on either side of a gas fireplace.
Wide-plank wood floors shone. The leather chairs were contemporary but also rustic.
The hallway ended in a large kitchen, recently renovated in the modern farmhouse style.
The island was as big as Olivia’s car. Harold was not a broke senior barely surviving on social security. He lived comfortably.
Lincoln moved from window to window, pushing aside curtains, surveying the surroundings. “I’m going to check outside. I assume whoever attacked you tried to break through the front door?”
“He tried,” Harold admitted. “But the joke’s on him. That’s a custom door, solid poplar. It held.”
“Then how did he get in?” Olivia asked.
“He didn’t. He hid out back and caught me on my way in from the garage. Then he forced me to use my key in the back door.”
The boldness worried Olivia. A home invasion in broad daylight suggested an assailant who wasn’t concerned about being caught.
“When did this happen?” she asked.
“This morning,” he admitted.
“Did you call the police?” she asked.
“No,” Harold said. “He had pictures of my grandchildren. He said he’d kill them if I called anyone.”
Lincoln said, “I’ll double-check your doors and windows. I’ll bring Nicki inside too. I think she’ll be safer in the house.”
“I doubt that he’ll come back.” Harold perched on a leather stool. “He searched this house for Zoe and learned that she isn’t here.”
“Who is he?” Olivia went into the kitchen. Without asking, she opened drawers until she found a dishcloth, then filled it with ice from the freezer. She handed it to Harold.
He frowned but followed instructions. “What do you want?”
“To find Zoe,” Olivia said.
“Why?” Harold asked around the ice.
“Because she’s missing, and she’s my friend,” she repeated.