Chapter 2
TWO
VAN
By the time I turn into the Carver Family Pumpkin Patch lot, I’ve been up since five and I’m already on my third cup of coffee.
TJ’s chattering from the backseat, alternating between sound effects for his toy dump truck and questions about how many pumpkins we’ll see today.
“Hundreds,” I tell him. “Maybe thousands.”
“Do you think they have the kind that’s white? Like ghosts?”
“Only one way to find out, kiddo.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “Best inspection ever.”
I pull the truck into a space near the barn. The place is alive with activity—tents half up, cords running across the gravel, and people everywhere, moving with that mix of chaos and purpose that always shows up right before an event.
A woman steps out of the small office near the front, clipboard in hand, pencil behind her ear. The kind of person who’s clearly been up as long as I have, but still looks like she’s got the whole operation running on caffeine and grit.
She’s not what I expected.
She’s… better.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say, rounding the hood. “Babysitter bailed last minute, and I didn’t want to reschedule. Hope that’s okay.”
She waves it off easily, though I can tell she’s surprised. “It’s fine. You must be Chief…”
“Van McKenna.” I extend a hand. “And this is TJ.”
My kid grins up at her and gives a little wave with the dump truck clutched in his fist. “Hi!”
“Hi, TJ.” She crouches so she’s on his level. “I’m Lanie.”
“You run the pumpkin patch,” he says with all the solemnity a six-year-old can muster.
“That’s right.”
He nods, satisfied, and bolts toward a big wooden box near the picnic tables, where another boy’s already half-buried in corn kernels.
“Huck!” she calls after him. “You’ve got company!”
The other boy—her son, I’m guessing—looks up, grins, and waves TJ over.
Thirty seconds later, they’re running trucks through the corn like they’ve been friends their whole lives.
“Guess I don’t have to worry about keeping him entertained,” I say, chuckling. “He’s been talking my ear off about this place all week. Pretty sure this is heaven for a six-year-old.”
“That works out well.” She smiles, and damn if it doesn’t make something in my chest skip. “I’ll show you around so you can get a sense of the layout before the festival.”
“Lead the way.”
I fall into step beside her, boots crunching over gravel. She’s all business, walking fast, talking faster. She knows every inch of this place, from the hay maze to the zipline. Along the way, she rattles off safety details and volunteer schedules like she’s memorized the playbook.
Hell, she probably wrote the damn thing.
When we stop near the maze, the sun catches on her hair. For a second, it looks like it’s spun from copper. I refocus on the map she’s given me.
“So,” she says briskly, pointing to a few marked exits. “If there’s an emergency, we’ll have volunteers stationed here and here.”
“Who do you have volunteering?”
“A couple of sororities and fraternities at the nearby college.”
I lean in to look, catching a faint whiff of vanilla and coffee on her skin.
“Looks good,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You’re thorough.”
“I try.”
When she glances up, our eyes meet. The air between us shifts—small but noticeable. She clears her throat and steps away, flipping to another page.
“We can check out the food-truck row next.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. It makes me feel old.”
“Pretty sure that’s impossible.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. I wonder what it would take to have her give me one.
By the time we make it back to the picnic area, it’s quieter than I expected. It takes me a moment to realize why.
The laughter and made-up truck sounds are gone.
I look around. The corn box is empty.
“TJ?” My voice sharpens.
Noticing the same thing, Lanie pales.
“Huck?” she calls.
There’s no reply. Nothing.
“They were just here,” she says, panic starting to edge into her voice.
“They couldn’t have gone far.” I tap the radio clipped to my belt. “McKenna to Carver team—two kids missing from the corn box, names Huck Carver and TJ McKenna. Starting a search.”
Static, then a crackle of response.
“Copy that. I’ll circle the maze on the tractor.”
“That’s my brother, Dylan,” she explains.
“I’m on the ATV by the barn.”
“That’s Quinn.”
“Good,” I say. “You check the maze,” I tell her. “I’ll sweep the lot.”
She nods and bolts toward the maze, clipboard forgotten. I start toward the parking area, heart hammering.
“Huck!” she shouts somewhere behind me.
“TJ!” I call, scanning between the tents, the equipment shed, the maze entrance. Nothing.
The cheerful background noise of the farm feels wrong now—too bright, too far away.
“They’re okay,” I tell myself, forcing the words out even though they’re more prayer than statement. “They’re okay.”
But every instinct in me is awake, running hot.
Because the last time I looked, my son was laughing in a pile of corn.
And now he’s gone.