Chapter Four
“She’s not picking up her phone or answering texts! Oh, Lord. Oh, please. Please, Sergeant Kennedy, you have to help me!”
“I’m going to help you.” Midge props her own phone between her shoulder and ear and reaches for her iPad to access the state’s Integrated Justice Portal. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“I told you! Sarah! Sarah Greene.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Sarah Greene.”
“I am. I’m Sarah, she’s Sarah.”
“Got it.” Midge types it into her report.
A mother and daughter, both named Sarah . . .
Why is that familiar? Sarah . . . Sarah . . .
Midge knows her, or them, or maybe just about them. A recent connection, something unpleasant, flits at her mind’s periphery.
When was it? Where was it?
“How old is Sarah, Mrs. Greene?”
“Sixteen.”
Midge thinks of the impetuous Taylor and her weary mother.
The world revolves around her, and the rest of us are just here to serve her.
She asks for Sarah’s birth date, height, weight, physical description, and whether there are any other identifying factors.
“What do you mean?” her mother asks.
“Any birthmarks?”
“No.”
“Any scars, tattoos, that sort of thing?”
“Tattoos? No!”
“And no scars?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What is she wearing? Do you know?”
“Of course I know. It’s a short-sleeved, knee-length pink dress.”
“Shoes? Jewelry?”
“White ballet flats and a gold cross.”
“Anything else? Glasses, a watch, earrings?”
“No.”
“When and where did you last see her?”
“Today! At home! She was heading for her Bible study youth group.”
“What time was this?” Midge asks.
“Around noon. I mean, it was supposed to start at noon, but that’s when she left, because she was late starting her chores.”
Chores. Midge types the word, feeling the phone slipping as her sweaty skin slicks its screen. Chores makes her think of farmhands, or kids in historical novels.
“And you’ve tried to reach her? She has a cell phone?”
“Yes. She always answers calls and texts right away.”
“Are you able to track her phone?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of parents have access to their kids’ phone locations.”
“We’ve never needed that. Sarah always tells us where she is, and she lets us know if she’s going to be late. This isn’t like her!”
“Okay, we have to consider that she might have lost her phone or it was stolen. Maybe that’s why you haven’t heard from her.”
“But where is she?”
“Did you check with her friends? Or other family members? Sarah’s dad?”
“My husband is in Georgia. Well, almost. He’s driving our son back to college. When I got ahold of him, they were somewhere in South Carolina. He told me to call you. He knows this isn’t like her.”
“Okay, well, how did she get to her meeting? How was she planning to get home? Did she drive?”
“She’s sixteen! She doesn’t even have a driver’s permit yet.”
“Did she get a ride with a friend?”
“She walked.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone. It’s not far. It’s . . . I don’t know, half a mile? In broad daylight! Right here in town! What could have happened to her? This is Mulberry Bay, not . . . not . . . some city!”
Mulberry Bay. Where nothing bad ever happens.
Right.
Staccato tapping her fingers on the desk, Midge thinks of Caroline Winterfield.
“When were you expecting Sarah, Mrs. Greene?”
“She should have been here by one forty-five. Two o’clock at the latest!”
Barely two hours ago. And she’s sixteen. At that age, kids are so easily sidetracked.
“Where does the Bible study group meet?” Midge asks.
“They usually meet at the Hardys’ house because they have three teenagers who are all in the group. They live in the red-and-pink Victorian on Center Street, and there’s plenty of room for everyone. Do you know them?”
“I know the house. So that’s where Sarah was headed?”
“No, the Hardys are away at the retreat, so this week’s meeting was changed to the church.”
“Which church?”
“Congregational Memorial!” Mrs. Greene says, as if there’s no other.
There are plenty, their steeples rising from historic white clapboard and fieldstone here in the heart of town.
But Congregational is ostracized to an old industrial neighborhood of warehouses and freight yards. The yellow brick rectangle was built in the seventies without a hint of vintage small-town charm.
It was Caroline’s church. Her parents are still members. It has always been the center of the Winterfields’ lives—spiritual and social. Caroline met her high school boyfriend Gordy Klatte at the youth group, and—
Light bulb moment.
Sarah . . . Sarah!
“Mrs. Greene, does your daughter date Michael Klatte?”
“She did, until . . .”
“Until . . . ?”
“Until June.”
The word is pointed.
June. That’s when Midge investigated Gordy Klatte’s death in what appeared to be an accidental fall.
Even now, she can hear his wife’s inconsolable keening and see her pristine white nightgown stained with his blood. She can see his teenage sons, pale and shaken. The younger, Noah, did his best to answer Midge’s questions. The older, Michael, leaned on his girlfriend . . .
Sarah.
Sarah Greene.
Sarah’s mother, also Sarah, was one of the church ladies who flocked to the house with prayers and casseroles as Midge asked the routine questions that accompany any unattended fatality.
“They broke up? Sarah and Michael?” Midge asks.
“I wouldn’t put it that way. Amy and the boys left town as soon as school let out. They’ve been in Pennsylvania all summer, staying with her parents.”
“Your daughter and Michael didn’t break up, then? They’re just apart for the summer? Are they still in touch?”
“No, they’re not. Michael’s not coming back. Amy’s going to put the house on the market. And finding my daughter has nothing to do with the Klattes. Please, I just need you to help me.”
“We’re going to find her. Did you call the church? Maybe she got held up there after the meeting, for a project or—”
“I tried calling the office. No one picked up. Reverend Parker left this morning, and he won’t be back until Monday.”
“He doesn’t teach the Bible class?”
“No. It’s not a class. There’s no teacher. It’s a social group, all young people. They meet every Thursday afternoon.”
“How about your daughter’s friends? Did you check to see if she’s with any of them?”
“Most of them are away at the retreat.”
“How about their parents? Maybe check with them and see if—”
“It’s a family retreat. A lot of people are there.”
“Then maybe there was no Bible study today,” Midge suggests. “Maybe Sarah didn’t realize it had been canceled.”
Or maybe she knew and didn’t want to tell you, so that she could do something more fun on a beautiful summer afternoon.
“It wasn’t canceled, just moved to the church. Shouldn’t you be putting out an all-points bulletin, or . . . What is it that you do?”
Midge hesitates, weighing her words. “It’s not—”
“An Amber Alert, right? Isn’t that it?”
“There are parameters for doing that, Mrs. Greene. It has to go through the New York State Police SVU—that’s Special Victims Unit. They have to review the request to confirm reasonable cause that there’s been an abduction, or evidence that a child is in imminent danger. We—”
“My daughter is missing! Of course she’s in danger! She’s not the kind of girl who . . . she’s a good girl. You know her.”
Midge met Sarah only once—at Gordy Klatte’s house on the day he died in what appeared to be an accidental fall down a flight of stairs.
“I can put out a BOLO, Mrs. Greene.”
“What is that?”
“It means be on the lookout. It gets the information to other local law enforcement and other agencies.”
“The FBI?”
“At this stage, I don’t—”
“Please! This isn’t like my Sarah. She’s been kidnapped. I just know it.”
Midge opts not to voice her disagreement, nor to mention the Occam’s razor problem-solving principle. The simplest explanation is usually the most likely. Don’t reach for far-fetched, convoluted hypotheses—like kidnapping.
Sarah Greene is sixteen. She probably lied about Bible study group and is instead hanging out with friends, or a boy.
Or maybe she went to her group but stopped off in town afterward to return a library book or buy nail polish, or whatever teenage girls buy, and lost track of time.
Maybe she’s up to something her mother wouldn’t approve of.
Maybe she’s trespassing in someone’s backyard pool.
Maybe.
But maybe not.
Midge considers the connection to Gordy Klatte, whose death occurred on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his high school girlfriend Caroline Winterfield’s disappearance.
Multiple coincidences often turn out to be evidence. Midge has since become convinced Gordy’s death was no accident. His hands showed evidence of a struggle. Presumably, forensic tests will soon confirm his attacker’s DNA under his fingernails.
Midge is certain that attacker won’t be a stranger. Not to him.
Not to Midge.
Now his son’s girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—is missing?
“Where do you live, Mrs. Greene?”
“Twenty-five Valley Avenue.”
“Okay, I’m on my way over. You can tell me more in person.”
Midge disconnects the call, already on her feet.