Read Online The Missing Place by Sophie Littlefield - Free Book Online Page A

eyes and megawatt smile, they’drealize how badly she needed to find him, and they’d step up and say . . .
    It’s a hell of a thing. Can’t believe it got this out of hand. Can see how you must have been worried sick. Boys will be boys . . .
    Some caper, a case of bad judgment, a terrible misunderstanding. Something. Shay hadn’t told Colleen the whole story, how after the Arby’s parking lot episode, for the next forty miles she’d bargained hard with God while her fingers bled, letting Him know that whatever Taylor had done, she would forgive, if only he was alive and safe somewhere. A night in jail, she could accept that. A knocked-up girlfriend. A lost weekend in the Indian casino. A barroom brawl, a case of the clap, a fight that ended with the other guy in the hospital—she’d forgive all of those. By the time she crossed the North Dakota line the next day, she’d upped the ante. Would she forgive Taylor for being involved with a hit-and-run? Drugs? A shootout? Yes, yes, and yes, and there she was to prove it, laying his picture down, ready for the truth.
    Only she’d been met with one blank stare after another.
    The police station was blocky and modern, maybe fifteen years old, more glass than brick. It looked out of place on the corner where it hunkered, across from a shuttered movie theater and a Meineke muffler shop. Shay found a parking spot out front and dug quarters from her console. Fifty cents an hour; she doubted they’d need even the first quarter, but she put three in the meter just in case.
    At the door, Colleen hesitated. “You’ve been here already, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd they stonewalled you.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right.” Colleen nodded to herself and squared her shoulders, tipped her chin up, and went in. Shay followed her to the receptionist’sdesk, but Colleen ignored her. She pulled off her gloves and laid them down on the counter before saying, “My name is Colleen Mitchell. I’d like a word with the chief of police, please.”
    The receptionist, a young dark-haired woman with thick-fringed eyelashes behind plastic-framed glasses, gawped at her. “He’s pretty busy. He mostly only sees people with appointments.”
    â€œI understand,” Colleen said calmly. “Please let him know that I have come all the way from Boston to talk to him. About a private and sensitive matter,” she added, speaking over the young woman’s protest. “I’ll wait right here.”
    â€œYou can sit over there in those chairs—”
    â€œI prefer to stand.”
    As the receptionist disappeared down a hall, other people in the warren of desks behind the reception area glanced up curiously. Shay, who hadn’t been permitted to talk to anyone but the on-duty sergeant when she visited two days ago, considered Colleen. She was nice-looking in profile, with her expensively styled hair and good skin. She had probably been gorgeous twenty years ago, and now she was the kind of woman Shay made fun of. The kind of woman who could afford to buy anything but settled for shapeless, boring old-lady clothes. Whose makeup case held three shades of concealer and no eye shadow.
    But she had something. An . . . elegance, Shay supposed, or else just a knack for giving off a rich vibe without trying. Here she was without any makeup on, her boots rimed with salt and her clothes wrinkled from the suitcase, and she could still probably walk down Fifth Avenue and have people waiting on her hand and foot.
    The receptionist returned. “Chief Weyant says he can give you a few minutes before his next appointment. Just wait over there.”
    â€œAs I said, I’ll stand. Thank you.”
    Shay took a chair, picked up a brochure from a stack on the table. “Towed, Stored, and Abandoned Vehicles.” She scanned it without reading the text, put it back. Colleen