Heather Gudenkauf by The Weight of Silence

Author:The Weight of Silence
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Family Life, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), General, Suspense, General & Literary Fiction, Fiction
ISBN: 9780778303695
Publisher: Harlequin Mills & Boon, Limited
Published: 2010-04-16T07:00:00+00:00

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Mary Ellen McIntire is about the saddest woman I’ve ever seen. Deep grooves are etched into her cheeks and it’s hard to meet her puffy, weary eyes. The hurt just bores into you. I welcome her into my little domain. I wish that Fitzgerald was here, but he’s not, so I offer Mrs. McIntire a seat.

The whole Jenna McIntire affair was a complete and total tragedy. All around, every which way. Beautiful ten-year-old girl goes missing from her house in the middle of the night. No one knows why. She’d never left before. Jenna loved to play with dolls, had a whole collection of those American Girl dolls. I saw her room. Dolls everywhere, dressed in these little outfits. No sign of a break-in, no struggle. Just a little girl gone. The dad swore that he had locked the back door the night before, but it was found unlocked the next morning.

Always, always, the parents are the first suspects, it seems. Even when every indication is that it’s not so. Most missing child cases are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the child. The most humiliating thing is for parents to know they are persons of interest, when in fact they would die, they would open their wrists, bleed slowly and painfully, do anything to bring their child home safely.

Jenna McIntire was found six days later, in a wooded area two miles from her home. There was plenty of evidence collected. Each horrible, unspeakable act on Jenna was chronicled, but still no resolution. We don’t know who did this. Why? Yeah, some sick son of a bitch. Not even sick, evil is a better word.

So now, sitting before me is Mary Ellen McIntire, daughterless. If the gossip is accurate, she and her husband are separated. She has an older boy, fourteen, I think. I ask after him.

“Jacob is doing fine, I guess,” she says. “You know teenage boys, though. Always somewhere to be, something to do. I’ll be happy when school starts. Then at least I’ll know where he’s at.”

I hear voices and the shuffle of many feet near the front door and I crane my neck to see what is going on. I see two reservists escorting a dazed, disheveled-looking man into the building. “Excuse me, Mrs. McIntire,” I say, standing. The man being brought in is tall and thin. He towers over the other officers, but looks fragile, like a brittle stick. His hair is white and he looks as if he might cry. Mary Ellen McIntire is staring at me, a look of impatience spreading across her face. She is tired of being put off, tired of having to fight for her dead daughter. I pull my eyes away from the man, sit down and return my attention to Mary Ellen.

“What brings you here to Willow Creek, Mrs. McIntire?”

“I heard,” she begins. “I heard about the missing girls. And I thought maybe I could, you know, help.”

Carefully weighing my next words, I

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