Three Days Missing by Kimberly Belle

Author:Kimberly Belle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-08-17T16:00:00+00:00

KAT

32 hours, 4 minutes missing

Dunwoody Stables is a quiet enclave of million-dollar homes, separated from the bustle of Mount Vernon Road by a lazy creek, a thick fringe of evergreens and a heavy iron gate. The last is more for show than anything else, as it swings open all day long—for visitors, the UPS truck, the hordes of workers that descend every weekday to clean neighborhood pools and trim hedges. I stop in front of it now and press the button on my old remote, and after a couple of breathless seconds, the gate groans, then slides apart.

“We’re in.” I hand Lucas the remote, which he tosses onto the dash.

“Good thing Feckless didn’t change the frequency.”

“For the same reason he didn’t bother changing the locks. Never in a million years would he think I’d actually dare to come here.”

Neither did I. Neither did Lucas, for that matter, though he didn’t argue when I told him what I was planning. He didn’t bring up the restraining order or the fact that I could be arrested. He didn’t tell me to let the police handle things or that I had lost my mind. He just reached for his shoes and said no way he was letting me go alone.

Mac and his men have already searched the house and my son is not here. What the sheriff said at the camp was right: Andrew was nowhere near Dahlonega when Ethan disappeared. He was an ocean away, stretched out on the white sands of St. Martin. And yet here I am. Despite what Mac tells me, despite all the evidence that says otherwise, I can’t seem to let go of my suspicions that Andrew was somehow involved.

We motor past my former neighbors, their McMansions looming like stone sculptures over half-acre lots, the yards pristine and untrampled by tiny feet. No abandoned bikes or scooters left on the sidewalks, no forgotten footballs or soccer goals tucked under a tree. The HOA requires all toys and sports equipment be stored out of sight in the garage or backyard.

“Where is everybody?” Lucas says, gesturing to the empty street ahead of us.

“The soccer field. The grocery store. Inside watching cartoons or playing video games. People generally keep to themselves.”

“Well, what the hell kind of fun is that?” Lucas mumbles.

In Lucas’s book, exactly none. Weekends at his house are a revolving door of neighbors and friends, stopping by to watch a game or shoot the shit because they know he keeps his pantry loaded with snacks and his fridge stocked with beer. If he spots a buddy on the road, he rolls down his window and stops to say hi.

But this is Dunwoody, and people here prefer their backyard lanais over the cushioned benches on the front porch. Neighborly interactions occur from the fancy womb of their air-conditioned cars, drivers waving to each other as they zoom past.

I pull to a stop at the curb and stare up at a monstrosity of brick and stone. The shingles have turned a darker shade of gray.

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