Batmobile. I don’t care if the Queen of England and all her corgis have gone missing. I’m not running anywhere. Hip surgery, remember? I’ll let you drive while I eat this pulled pork sandwich and get sauce and coleslaw all over your car interior. Don’t make that face. A real detective eats in her car. And since you drink so much coffee, you should start saving up empty mayonnaise jars. Did I ever tell you about Detective ‘Sun Tea’ McAdams?
I shook my head to clear the voice of my father. He was probably at home with his feet up, watching a true crime show. If I needed his help I would call. But I was at the ravine already, and I could handle the situation.
The light from the nearby street lamps was just bright enough for me to follow some fresh boot tracks. The tracks, which I hoped belonged to Jessica, marched through a thin crust of snow, along the ravine.
In the spring, Misty Creek would run through the ravine, bisecting the town and providing a watery highway for the annual Misty Falls Charity Ducky Race. Now, in late February, the ravine held only snow.
I followed the boot tracks right to where I’d predicted they would go, an old treehouse Jessica had discovered while exploring the neighborhood. For the last week, when she wasn’t at work or curled up on the couch, she’d been at the treehouse.
By the warm glow of light coming from the treehouse, she was there again, or so I hoped.
Chapter 3
The free-spirited imagination of a child is a guiding hand that makes all their inventions beautiful.
If not for the creativity of its construction, the old treehouse would have been ugly. The crooked hut, made from a patchwork of materials, hung between four trees. The structure was in its final days, one strong gust of wind from becoming fuel for a bonfire. But it had been made by youthful dreamers, and so it was still beautiful, even in its decay.
I climbed the rickety ladder and popped my head up through the trap door opening, expecting to find Jessica inside, in a state to match Christopher’s.
Instead, I found a pair of startled men.
Grown men.
On the plus side, they were fully clothed, which—if you happen to discover a pair of grown men in a treehouse—is how you’d prefer them to be.
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “I saw the glow of your lantern, and thought I’d find my friend up here.”
In a baritone voice, the man on the left said with a smile, “Now you’ve found two friends.” He looked to be in his early forties, with big round cheeks that gave him a diamond-shaped face, and he wore his black hair in short curls. With his deep, rich voice, he introduced himself. “I’m Dion, and this is Franco. Come on up. We don’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” said the other man, Franco. He had a nasal voice that made his joking comment sound like a taunt. Franco was the opposite of his friend, pale, with gaunt cheeks and a narrow face. He had straight dark hair in need of a haircut, falling over one eye and giving him the look of a wild, hungry horse.
Dion waved for me to join them. “Get up here before that old ladder breaks. What brings you to the Batty Genius Clubhouse on this fine February evening?”
The flat surface of the treehouse was more stable than the trembling ladder, so I took a seat with my legs dangling down through the trap door.
Franco looked me over, sniffed, then said to his friend, “She’s not the redhead who’s been hanging out up here. Her hair’s too short.”
“My hair’s not too short. It’s just right.” I glanced around the bare interior, which didn’t take long, as it was barely five feet by five. “I’d ask what two grown men are doing in a treehouse on a dark night, but I have more pressing business. Have either of you seen my friend Jessica? She comes here sometimes. She’s thirty-three, about my height and size. She’s got long red hair, which she does tend to leave everywhere.”
The guys looked at each other, trading expressions
I shook my head to clear the voice of my father. He was probably at home with his feet up, watching a true crime show. If I needed his help I would call. But I was at the ravine already, and I could handle the situation.
The light from the nearby street lamps was just bright enough for me to follow some fresh boot tracks. The tracks, which I hoped belonged to Jessica, marched through a thin crust of snow, along the ravine.
In the spring, Misty Creek would run through the ravine, bisecting the town and providing a watery highway for the annual Misty Falls Charity Ducky Race. Now, in late February, the ravine held only snow.
I followed the boot tracks right to where I’d predicted they would go, an old treehouse Jessica had discovered while exploring the neighborhood. For the last week, when she wasn’t at work or curled up on the couch, she’d been at the treehouse.
By the warm glow of light coming from the treehouse, she was there again, or so I hoped.
Chapter 3
The free-spirited imagination of a child is a guiding hand that makes all their inventions beautiful.
If not for the creativity of its construction, the old treehouse would have been ugly. The crooked hut, made from a patchwork of materials, hung between four trees. The structure was in its final days, one strong gust of wind from becoming fuel for a bonfire. But it had been made by youthful dreamers, and so it was still beautiful, even in its decay.
I climbed the rickety ladder and popped my head up through the trap door opening, expecting to find Jessica inside, in a state to match Christopher’s.
Instead, I found a pair of startled men.
Grown men.
On the plus side, they were fully clothed, which—if you happen to discover a pair of grown men in a treehouse—is how you’d prefer them to be.
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “I saw the glow of your lantern, and thought I’d find my friend up here.”
In a baritone voice, the man on the left said with a smile, “Now you’ve found two friends.” He looked to be in his early forties, with big round cheeks that gave him a diamond-shaped face, and he wore his black hair in short curls. With his deep, rich voice, he introduced himself. “I’m Dion, and this is Franco. Come on up. We don’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” said the other man, Franco. He had a nasal voice that made his joking comment sound like a taunt. Franco was the opposite of his friend, pale, with gaunt cheeks and a narrow face. He had straight dark hair in need of a haircut, falling over one eye and giving him the look of a wild, hungry horse.
Dion waved for me to join them. “Get up here before that old ladder breaks. What brings you to the Batty Genius Clubhouse on this fine February evening?”
The flat surface of the treehouse was more stable than the trembling ladder, so I took a seat with my legs dangling down through the trap door.
Franco looked me over, sniffed, then said to his friend, “She’s not the redhead who’s been hanging out up here. Her hair’s too short.”
“My hair’s not too short. It’s just right.” I glanced around the bare interior, which didn’t take long, as it was barely five feet by five. “I’d ask what two grown men are doing in a treehouse on a dark night, but I have more pressing business. Have either of you seen my friend Jessica? She comes here sometimes. She’s thirty-three, about my height and size. She’s got long red hair, which she does tend to leave everywhere.”
The guys looked at each other, trading expressions
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