Long Lost: A Kate Burkholder Short Story Read Free Page B

them paid for what they got. That don’t mean that innocent girl was like her mama and it doesn’t mean she don’t deserve justice. Take my word for it, they wadn’t nothing alike.”
    Feeling as if I’m somehow betraying Tomasetti, I take the papers.
    “Hold on a sec.” Sandy pulls the pen from behind her ear and scribbles something on her order pad. “I know you ain’t interested, but if you change your mind, this is Tucker Miles’s address. Piece of shit lives in that old trailer home on the edge of town. Drinks all day and don’t work half the time.” She rips off the sheet and shoves it at me. “If you go out there, I wouldn’t turn my back on that ball-scratching son of a bitch. He’ll stick a knife in it or else shoot you.”
    I take the sheet and tuck it into my pocket without looking at it. “We’re probably not going to get involved.”
    She tightens her mouth. “Well, I’ll feel better knowing I tried.”
    She turns to leave, but I stop her. “Who put that marker out there by the river?” I ask.
    “I did,” she tells me and walks away.
    *   *   *
    “Kate, we’re not going to get into this murder thing.” Tomasetti slams the door of the Tahoe and we sit there a moment looking at each other.
    “I know,” I tell him.
    “We have two days here. I’d rather spend them in bed with you than tromping around some damn trailer with a psycho inside.”
    “I agree completely.”
    “Then stop looking at me that way.”
    “What way is that?”
    “Like justice matters, goddamn it.”
    Frowning, he starts the engine. Neither of us speaks as he idles through the parking lot and turns onto the highway. In the opposite direction of the bed-and-breakfast.
    “I thought we were going back?”
    “Detour.”
    “Where to?”
    Sighing, he tosses me a yeah-right look. “The Willow Run RV Park is right down the road. Since we’re only a couple of miles away…”
    I nod, trying not to smile. “So we’re just going to talk to him, right?”
    “And try not to get our asses shot off.”
    *   *   *
    It only takes a few minutes for us to reach the mobile home park where Tucker Miles resides. The Willow Run RV Park is nestled in a treed area and partially obscured by a wooden privacy fence that’s badly in need of repair. At first glance everything seems rustic and quaint, the kind of place where your grandparents might park their RV for the summer. The instant Tomasetti turns into the park, all semblance of charming grinds to an abrupt halt.
    The first trailer is actually a camper set in the bed of a pickup truck that’s jacked up on cinder blocks. I’m pretty sure the puddle beneath it is raw sewage. In the second lot, a blue and white trailer with a broken front window sits at a cockeyed angle. The condition of the homes disheartens me. The optimist inside me hopes this is a stop on the way to something better for the people living here. The part of me that is a realist—the part of me that has seen this scenario too many times to deny its existence—knows that for many, the buck stops here.
    “Looks like ole Tuck is making all the right connections,” Tomasetti mutters as he idles down the street. “What’s that address?”
    I glance down at the paper the waitress gave us back at the restaurant. “Robin Hood Lane. Lot fourteen.”
    “Here we go.” He makes a quick right.
    The curb at the second space we come to is marked with a faded Lot 14. An old van with a creased door sits in the narrow gravel drive. Tomasetti parks at the curb and shuts down the engine. “Home sweet home.”
    “Looks like he’s there,” I say.
    Tomasetti eyes the trailer. It’s a narrow rust bucket with a living room extension and a navy blue blanket covering the kitchen window. “You sure you want to do this?”
    “We’re just going to ask him a few questions, right?”
    “You know those are famous last words, don’t you?”
    Casting him a grin, I get out and start toward the front door. I hear