Nowhere To Run Read Free

towards the door.
    A sheaf of papers waved in front of Susan’s face. “First site reports in, Inspector,” the station secretary’s voice chirped with disparate inherent cheer.
    “Thanks Maggie,” Susan muttered. She felt the sudden stab of a headache reaching its grip around her temples. “So how was the holiday?” she called at Alex’s retreating back.
    “You know, a beach is a beach,” Alex returned over his shoulder. “You did get an invite as far as I recall.”
    *
    “There’s no way that has anything to do with Sarah.” Elizabeth heard her father’s voice fracture with anger or stress, maybe a combination of the two. The sound reverberated through the house that had been void of speech since the policeman’s dinner time knock on the door. No wailing, keening, falling to the floor. Just the frozen silence of shock.
    “It was years ago. No one remembers, Marion, no one cares except you. Everyone else has moved on.” The thud of a bottle being placed back on the table.
    “Of course it’s easy for them to move on,” her mother’s voice shrilled in response. “They didn’t lose everything. They didn’t have to give everything up and move to the backwoods, leaving their entire lives behind them.”
    “This isn’t the time Marion. Our daughter is gone for God’s sake! This isn’t the time to turn over coals that have been raked to death.”
    A silence fell, as though both jousting partners realized they’d broken all rules of decency. Elizabeth stared up at her bedroom ceiling, waiting for the angry barbs of her parent’s voices to be obliterated again by the depth of the night’s calm outside her window.
    “I’m just trying to make sense of it Terry,” her mother’s voice finally whispered, drained of all fight. “How could this happen to our beautiful girl?”

 
    Chapter 3
     
    “Not bad,” Constables Emily Beckstead and Gary Driscoll waited on the Logan family doorstep. “Guess you could get used to this if you had to.”
    The home’s pale brick exterior rose steeply in front of them in accord with the precipitous rocks providing backdrop, elevated windows mirroring back the Bay water gleaming hundreds of feet below. Set close to the Lion’s Head namesake landmark, the house had limited foot traffic, accessible only by a half hour drive down a dead end gravel side road. Driscoll recalled there had been some local contention about the building’s creation interrupting the renowned shoreline view.
    “Here we go,” Emily nudged her partner to attention. A percussion of footsteps grew louder and the granite door was partially opened by a well-kept middle aged woman holding a greyhound dog by the collar. Lifting enquiring eyebrows, she surveyed them through the opening.
    “Mrs. Logan?” the officer held out her hand to the woman, “We’re with the Grey Bruce OPP. We’re here to talk about Sarah Harmon. Can we come in?”
    “Tom’s not here,” Mrs. Logan answered, looking pointedly down at the dog who was straining against his collar in a bid to make a dash between their legs for the forest behind them.
    Emily glanced at Gary. “We could go ahead and have a few words with you if you have a moment.”
    “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Logan gave an audible sigh, “Just let me put Sheba in the run out back.” She gestured towards the room to their left, and turned away with the dog at her heels.
    Driscoll resisted the urge to whistle as they stepped into the sitting room: blonde wood beams met at the peak of a cathedral ceiling two stories above a room decked out in furnishing more extravagant than the getups on the shows his wife was devoted to watching on the home and gardening television channel.
    Sitting carefully on the edge of a cream coloured sofa he pulled a face at his partner. “Can I offer you anything to drink?” a voice came from behind them as their host re-entered the room. “Tea, something cold?”
    “We’re fine thank you,” Gary straightened as Mrs. Logan