“It was shortly after Tom’s daughter disappeared that the mill shut down. The original owner had passed years before and left it to his son. The big lumber companies were taking over. He couldn’t compete, so he shut it down, sold his house and moved to Dallas.”
“In a few short years, Mr. Logsdon lost his daughter and the job he’d worked for most of his life.” Grant shook his head. “I can see why he was never the same. As sad as that story is, it’s not helping us find Avery and Bree. Do we gather Mr. Logsdon and take him home, or continue our search and hope he makes it back on his own?”
“He’ll get to the old Stenson Mill sign, look up at it and then turn around and go home.”
Grant froze. “What was the name of the factory?”
“Stenson Mill,” the sheriff said.
“Holy fucking shit.” Grant leaped into the sheriff’s truck. “Get us there. Now.” He yelled to Melissa. “Follow us.”
The sheriff slammed his foot down on the accelerator and roared through town. “Why are we going to the mill?”
“Avery was right. We were missing something. We were on the right track, but basements might’ve been a poor guess.” He turned to the sheriff. “John Stenson.”
“The founder of the mill.” The sheriff slowed at a turn, but not enough. The back of his SUV skidded sideways before he got control. “So?”
“He was a big bootlegger back during prohibition. He was known for both selling and making spirits. He liked cutting out the middleman. We went to the house he owned and found nothing in the basement.”
“Because he didn’t bring his brewing operation home to his family.” The sheriff shook his head and negotiated another sharp turn. “Why would he when he had a lumber mill he could use as a front to hide his still?”
“Right under our noses,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “No one but Tom Logsdon ever goes there. The place is falling down. The roof is caved in in places.”
“Thus, rain gets in and causes mold.” Grant leaned forward, wishing the truck would move faster.
His phone chirped. Grant glanced at the name on the screen and answered. “Swede, what have you got?”
“Might have found the parents of the twins.”
“Tell me quick. We think we found the killer’s hiding place.”
“Then you’ll want to know this. I traced back through reports of missing persons, including a mother and her twin one-month-old babies from thirty-four years ago. I got a hit on the wife of a Dallas Police detective who went on public television asking for help finding his missing wife and baby daughters. His name was David Raymond. His wife’s name was Sarah.”
Grant’s gut bunched into a hard knot. “Sarah Logsdon Raymond?”
“Yes. Her maiden name was Logsdon.” Swede went on. “Even though David was a detective, he was the first suspect. They couldn’t pin it on him. He even passed a lie detector test. Though he was cleared, the suspicion eventually ruined his career. He left the force a year later.”
A text pinged on Grant’s phone.
“I just sent you an old photograph of David Raymond.”
Grant hit the speaker button and brought up the photograph. “Oh, hell.”
“What?” Sheriff Taylor’s foot slipped off the accelerator.
“Don’t slow down now. We need to get there as fast as possible. The picture Swede sent is a younger version of your coffee guy, Dan.”
Chapter 17
Avery swam to the surface of darkness, her thoughts fuzzy, her vision blurred. She lay on her side with her cheek pressed against a cold, hard concrete floor.
A dull yellow light shone down from above, swaying slightly.
“Oh, dear Sarah, welcome to the finale,” a deep male voice said from somewhere close by. Had she heard it before?
Still groggy and lethargic, Avery glanced in that direction, willing her vision to clear, for her thoughts to crystallize.
“I searched for years,” the man was saying. “After your disappearance ruined my career, I vowed to find you and the brats you chose over me. What did I tell you before you left?” He paused as if waiting for a response. “That’s right,” he said, though no one spoke. “I’d make you watch them die before I killed you.”
