Ali asks, “Do they think it’s connected to the coach?”
“The only news is that the sheriff is organizing a search.”
“Remember the human trafficking case last year up in New England?”
“I do.”
“It was a small town. I hope that’s not what happenedto these girls.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Kenzi says. “The town isn’t too far from Detroit.” She sighs. “Right now, there’s not a lot of information. We’ll circle back to this on tomorrow’s episode.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Mom told me to meet the family out at the McKenna farm. As I pull onto the property, it’s not the same as it was yesterday afternoon. The land where the barn used to be as well as the grassy field is filled with cars and trucks. It takes a moment before I find a place to park. After finessing my rental between two large trucks, I ease out of the car and begin walking toward the tree line. It’s not only the direction others are headed, but also the way I hear voices, more specifically, one voice.
At the crest of the hill, I look over the field where yesterday afternoon there was a growing pile of brush. This morning, it’s a sea of people. With my hands in my jacket pockets, I make my way toward the crowd, wondering if all these people are from Blue Gil. It isn’t unusual for people from farther distances to come when a person is missing. If I were to think about the shows, I’d say that if there’s a person responsible for a disappearance, he or she is here.
It’s a common profile. Arsonists stand behind the police tape and watch the building they set on fire burn. Kidnappers are often part of the search team. Murderers attend the funeral of their victim.
Psychologically, it has to do with narcissistic tendencies. Often the guilty party is certain of their ability to not be caught and will infiltrate the case posing as a concerned friend or good-hearted Samaritan.
I remind myself that we have no reason to believe Julie is a victim of foul play.
She simply didn’t come home after a party.
Since talking to Becky, I’ve compiled a multitude of questions, the biggest one being who else failed to return home besides Julie and Marty Thompson?
The demographic of the search gathering is difficult to pinpoint. There are young and old, families with children, and men and women with firearms. There are even some people with dogs. I assume they are hunting dogs, not cadaver trained, based on the attire of their owners. Some canines sit obediently at their owner’s feet while others pull on their leashes, sending high-pitched whines through the brisk afternoon air.
“Jillian.”
I stop and turn back toward the deep voice.
“Theo,” I reply with a nod, taking in the man from the Walleye Tavern, the one who kept my arrival to Blue Gil secret, at least from my parents.
Trotting down the hill, he catches up to me, still a distance from the crowd. “Man, I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure it’s sunk in. I’m hoping?—”
“Just a little too much partying,” he says, finishing my sentence.
My cheeks rise in a sort of smile as the breeze blows my hair around my face and I take in Theo’s appearance. Not much different than the night at the bar, he’s wearing faded blue jeans. His muscular chest and arms are covered by a large Lions hoodie. I recognize it as the throwback jersey, the last time the Detroit Lions won the NFC championship.
While I doubt many of my friends in California would know that fact, growing up with a diehard Lions fan for a father, I could probably recite the team’s statistics as soon as I learned to talk.
The commemorated win occurred before the Super Bowl existed.
In 1957, the Lions beat the Cleveland Browns 59 to 14. The Browns were favored, mostly because our quarterback, Bobby Layne, broke his right ankle in the conference final—the game before the championship. Tobin Rote, previously from Green Bay, stepped up and gave us a win.
Since that was the last championship win for Detroit, it lives in infamy for fans of the team.
“Yeah,” I reply to Theo. “Did you go to the party?”
He shakes his head, and I decide from the mess of his hair that he came here straight from bed. In his hand is a mug of what I can assume is coffee.
“No, I worked last night.” He lifts the mug. “I just woke and saw the text. Four in the morning wasn’t that long ago.”
