Because that’s what we do when it matters. We go over details until the truth shakes loose.
I drag a hand over my face. “I pulled up at six-fifty-five. Knocked. Maggie said Faith left ten minutes earlier to wait outside. She wasn’t out there.”
Nash leans against the counter, arms folded. “And there were no footprints?”
“Fresh snow,” I say. “Hard to tell. Maggie’s walkway was shoveled earlier. Porch had a dusting but…” My jaw tightens. “If Faith stepped off that porch, there would’ve been tracks. There weren’t.”
Silence drops.
Clay’s eyes flick to mine. “So she didn’t leave on foot.”
“She got picked up,” Boone says.
My hands clench around the fork. “Or she got dragged.”
Mom’s eyes flash. “Dallas.”
I swallow. “We don’t know.”
Boone nods once, accepting the truth for what it is. “We don’t. So we look.”
Nash pushes off the counter. “We split up. Check every damn place she might go if she panicked. Trails. Lake. The old mill. The bakery's back entrance. The church steps. That overlook on Creek Road where kids used to park and make bad decisions?—”
“Do not talk about my bad decisions in front of Mom,” I mutter.
Nash’s mouth twitches. “Sorry. Our collective bad decisions.”
Clay glances at Boone. “You take the north route. I’ll take the back roads out toward Lawson’s place and the county line. Nash?—”
Nash holds up a hand. “I’m already on it. I’ll check the town, talk to people who aren’t you. You look like you might scare someone into lying.”
“I’m not scary,” I say flatly.
Nash points at my face. “That’s the face you made when Wyatt spilled juice on your paperwork last week.”
“That face made him cry,” Boone adds, deadpan.
“I didn’t mean to,” I mutter.
Mom pushes a thermos toward Boone. “Coffee. Bring it back full if you don’t want me to worry.”
Boone smiles at her, quick and soft. “Yes, ma’am.”
The next few hours blur into movement and cold, and the sound of my own breathing too loud inside my coat.
I drive Faith’s usual routes first. The road out to the lake. The turnoff toward the old mill. The little overlook on Creek Road, where you can see Buckhorn spread out as a toy town under snow. The spot feels smaller now, quieter, holding secrets.
I stop, get out, and the wind slaps me hard. Snow crunches under my boots. I scan the edge of the guardrail, the tree line, the drop beyond. My eyes keep snagging on every dark shape as if it might be her.
It never is.
I head back toward town and swing by the bakery. Buttercup is closed, but there are footprints around the side alley. I follow them idiotically until they lead to a dumpster and a stray cat that looks offended by my existence.
At the church, I circle the building, check the steps, and the vestibule. Locked.
At the little park near the elementary school, the swings creak in the wind, empty. My chest tightens at the thought of Faith standing here, staring at the playground, picturing a different life.
I keep moving because stopping might as well be dying.
