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“It was last August, I think.” Mona slipped her arms into her jacket. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it. Where have you been, Vi?”
In Russia, of course, leading the glitzy other half of my double life as a world-class spy. “I’ve been a little busy lately, thank you very much. Just explain, please.”
“The reason Ray got so pissed about the Missing Girl sign is because this third incident has rumors flying all over town that Deadwood has its very own serial snatcher.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I wrung my clammy palms together. What had I done, moving my kids here? Life down on the prairie had been filled with ruts over the last few years—especially deep ones when it came to my crappy-ass job and lack of satisfying love life, but long unpaid hours at work and a slew of really rotten blind dates didn’t put my daughter’s life at risk.
“Talk about bad publicity,” Mona said. “This town doesn’t need this kind of problem. Deadwood’s history has been bloody enough.”
“Do the cops have any suspects?”
“None so far.” Mona grabbed her keys. “I gotta go. I have an appointment down in Rapid this afternoon. Jane and Ray haven’t come back from lunch yet, so you’re on your own.”
Good. I could use some alone time to shake off the heebie-jeebies.
Mona headed past Jane’s office toward the back door. “Good luck tonight, Vi.” The back door slammed shut behind her.
Why hadn’t Aunt Zoe told me two girls had gone missing in the last year before I relocated my children into a kidnapper’s lair? I chewed on a pencil, brooding. Would it have mattered?
My need for change had been cracking the whip hard, pushing me into taking risks I’d have run from in the past. Working for over a decade at the car dealership had been draining me dry, and after being groped for the final time by the drunken owner at last year’s summer barbecue, I’d given my two weeks’ notice, applied to realty school, and moved in with my parents to save up my money.
Aunt Zoe’s invitation to try life in the hills with her had been my gift upon finishing with school. I hadn’t even hesitated before yelling, “Yes, yes!” and crushing her in a hug. Since I was a kid, Deadwood had held memories of sunshine and fun. I didn’t want to let some monster steal that away from me. I’d worked too hard to make it here.
In the remaining silence, I could hear rain pounding overhead. Gloom penetrated the office, shrouding me in doubts about my ability to provide a safe haven for my kids.
My cell phone rang again. It was my boss. “Hi, Jane.”
“How did it go? Did Hessler sign?”
“Yes.” No lies this time.
“Good. Now you just need to find a buyer.”
I heard what sounded like Ray’s usual guffaw in the background and wanted to reach through the line and clock him.
“Listen, Ray and I won’t be back in today, so I need you to close up the office.”
“Sure.”
“And will you do me a quick favor? Go into my office and read me the number that’s on the Post-It next to my phone?”
Her office fluorescents flickered and hummed overhead. The Post-It note was stuck to aJuly Goalsprintout. I read the phone number to Jane and she hung up with a “Thanks.”
As I started to turn away from her desk, I saw Ray’s nephew’s name, Benjamin Underhill, on a folder that was partially buried under the Goals printout.
It took just a second for curiosity to win the arm-wrestling match against ethics. I pulled the folder out and flipped it open. An 8-by-10 color picture of a younger version of my favorite asshole looked up at me. Benjamin’s smile was identical to Ray’s, down to the last chemically whitened tooth. I glared at the Sharpie in Jane’s pencil holder and fought the temptation to blacken a few of Ben’s choppers.
His resume followed his picture. I scanned his credentials, sagging against Jane’s desk as each one reduced my own qualifications to a burger-flipping level. The next page was a recommendation from a realty broker in Rapid City. Words like “highly organized,” “go-getter,” and “extremely intelligent” filled the gold-embossed paper.
Snapping the folder shut, I wanted to crawl under Jane’s desk and nurse my bruised ego back to health with a bottle of Southern Comfort.
“Hello?” A male voice echoed through the empty office.
I nearly dropped the folder in surprise. “Be right with you.” I slipped the folder back in its place.
Straightening my damp camisole, I forced my cheeks into a smile and stepped out into the front room. “How can I …”
Our new neighbor, the cleft-chinned Wild Bill groupie, stood pasted against the wall next to the To-Do whiteboard. His gaze was locked on the coffee maker, his lips pressed tight, his rugged face visibly pale. I glanced at the coffee maker, looking for a mouse or a rat or a flying-purple-people-eater. Something other than just a glass decanter half-filled with brown liquid.
