Carissa Ann Lynch - Without a Trace

“Yooo-hooo!” a man’s voice bellowed. Roland . He’d probably seen my cruiser parked out front and decided to stop in just because. I released an internal groan.

Roland was nearly forty, and balding, but still acted like a frat boy, always telling inappropriate jokes and flirting with the women he was supposed to be protecting.

“What’s up, Sharp?” Sharp was short for Sharp Shooter , another stupid nickname because I wasn’t as experienced or interested in guns as some of my male compatriots. And also, a more sinister reference…they still looked at me as that cop, the one who had shot a fellow officer. A superior officer, to make matters worse.

It didn’t matter that the shooting was justified…no one seemed to care about the actual details of what happened that day with Ezra Clark’s death…they simply wanted to blame the newbie that had killed a veteran officer.

When they looked at me, I could see it in their eyes… She killed a cop . She killed one of us . She can’t be trusted .

But I did the right thing, didn’t I? Sometimes they made me doubt myself…and plans to join a big city force had dissipated. If I couldn’t make it in this small town, I couldn’t make it anywhere…

Roland’s head popped through my door, his smile wolfish and mean. “Whatcha doing here on a Sunday, huh? Looking up online pointers for your shooting exam?” He chuckled at his own joke, hard enough that his laughs evaporated into wheezy coughs.

I was seized by the sudden desire to stand up and punch him.

“Working on a case,” I grumbled, shifting unimportant papers around on my desk. He made me uncomfortable and for a brief moment, as he stood in the doorway surveying me, I forgot why I’d come in in the first place. “What can I do for you, Roland?” I sighed.

“Saw your car. And that reminded me. There were a few messages for ya, on Saturday. From some girl.”

I gripped the edge of my desk with both hands. “Why didn’t you call my personal cell? By girl, do you mean a woman? Was it Nova Nesbitt?”

“Well, I didn’t get the messages until this morning. But yeah, I think that’s the name she said in her message.”

“Roland! You’re on-call . That means you have to answer the phone when it rings. How hard is that to understand? What if it was an emergency?”

Roland shrugged, that lopsided smile coming back. “So, shoot me. It was an honest mistake.” His face flickered with anger on the word shoot.

His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. He’d probably been down at Mick’s Lounge when the calls came in. Roland and some of the other guys spent their free time at Mick’s, or Prissy’s, the strip club on I-90. Sometimes they spent their on-the-clock hours there too. They weren’t all bad guys, but Roland was definitely the worst in the group. He’s the reason some male cops get bad raps , I thought, shaking my head.

In a town where there were more bars than restaurants, and the closest thing to a strip mall was a strip club with a Dollar Tree attached, what could I really expect? Twenty-five years ago, Roland was playing football, or some other meathead sport that made him look cool, while I was being ignored and/or teased by guys just like him. Now he was just an older, fatter version of himself, but he had the power and authority that came with being a cop.

“Welp, if it was an emergency, she should have called 911. Anyway, she mentioned your name in the message, so I thought I’d pass it along. Something about a dispute with the husband and kid? Sounds like a domestic dispute that the courts should be handling…”

My jaw clenched. It was a terrible habit that often resulted in midnight migraines.

I clicked my computer screen off and gathered up my bag and keys, then I locked the door to my office behind me, nudging him aside with my purse.

I was going to walk out, but then I changed my mind. Turning around, I narrowed my eyes at Roland.

“You know what? I’ll take that on-call cell phone,” I snapped.

Another shrug. “Hey, that works for me.” He took the cell phone out of his back pocket and held it over my head, just out of reach. You must be fucking kidding me. I was far from petite, but I hadn’t grown an inch since middle school. Roland’s six-foot frame towered over my five-foot two-inches.

My fist struck the center of his abdomen and he let out a groan. Bent at the waist, I grabbed the cell phone as it clattered on the floor by my feet.

Roland looked up at me, smiling as he clutched his waistline. His cheeks were the color of cherry blossoms. “You got a thing for picking on other officers, don’t you? Maybe I should report you to the sarge for assault…”

“Go right ahead.”

Unlike some of the guys, Sergeant DelGrande was more supportive of me.

Moments later, I roared out of the parking lot, cussing myself for letting Roland get to me…and for not writing my personal cell number on the back of the business card I gave to Nova. The card had my office extension on it and the on-call number. But if she’d tried my office yesterday, then it would have just rung and rung, eventually going straight to voicemail.

Wildly, I drove around the twisty inclines of the Appalachians, afraid of what I might find. What if Nova found her daughter on the property and I wasn’t there to help? Images of bloody, bloated toddlers sliced through my head like razors. What if her husband showed up and tried to hurt her? I clenched my teeth together so hard I could almost hear the enamel cracking.

Someone should have been there to take her call, dammit!

Despite the beauty of the rugged, flat-topped highlands and majestic mountain ridges that seemed to reach the sun, the town itself looked like an ashtray. Like there was some sort of smoking giant, flicking its filth all over the city, and onto the people who lived here.

The houses were taped together, some barely standing. Boarded up windows and sagging roofs. Windows plastered shut with cardboard or old blankets. And the rivers and creeks were so full of garbage you couldn’t swim or fish. It seemed so wrong to see so much poverty amongst such a beautiful backdrop, but this town was poor. Most of its income came from tourism in the summer and springtime, thanks to hikers and ATV enthusiasts.

I couldn’t breathe when I pulled up in front of the house. Please let Nova be okay…I can’t afford to make another mistake that keeps me ostracized even more by my peers…

The cabin was quiet and dark, and there was something off about the place as soon as I put my cruiser in park.

I approached the cabin, taking in more details than I had on my first visit.

The grass was a soupy wasteland after last night’s rain and mosquitoes buzzed around my pant legs as I made my way up to the door.

I could still see Nova, the way she’d looked two days ago, desperation in her eyes as she ran out to meet me in her robe. She’d been so scared…but I didn’t know what to do for her then. And I still didn’t, I realized.

I knocked softly at first. But then, when no one came to answer, I gave the door a hard, authoritative rap. Her Celica was parked in the same spot it had been the night before.

There were two windows on either side of the front door. I tried to peek through both, eager to spot some sort of movement through the off-white curtains. Nothing. A sick feeling rose in my stomach.

Slowly, I moved around the right side of the house, looking in side windows and peeking in the car as I passed it.

Maybe Nova was still asleep? After all, it was Sunday. Most people, besides church-goers like my mom and her parish, liked to sleep in on the weekends. I silently prayed that that was the case with Nova.