The fear was there. God, it was there. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my gums. But beneath it was something older and fiercer than fear. A girl was hiding in a closet in a house that now belonged to me. A dangerous man was walking up my driveway. That made the next decision simple.
“This is my property,” I said. “If he doesn’t have a warrant or legal authority, he doesn’t come inside.”
Helena actually stared at me for a second as though she were seeing the outline of a person she had not expected.
Then she said, quietly, “Be careful.”
I walked down the stairs forcing myself not to rush. Through the front window I could see the pickup truck—a dusty old Ford—rolling slowly toward the porch. The man who stepped out of it was large enough to seem bigger than he truly was. Mid-forties, broad shoulders, work boots, a jaw thick with stubbornness and something meaner. Even from the window I could feel the atmosphere around him change the space.
Predatory men carry their certainty like weather.
I opened the front door before he could knock and stepped outside, pulling it shut firmly behind me so he could not see anything beyond my body and the frame.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He looked me up and down without embarrassment. Not a glance, but an inventory.
“Who are you?”
“Amanda Pierce. I own this property. And you are?”
“Brendan Low.”
He did not offer his hand.
“I’m looking for someone. Blonde girl. Sixteen. Skinny. You seen anybody like that out here?”
Every nerve in my body went rigid. But some buried practical part of me—the part that balanced books, answered auditors, and never let panic show on my face during inventory shortfalls—rose to the surface and took over.
“I inherited this farm from my late husband less than an hour ago,” I said. “The house was empty when I arrived.”
He smiled then, but there was no humor in it.
“That so. Mind if I take a look inside?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
I folded my arms, partly because it looked firmer and partly because it kept him from seeing my hands shake.
“This is private property, Mr. Low. If you have a missing person concern, you can contact the sheriff’s department.”
“The girl is my stepdaughter.”
“Then call the sheriff.”
He took one step closer. I smelled cigarettes and something sour, like old beer in upholstery.
“She ran off eight months ago. Family business.”