Three Days Missing: A nail-biting psychological thriller with a killer twist!. Kimberly Belle
detective steps up beside me. He hands me my phone, positions an umbrella over both our heads and tugs me up the hill. “Let’s go.”
I follow him without question.
A man calls down the hill. “Ms. Jenkins?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Thomas Childers, Lumpkin County Sheriff. I sure am glad you’re here. We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
He’s not exactly what you’d expect from a small, mountain-town sheriff. No potbelly. No handlebar mustache. A round, boyish face, tan and unlined despite his fifty or so years. A generous mop of dirty blond hair is plastered to his head by the rain and a broad-brimmed hat over a parka hanging open from his shoulders. Judging from the drenched uniform underneath, it’s more for form than function.
“I know. I’m sorry. I fell asleep with my phone downstairs.”
The detective introduces himself, followed by a long string of qualifications that sound like he’s reading from his APD website bio. Three little words pop like firecrackers: missing persons investigations. The sheriff looks more than a little relieved.
“Seeing as I’m spectacularly shorthanded, I’m not going to say no to an extra pair. Come on.” He hitches his head to the long, squat cabin behind him, the largest of the buildings surrounding the clearing. “I’ll fill you in on everything as soon as we get inside. And watch your step. The rain’s turned this lawn into one hell of a slippery slope, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. Wet Georgia clay is like black ice, and the patches tend to sneak up on you.”
The climb is slow and treacherous, the ground saturated and slick. The hill is littered with rocks and roots, bulging up like those Halloween decorations Ethan loves to scatter all over our front lawn. My sneaker catches in one of them, pitching me forward, and Detective Macintosh yanks me upright before I can brace for the fall. By the time we reach the top, I’m panting and soaked, the wetness creeping up my pants legs like a rising flood, turning the denim heavy as ankle weights.
The sheriff waves us across a stretch of churned-up lawn to a set of stone steps. “Let’s keep walking, shall we? I don’t know about you, but I’d sure like to get out of this weather.”
My sneakers sink into the soggy ground. Rain beats against the umbrella with a loud patter, but it can’t drown out the sound of my teeth chattering. I’m shaking from the cold, my whole body rattling, bone against bone. “Please. Just t-tell me.” Until he does, I refuse to take another step.
Sheriff Childers stands there, the rain running down his skin and uniform like a river. “I’ve got thirty-seven men out there in the woods, and there’s more on the way. Choppers should be here shortly, too. Between all that and the dogs, air scenters and ground trailers plus all their handlers, somebody’s bound to find something soon.”
Something could mean anything. A footprint. A broken branch. A body. I press a palm to my stomach, nauseous. “How soon?”
“As soon as humanly possible. We’re getting held up by the weather, and that’s putting it mildly. It’s almost impossible to see out there. The dogs are only doing marginally better.”
Logically, I know I am in no way prepared to join the search. This camp is pressed up against the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I have no rain gear, no dry clothes, no clue where I’m going or the ground they’ve already covered. Only a flimsy umbrella and the map on my iPhone, which last time I looked was operating on 38 percent battery.
But maybe Ethan is still within hearing distance. Maybe he’d come crashing out of his hiding place if he heard it was me, calling his name.
“Ms. Jenkins.”
The sheriff’s expression says he knows I’m about to take off running, and his stance, the way he’s bouncing on his toes says he’s ready to stop me. He shakes his head. “You’ll only get in the way.”
I picture Ethan, scared and freezing in the woods somewhere. His pajamas will be soaked to the skin. His feet will be bare and muddy. “He’s eight.” My voice cracks, my throat burning like acid. “And he’s out there all alone.”
“The sheriff’s right,” the detective says. “Search and rescue works much faster if they don’t have to worry about you getting in their way.”
Sheriff Childers dips his head, and pooled rainwater spills over the brim of his hat. “The best way you can help right now is by coming inside and answering some questions.”
The detective steers me to the staircase, and I let him. A helicopter swoops over the camp, the thudding of its blades vibrating all the way into my bones, and it’s too much. The rain and the noise and the people running everywhere. The world tilts and it feels like a nightmare—a sick, feverish nightmare.
Somebody drapes a blanket, warm and dry, over my shoulders.
“There are heat sensors on the choppers,” the detective says as soon as the chopper has moved on. “If Ethan’s out there, he’ll be glowing.”
“The infrared will pick up his body heat,” the sheriff explains. “The bodies glow on the screen.”
Much like the way I find Ethan most nights, reading a book under his covers, the gleam of his flashlight lighting up the room through the fabric. Glowing.
“What about everybody else? All the other bodies.” I don’t remember exactly how many the sheriff said were out there, but it was somewhere in the high thirties.
His lips curl down on one side. “That’s an issue, I’m not gonna lie. The pilot will be looking for a body set apart from the rest. It could be moving, or if Ethan’s hurt, if he’s fallen and unable to get himself some help, he’ll be stationary. If the pilot’s not sure of what he’s seeing, he’ll make contact with the head of S&R.”
“Search and rescue,” the detective explains before I can ask.
I watch the rain splatter the leaves for a moment, trying to take some calming breaths, but the panic won’t settle. Ethan will be so cold. So scared.
The sheriff steps to the door. “There’s coffee and a long list of questions inside. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“You have to find him. You have to. My life doesn’t work without him.” My son’s life is in the hands of complete strangers, and I need these two to hear me. To understand the importance of what is at stake.
But they don’t respond, and their silence ignites my panic, a stockpile of flammable fuel.
“Please. I’m begging you. Ethan is my everything.” For a moment I can’t speak, but my next words are too big, too important to leave out. “Please find him.”
“Then come on.” The sheriff pulls open the door with a creak. “Let’s get to work.”
5 hours, 7 minutes missing
I stare across the cavernous dining hall at a whiteboard someone has set up in a corner, my son’s name in big red caps across the top. Underneath, a list of descriptors is scrawled in blue and green marker. Words like brown curls and slight build and red and black pajamas and my skin goes cold. Rain beats against the corrugated metal roof above our heads, echoing through the space with a deafening, tinny ring, but all I can hear is the sound of my own terror churning in my ears.
I should have never let him come. Yesterday at school, I should have hauled Ethan off that bus, called in sick to work and spent the day with him at home. I remember watching him scramble up the bus steps and disappear behind the smoky glass, the sudden catch in my chest, that tiny tug of panic I tried to ignore. By the time I swallowed it down, the bus was pulling away. Ethan was already gone.
“Ms. Jenkins?”
My