Chapter 11: The Cellar

I called Roscoe from the truck with flour still on my hands.

He was on the tractor on the far west quarter.

"Bonnie took her out of school," I said. "Forty minutes ago."

He didn't ask a single question.

"I'm coming."

Then I called the sheriff's office and asked for a deputy at Bonnie Lautner's place.

Bonnie's silver car was in her driveway.

She opened the front door before I knocked, in a fresh cardigan with her reading glasses on her chest.

"Betsy," she said pleasantly. "You're letting the heat out."

"Where is she?"

"She's napping. I gave her a baby aspirin and a cold cloth."

"Then I'll take her home and put her to bed."

"She's asleep, dear. You'll upset her."

I walked past her into the house.

She didn't try to stop me.

That scared me more than anything.

The living room had plastic covers on the lampshades and a clock that ticked too loud.

The spare-room bed was smoothed flat.

Nobody had napped on it.

The mudroom was empty and cold.

"Posy," I called. "It's Betsy."

Nothing.

She wouldn't call back.

Bonnie stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms folded, watching me open closets.

"You're making a fool of yourself," she said. "She probably walked home. She does that."

"Nine miles?"

"Half a mile, dear. To your house. Isn't that where you want her?"

Roscoe's truck slewed sideways into the drive.

He came through the front door without knocking.

"Where is she?"

"I've told your wife," Bonnie said. "She's not here. She must have wandered."

"You signed her out."

"And when I looked in on her, she was gone. I was about to call you."

Roscoe went white.

He turned and ran out the back to look across the fields.

I stood in the kitchen and made myself be still.

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