The Motel Meeting
Harris arranged the meeting at the Pine Crest Motel.
Before I got out of the cruiser, he made me repeat the plan twice.
Don’t improvise.
Don’t follow Vince anywhere.
Don’t hand over the envelope unless Harris gives the signal.
The envelope in my hand was stuffed with cut paper, not money.
A wire sat hidden beneath my shirt.
My legs shook as I walked toward the vending machines where Vince waited, cap pulled low over his face.
He started talking before I said a word.
He told me Lily had survived.
He told me a woman had taken her in.
He told me she remembered the farmhouse porch.
He said she still talked about Patrick, though she called him Pat now.
I let him talk.
I let him build the lie higher and higher until there was nowhere left for him to hide.
Then I said, “Our farmhouse didn’t have a porch until four years after Lily disappeared.”
His mouth twitched.
I took a step closer.
“And Lily never called her brother Pat.”
Vince’s face tightened.
“She called him Patch.”
For the first time, his confidence slipped.
Then I said, “I found Emily.”
The color drained from his face.
He tried to laugh, but it came out thin and broken.
I had the photograph.
I had Emily’s grandmother.
I had the ribbon.
I had the tire tracks.
I had his lies recorded.
And now, so did Detective Harris.
When Harris stepped out, Vince bolted for the back stairwell.
He made it three steps before another deputy caught him.
