Chapter 71

LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

Poppy arrives at the sheriff’s house. How did it get this late? It’s past three in the morning. The porch light is out on the modest ranch-style home in a subdivision called Crown Gardens. The sheriff’s pickup truck is in the driveway. The neighborhood is quiet save for the chirp of crickets, the buzz of mosquitos. The humidity is thick and oppressive.

Poppy gets out of the car, pulls her gun from the holster. She doesn’t want to be dramatic, but the FBI agent’s words haunt her: Don’t expect to ever see the sheriff again. Her heart thrums, worrying she might find a gory scene similar to the one Ryan found in the UK. Her boss—her father’s best friend—a bloody corpse.

She approaches the front door. Nothing seems out of place. The house is dark, which isn’t unusual. It’s late. She rings the doorbell. If she busts inside and the sheriff is home, he may think she’s an intruder and give her a face full of buckshot. She waits.

Nothing.

She rings the bell again, knocks loudly.

When no one stirs she tries the door handle. It’s unlocked. Not uncommon for Leavenworth, but maybe unusual for an area lawman. She opens the door slowly, listens.

“Sheriff Walton,” she calls out. “Ken.”

When there’s no answer, she hits the light switch and proceeds from the entryway to the living room. With her gun outstretched in one hand, she slaps on the lights with the other as she walks.

The living room has no television. It’s homey, if dated. In a cabinet in the corner, there’s one of those triangular wooden boxes with a folded American flag. On the next shelf a familiar photograph. The one of the sheriff, Poppy’s dad, and a third man she now knows is Alison Lane’s father. In pride of place above the fireplace is a framed photograph of the sheriff’s wife. She’s standing in front of a body of water, and she shares a sly smile, like she’s holding a secret. Like the smile is for only her husband.

“Sher-iff?” Poppy calls out again.

She ventures to his bedroom. The bed is made. Dread envelops her. The last time she saw the sheriff was late that night at the hospital. No one’s seen him since then. If he was grabbed that night, he wouldn’t have slept in his bed.

She roams from room to room. The place is tidy. No sign of anything out of place, no sign of foul play.

He’s vanished.

This is above her pay grade. She’ll need to get others involved. Who? FBI? No, Fincher said that someone at the FBI is dirty. But there’s no way not to involve the Feds, now. They’re not all dirty. What would she tell them? She’s already told Fincher enough to create a trail of bread crumbs to Poppy’s father and maybe her brother. She’ll call Chantelle in the morning. KBI may be the best bet.

The sound of her phone ringing nearly causes her to discharge her gun in a fright. She pulls the device from her pocket, worried it’s the hospital. But it’s not.

“Deputy Sheriff McGee?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Ryan Smith, I mean, Richardson.”

“Hi, Ryan. Is everything okay?”

“No, not really. We need your help.”