Chapter 7

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

It wasn't hard to track down Linda Gannon's whereabouts, now that we knew her name.

Property records show that she and her husband purchased a cabin out in Juniper, a forty-five-minute drive from Pine Ridge Falls. The following afternoon Jack drove while I sat shotgun rattling off as much information as I could dig up about Linda Gannon on the ride over.

Sixty-two. Divorced. A freelance writer who writes articles that reflect her connection with nature. Her husband worked for a Fortune 500 before taking off with his secretary. Linda received a nice lump sum settlement in the divorce and can spend her time writing about whatever the heck she wants. Four children. Daughter, Sarah, is in nursing school. Lindsay is still an undergrad. The son, Nate, is a deckhand on a yacht outside of Maine, and the other child is in pieces at the Denver coroner's office. According to her social media presence, she has a beau, but it's still new. And yet every one of her feeds is littered with cryptic messages regarding the whereabouts of her daughter.

It reminds me a lot of my own mother whose social media accounts are littered with the same cryptic messages. But I keep that to myself. Before I left the house this morning, Riley texted and asked if we could get together at the diner later. She said she thinks we need to get serious about Erin.

I'll admit, I took a little umbrage with that. I've been dead serious about tracking down my missing sister. So serious that I've utilized FBI data, time, and resources without permission to do so. The only reason I'm so quick to risk my career is because I'm convinced Erin is risking her life.

"ETA, five minutes," Jack says, breaking up the silence as we traverse country back roads that weave through the heart of the Colorado wilderness. The windows are down an inch on either side and the dense canopy of pines and the crisp, earthy scent of the forest envelops us.

Soon enough, we pull onto the street we're looking for and head for the last cabin on the end before parking and getting out.

The distant call of birds fills the air and a rustle of wildlife enlivens from the underbrush to our left. Otherwise, it's a serene backdrop for the grim task at hand.

The cabin looks as if it's seen better days, the brown paint is peeling, the green-trimmed windows are dusty, and there's an overgrowth of weeds in the flowerbeds. A brick pathway leads to a small porch and we trot straight to the door as Jack gives three brisk knocks that sound as if bombs are detonating.

"Would you mind?" I reprimand. "She just lost her daughter."

We were apprised that the sheriff's department broke the news to her yesterday via a phone call.

A phone call.

I rolled my eyes at that one when I found out. I'll have to talk to Rob about reaching out to his compadres in this neck of the woods. They could do better than that.

Jack's brows pinch in the middle as he frowns my way. He looks lethally handsome in a dark suit and a dark blue tie that offsets his eyes. But that scowl I just evoked in him is my favorite feature, mostly because I know I put it there.

"Are you saying you don't approve of the way I knock?"

"I'd approve if we were trying to summon a battalion of terrorists out of a dungeon. This is some poor woman's home. She's probably cowering in the closet by now."

He grunts, "And you know this because that's what you would be doing?"

"I'd be grabbing my gun and shooting you between the eyes," I assure him. "I'm more of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of gal."

His cheek flinches. "I won't tell Hale you said that."

The door opens and the scent of stale cigarettes hits us in the face.

It's a habit I usually shake my head at, but this woman has earned a cigarette or two—or an entire carton for that matter.

"Can I help you?" Her face is marred by the screen door until she opens that, too, and we find her tucked in a pink terry robe. Her short crimson locks are spiked up in the back as if she hadn't bothered to comb them in days. Her face is pale and there are deep welled lines around her mouth that indent when she speaks.

"Linda Gannon?" I ask and she nods while inspecting us, wide-eyed. "I'm Special Agent Baxter, and this is Special Agent Stone. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your daughter."

"Sure, come in," she says, expanding her arm to welcome us in and two cats bolt from the lumpy tan sofa just as a chihuahua mix runs into the room barking up a storm.

"Quiet, Honey," she snaps and motions for us to take a seat.

Jack and I land on the sofa while she curls up on a maroon lounger that dances and spins once she lands in it. Honey, the chihuahua, hops before us and continues with her barking spree.

The place is small with dark wood floors and a tiny TV sits nestled in an entertainment unit that looks as if it could fall apart if you look at it crooked. There's a dining room table to the left and a kitchen that looks as if it was newly remodeled with white cabinets and gleaming stainless appliances. A ray of hope in a dungeon of doom.

"Just got the news yesterday," she sniffs at a picture in a silver frame that's sitting next to her before picking it up and passing it our way. "That's the little witch who ruined our lives."