Every nerve in my body went rigid. But some buried practical part of me—the part that balanced books, answered auditors, and never let panic show on my face during inventory shortfalls—rose to the surface and took over.
“I inherited this farm from my late husband less than an hour ago,” I said. “The house was empty when I arrived.”
He smiled then, but there was no humor in it.
“That so. Mind if I take a look inside?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
I folded my arms, partly because it looked firmer and partly because it kept him from seeing my hands shake.
“This is private property, Mr. Low. If you have a missing person concern, you can contact the sheriff’s department.”
“The girl is my stepdaughter.”
“Then call the sheriff.”
He took one step closer. I smelled cigarettes and something sour, like old beer in upholstery.
“She ran off eight months ago. Family business.”
“If she’s a runaway,” I said, “that is exactly the sort of thing law enforcement handles. Did you file a report?”
Something flickered across his face—annoyance, perhaps, or the irritation of a man unaccustomed to being asked even basic procedural questions.