Page 12 of Little Girl Vanished

I drank another cup of coffee before I left, and between the caffeine and ibuprofen, I was feeling more like myself. Well, more like the version of myself I’d been before the shooting in Little Rock. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be the woman I was before again.

I didn’t have Vanessa’s address. I could have asked my mother, but I doubted she’d give it to me. So instead, I pulled up social media. I glanced at Vanessa’s Facebook and Instagram profiles and figured out she lived on the east side of downtown based on the photos she’d posted of her house. All I had to do was drive down a few streets until I recognized it.

Turned out the two police cruisers parked in front of the house were a pretty good tip-off.

I parallel parked across the street and a couple of houses down, then stood on the sidewalk to take in the neighborhood.

It was a mild February for southern Arkansas, with the temperature in the upper forties and sunny. According to the weather app on my phone, it had gotten down to the low forties overnight and was expected to get up to the low sixties by four p.m. A girl could stay outside all day with a jacket, but it would have been harder for her to rest at night. If she’d left the house on her own, she was likely at a friend’s place. Even “good girls” got pissed enough to want a break from their parents. Lord knew how many times I’d wished to escape mine.

The Petermans lived on a street of older, stately houses in a varying mix of worn and renovated. Their two-story, white Southern colonial, complete with full front porches on both levels, fell into the renovated category. Their landscaping was manicured, the bushes no taller than the bottom railing of the front porch, which meant a would-be kidnapper wouldn’t have much cover, but there were several mature trees with branches close to the railing of the second-floor porch along the north side of the house.

Branches a kid could climb across to get out of the house.

Or potential access for a kidnapper.

A woman was loitering on the sidewalk in front of the house—probably curious about the two police cars and hoping to get more information—but I didn’t see any police presence on the outside, nor any signs of the Petermans.

I walked across the street and toward the house. The woman did a double-take when she recognized me, then recoiled.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Guess I knew where her opinion about me fell.

I didn’t answer her, and instead decided to take my chances by walking right up to the house. As I headed up the sidewalk toward the porch, the woman called out, “You don’t belong here! Go back to where you came from!”

It took all my training in dealing with hostile suspects to keep me from turning around and telling her I was born and raised here and had just as much right to be here as she did, but she wasn’t worth the wasted breath.

The porch was clean and in good repair. A girl’s bicycle was propped against the railing on the far left side. Was it Ava’s?

Steeling my back, I knocked on the front door and waited. Several seconds later, a uniformed officer opened the door and gave me a stern look. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, which meant he hadn’t been part of the force when they’d handled my sister’s kidnapping. I saw that as a positive thing. “The family’s not receiving visitors,” he announced and started to shut the door.

I wasn’t surprised by his response. In fact, I respected it. “I’m a friend of the family.”

His gaze narrowed as he scrutinized me, but then recognition filled his eyes, and his jaw hardened. “You’re not wanted here.”

So much for holding out hope for the next generation of Jackson Creek police. “Maybe you should ask Vanessa before you reach that conclusion,” I stated calmly, my hands at my sides.

“Who is it?” a woman called out from inside the house, then she appeared a few feet behind him. A flood of affection stole my breath. While she’d changed since I’d last seen her—her hair was blonder and cut into a sleek above-the-shoulder bob, and she was thinner than I remembered her—she was still unmistakably Andi’s best friend, just all grown up.

“Harper?” she asked in disbelief.

I leaned to the side to see around the officer and held her gaze. “I came over as soon as I heard.”

“Let her in,” Vanessa said forcefully, pushing the officer out of the way. She rushed out the door onto the porch and wrapped her arms around me as she began to sob. She was several inches shorter than my five-foot-seven height, and her face burrowed into my shoulder.

I held her tight, tears burning my eyes. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but while the chances were high that they would be, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Too much of my police training still clung to me.

We stayed like that for several long seconds until I became aware of the hole being burned into my back by the woman on the sidewalk. “Let’s get you back inside,” I said.

Vanessa lifted her head, glanced at the woman, and drew in a sharp breath. I gave her a soft push past the stern-faced officer guarding the door and back inside the warmth of the house.

We moved into the middle of the large foyer, with a grand staircase to the left, next to an opening to a very formal dining room with a table long enough to entertain a large dinner party, but it was the living room to the right that held my attention.

Thankfully, Vanessa wasn’t alone, but I didn’t expect to find a friendlier reception here than I’d gotten from the woman outside.

Several people sat around the room, some I recognized, and others I didn’t. Vanessa’s mother sat in an overstuffed chair with a small child on her lap, a little blond girl who looked like she was around kindergarten age. Vanessa’s father was sitting next to another older man on the sofa, and a much older woman sat by herself in another chair, knitting. TJ or Vanessa’s grandmother, maybe? She looked confused as I made my way into the room. The older men were very clearly irritated. A younger man, in his thirties, was walking into the living room from what looked like a sunroom, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in another. He gave me a blank expression as though he was reserving judgment until he had more information. He might not recognize me, but I knew him. Todd Peterman III, known to his friends as TJ. At least that was how I’d known him back in high school.

In addition to the officer by the front door, an older police officer leaned against the opening between the foyer and the living room.