Page 121 of Little Girl Vanished

“People hate my guts!” I shouted at him. “I’ve gotten death threats!”

His brow lifted, but his eyes were dull. “News flash. People hate my guts and people have tried to kill me, multiple times. You don’t see me throwing my life into the shitter.”

“But you chose that life! I didn’t!”

He shook his head in disgust. “Seems to me that you should have learned by now that life isn’t fair. I guaran-damn-tee you that someone has it worse than you. Many people have it worse than you, and I bet at least half of them aren’t soaking their livers in alcohol every damn day.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted. Everything he was saying was true, but dammit, why was it that he of all people was saying it?

He leaned close, his face inches from mine. “You have two choices, Harper Adams. Either get your shit together and get off the booze, or as soon as we find Ava Peterman, you go drink yourself into oblivion. But for now, I need you to choose door number one. Are you capable of that?”

I didn’t dignify him with a response. I marched over to my car door and got inside and drove back to Jackson Creek.

Chapter 33

I needed to confirm that a Jackson Creek PD officer had alerted Stevens. Unfortunately, I suspected there was only one person other than Barry Sylvester who could give me the answer, and I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d share the information. Nevertheless, I had to try.

It was nearly eight, so I doubted Chief Larson was at the station, which meant if I wanted to see him tonight, I would have to drop by his home.

Finding it wasn’t an issue. Everyone in Jackson Creek knew where Chief Larson lived. Most law enforcement officials didn’t want the public knowing how to find them in case a disgruntled person decided to seek revenge. Chief Larson encouraged them to drop by his house, where he’d meet them at the front door with a shotgun. Any teenager caught vandalizing his property soon regretted it after a stint in juvie and a load of community service. Any adult who tried to show up to intimidate him left with an ass full of buckshot and a sentence in the county jail or a state prison. Sometimes a combination of all three. But it had only happened a few times while I’d been living here. I had no idea how many times it had happened since.

No, finding his house wasn’t the problem. Getting him to talk to me without filling me full of shotgun pellets or arresting me was a whole other issue.

His red brick ranch house was on a corner lot with floodlights illuminating the property. Rumor had it that neighbors had complained about the lights over the years, but he was the one in charge of enforcing things like that, so obviously, nothing had been done.

I pulled up to the curb and took in the manicured lawn and the three flag poles with an American, Arkansas, and Marines flag flying. His police cruiser was parked in the driveway.

At least I knew he was home.

I took a moment to calm down, desperately wishing I had a drink, but Malcolm’s words were ringing in my head. I hated him for having the audacity to think he was better than me. Deep down, though, I knew he was right. I hated pity, but self-pity was especially egregious. I needed to get my shit together. But I couldn’t deal with that right now. I needed to talk to the chief and somehow convince him to confirm Stevens’s story.

I got out of the car and headed up to the front porch. It was no surprise when the front door opened before I reached the porch. Chief Larson stepped outside, keeping the door open with his body.

The fact that he wasn’t pointing a shotgun at me meant things were off to a good start.

“What the hell are you doing at my personal home, Harper Adams?” he demanded, fire in his eyes. “You tryin’ to get yourself thrown in jail?”

I lifted my chin and held his gaze. “No. I’m here to find out why it wasn’t in my sister’s file that Barry Sylvester warned John Michael Stevens you were coming to arrest him.”

Shock filled his eyes, and some of his bluster faded. “Where’d you hear that?”

I steeled my shoulders. “From the source himself—Stevens.”

Fury filled his eyes. “When did you go see him?”

“It doesn’t matter, Chief,” I said, feeling exhausted by it all. “Because we both know it’s true.”

He opened his mouth as though to say something, then held his front door open. “I’m not having this discussion outside. Come in.”

I had so much paranoia about all the lies and the cover-ups that part of me was afraid to go inside his house. But I told myself I was being ridiculous. While the chief was narcissistic and inept, I’d never once thought him capable of cold-blooded murder.

I followed him inside. A baking show was on the television, and his wife was tucked up on their sofa with a blanket over her lap, two knitting needles in her hand, and something deep purple hanging from them.

“We’re goin’ into my study,” Chief Larson said as he passed through the room, sounding nothing like the man I’d encountered in the station.

“Okay, dear,” she said, then glanced over me. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Harper Adams?”

I refrained from cringing. Was I about to get a tongue lashing? “Yes, ma’am.”