It's a quiet Sunday morning. Taryn and I are on the interstate, a few miles from the exit. She's staring out the passenger side window, seemingly lost in thought. Sort of absent-mindedly, she starts nibbling on the nail of her ring finger. As far as I can tell, the nails are all chewed to the nub. I wonder how she can come up with anything else to sink her teeth into. 

She must feel the weight of my eyes because she glances over.

I don't hide the fact that I was watching her, but it drifts to business naturally. I check my speed, only slightly above, and then my mirrors. No one appears to be following us. I've been more mindful of this than usual, and so far, I can't detect a pattern.

When that's all said and done, I take another look and she's still at it. The nibble has moved to her middle finger. Despite my regard, I don't think she did more than pause.

Our exit is coming up and I put my signal on. "You still bite your nails?" I check my blind spot and switch lanes.

"Appears so." She sprinkles her achievement on the floor. "If it bothers you, don't worry. I'll vacuum for you."

The thought of little nail pieces stuck in my carpet did cross my mind, but I have to say, I'm more intrigued than sore about it. "Says no girl ever," I comment sideways.

She scoffs and then spreads her fingers wide, placing all ten fingers on her thighs. "My mother did everything she could to get me to stop. Take things away. Scare me. You'll-die-alone shit. Compare me to flawless Quinn, which was worse. For a while, it wounded me. But then one day I was like screw her, and I never looked back." She starts chewing on them again.

I coast to a stop at the first traffic light and wait for the GPS to stop talking. "Those are some harsh words..."

The shoulder closest to me twitches out a shrug. Then she shifts into more of a slouch. Instead of biting, she's now cradling her head, her elbow on the window trim, her eyes on the passing scene. We're in modern suburbia now, and of course, it gets nicer and nicer as we close in on our destination. 

I'm convinced I won't get any more out of her when she starts talking: "Why would I say something like that about my own mother? A lot of reasons, but, final straw was during my sophomore year of college. I was literally in line to make my tuition payment when I found out she spent all the money my father had set aside for me. Never even mentioned it until the third time I tried calling. It was like an 'Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.'"

"What'd she need it for?" I ask.

"Relocation," Taryn responds. "She was getting married again. Praise the Lord! She found love and God and got the fresh start she prayed for. She gave up on the ranch and left me with all the debt. And we really haven't spoken since. I just . . . can't, you know? It's too much."

Different story, same theme. Yes, I get it. It'd be quite the can of worms, but there's no sense opening it now. I just nod to show my support. "Did you ever get a chance to talk to her about what's going on now?"

"I'm not an idiot." That sensitive nerve of hers has been flicked again, and that almost goes without saying, whenever I switch to cop mode. "It was the first call I tried making. She's hard to get ahold of, too. When she finally called me back, she was dismissive, like, you know Quinn."

For every question Taryn has answered, it brings to mind about ten more. But it'll have to wait. We pull into her brother-in-law's gated community and get stopped at the guard station.

"We're here to see Quinn Abernathy-Hunt," I lower my window to tell the guard. I pull off my sunglasses for good measure as well.

My truck's been washed, and Taryn and I could go out for a nice dinner in what we're wearing. I expect we'll be buzzed right in, but we get the "I'm sorry" instead. "Mrs. Hunt no longer lives here."

Taryn and I exchange glances, and then I turn back to the man and try forcing a grin. "All right, then. We'd like to talk to Mr. Tavis Hunt."

"I'm afraid he's out of town," the hard-nosed old guy informs us.

"Then we'd like to talk to whoever's home. He has staff, doesn't he?" At this point, I have my wallet in my hands and show him my badge and ID. "Quinn hasn't been seen or heard from in months. I need you to do better." 

He takes it out of my hand for a closer look. "You're out of your jurisdiction," he comments, handing it back to me.

"I'm a friend of the family. As of now, this is a personal matter, and we intend to go in and out without a fuss. But if you give me any more problems, this whole place will light up in less than ten minutes."

This may sound like an empty threat. If I was on my own, it would be. But with Sergeant Price's support, it's plausible. I'm pretty sure he has a brother high up in the DPD. If not, we live close enough to Dallas. I have no connections of my own, but somebody in my precinct will. So, I have no doubt that Taryn and I will get in. It may just take longer than I anticipated. Good news is, I have until Thursday morning to sit my ass right here, if necessary. And I don't think it will be. I can tell, he's already starting to crumble.    

"This is her sister." I switch back to my good-cop voice. "She's worried and deserves answers. Can't you see the resemblance?"

Taryn gives him a brusque wave, unable to hide the annoyance from her Quinn-like features. 

He peers inside the truck, makes eye contact with Taryn, and then looks down at his clipboard as if it held the answer to this conundrum.

"While we're here," I interrupt him. "Do you remember the last time you saw Quinn pass through? And what car she was in?"

"The dark-gray Audi sedan," he divulges without the need to check. "And I'm not exactly sure. We only log deliveries and visitors."

"We'd settle for somewhat sure."

He runs a hand over his circle-beard while he thinks about it. "It was during that late cold snap. February, maybe?"

I remember that. It's Google-able, and I accept it with a nod. "We appreciate it. If we have any more questions, we'll catch you on the way out."

At that, we sign in, and the guard buzzes us through.

<<<>>>

In the heat of late-morning, Taryn rings the doorbell of the Hunt mansion, looking all proper in nice shorts and a blouse. Her fingertips are probably sore, but beyond that, she looks the part, as far as I can tell. But I'm no highbrow. As far as I'm concerned, she'd look good in anything.

When no one comes to the door, she gives me a shrug, waits another moment, and rings it again.

There's a modern doorbell cam, so if this guy is anywhere on the planet, he'd get a notification. He'd probably be able to communicate with us if he chose to do so. If he has staff on duty, they'd be able to hear the chime. They might even have access to the feed. We passed a friendly gardener, and I consider going back to her, but she said "Hola," and neither of us know Spanish, so it wasn't the first choice at the time.

After the third ring, it may be our only choice. We're in the process of backing away, when, finally, the door opens. A miserly old man peeks out. "How'd you get in here? We said no visitors."

Taryn said she'd take the lead here, and I encourage her to do so with a nod. When I get the uncharacteristic "deer in headlights" from her, I move closer and lightly put my hand on her back.

"We were told Mr. Hunt was out of town," she utters at my touch. "Are you his...?" She hesitates to say butler or housekeeper, even though that was my guess too, and I would have just said so.

"I'm his father," he fills in for us, curt as hell, like he was offended by the insinuation. "And who's asking?"

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hunt," she says, all polite. "My name is Taryn Abernathy. I'm Quinn's sister. She's been missing for—"

"Of course she's missing," he cuts her off. "She's a cheat and a thief."

That pisses me off.

I know, it didn't take long...

My hand slips from Taryn's back and I loom closer to the door, rising to my full height. 

"He's an officer of the law," Taryn informs the guy.

The door closes to a crack. "Then he can come back with a warrant."

He slams the door and the bolt clicks, all before I have a chance to throw something in the way of it.

I resort to a loud-as-hell police pounding. When no one comes back, Taryn grips my arm and leads me away. I'm cursing under my breath, and she's wiping tears away. Maybe we'd make a good pair in some other way, but as a team of investigators, we're just awful. Or that guy is just a monster. There are some that are just too nasty. Too high and out of reach. Even if we had decades of experience, we may not have done any better.

When we get inside my truck, Taryn jumps back out as soon as I start the engine. She crosses by the front bumper. As I follow her movement, I catch a glimpse of what she must have seen. There's a white, business-sized card tucked under the driver's side windshield wiper.

Taryn plucks it out and returns to her seat. She takes another moment to review it and then hands it over.

Bradford Ellis
Lone Star Entertainment
Music Producer

There's a Dallas address and a phone number with a local area code. At least we won't have to travel far.

We know the old man didn't put it there, so who did?

When we pull away, the friendly gardener turns from her Zinnias. I tip my hat, and she nods in return. I guess that answers my question.

Maren Morris - The Tree

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