A Day in a Life

Chapter Ten

Elijah

T HERE ARE A couple of hours of daylight left. Plenty of time for one last interview for the day.

I sit in my car for a moment and ruminate over everything I’ve learned.

Sydni’s best friend didn’t notice she wasn’t pregnant anymore. That must’ve cut to the bone. I rest my head in my hands as I contemplate how she must’ve felt.

I can’t fathom it.

I take a deep breath and grab my phone. I shoot Ryan a text: Can you do a search for Sydni Greer in the Grand Teton area and in the Florida Keys? Thanks, Ry.

He responds right away. Sure. Gotcha covered.

If Sydni was running away, it makes sense that she’d go someplace she was once happy. Turns out, Oliver’s wallet that flips out pictures better than a blackjack dealer was more helpful than I thought. The Florida Keys are highly doubtful since that’s where she honeymooned with Ashcole. I’m sure those memories have been soured. The Grand Tetons are more likely. Oliver said it was one of her favorite places in the world. People tend to be predictable, to hide in places where they once felt safe. If Sydni’s alive, odds are she’s in one of those places. If we still can’t find her, I’ll get Oliver talking again and find out other places Sydni loved.

After today, I’m convinced Sydni was running away. The discovery of the go-bag makes that obvious. But were she and Cole conspiring together? At this point, it doesn’t make sense, but it’s also not out of the question. To make it look like an accident, she wouldn’t have taken all her belongings with her. That would’ve been a red flag. Hence, just the small go-bag.

Would Sydni conspire with a man she’d just caught cheating on her? A man who treated the loss of their child so callously? I find that highly doubtful. Unless I’m still missing a huge part of the equation. Maybe she and Cole came to some sort of odd agreement together.

My theory seems far-fetched at best.

I put the car into gear and head toward Lazy River Road. I’ve never heard of it, but my GPS knows it well.

When I pull up to the shack—Penny wasn’t exaggerating—at the end of Lazy River Road, I figure this must be the place. An ancient truck sits outside. I would be surprised if the old geezer still runs.

An elderly woman, hunched over, is shuffling toward her mailbox in a housecoat and slippers. Penny was wrong. Old Lady Rutherford does have a house number.

I exit my car and approach slowly. “Hello there!”

Old Lady Rutherford ignores me, opens her mailbox, and takes out her small stack of mail. From what I can tell, it’s mostly catalogs and junk mail.

“I found Jesus a long time ago, I don’t need cable because I don’t own a TV, and my property is not for sale. Save your breath, young man.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rutherford, that’s not why I’m here. My name is Elijah Garrett, and I’m a private investigator. I would love to talk to you about Sydni Greer. Do you remember her?”

She stiffens. The action is unmistakable. “What about her?”

Old Lady Rutherford has a huge spread of land that overlooks the river, rushing past her property as though it’s in a race. There’s a small alcove, creating a bay of sorts. It’s almost as if she has her own private beach. I can see why someone would want to buy her property.

“Are you familiar with her story?” I shade my eyes against the setting sun.

“Everyone around here knows her story,” she says in a shaky voice.

“I’m trying to determine what really happened to her. I represent the life insurance company. Her husband is about to collect a rather large sum of money, contingent on the results of my investigation.”

Old Lady Rutherford smooths her curly gray hair. “Oh? Why didn’t you say so? I’ll help anyone who might hurt that sorry excuse of a man. Come on in, Mr. Elijah. You’re welcome here.”

I offer her my arm, and she gladly takes it as we walk toward her home. The outside is in desperate need of repair. I dread what the inside will look like.

I’m surprised when I enter a tidy home, in spite of the decrepit condition.

She drops her pile of mail on the table. “Have a seat, Mr. Elijah. Tea?”

Her dining table is covered with a crisply ironed tablecloth, a vase of cut flowers in the middle. The smell of freshly baked cookies makes my mouth water.

“Sure, thank you, ma’am.”

“The name’s Emma. I don’t answer to Ms. Rutherford or ma’am. Not to friends, anyway. Cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven.”

Guess that makes me a friend. I watch as she shuffles around her kitchen deftly. She grabs a china plate from a glass cabinet and serves me a plate of chocolate cookies and a cup of steaming hot herb tea. The china is beautiful, dotted with tiny blue flowers.

I warm up to Emma immediately. I feel like I just entered my grandmother’s kitchen. I’m not quite sure how old she is, but she clearly keeps herself busy.

Emma sits across from me. “What is it you’d like to know about Sydni?”

“Her father reported her as a missing person when her body was never found. It’s been seven years. Once she’s declared legally dead, Cole will collect on her life insurance. I’ve been meeting with her family members in an attempt to understand her state of mind on the day of the accident. I’m also trying to determine whether there’s any chance Sydni could still be alive.”

“Thought the police said it was suicide.” Emma sips her hot tea.

“They did. But her body wasn’t found. Always raises suspicion.” I watch Emma’s expression closely.

“Yes, I suppose it does. But that doesn’t answer my question. What do you want from me?”

“I heard you allowed her to use your property as a landing zone when she went river rafting. Then you drove her home.”

“Yep. I still do it for any youngsters who want to enjoy my river,” she says, proud of herself.

Her river? Huh. “Awfully nice of you.”

“They’re having good, clean fun. Shouldn’t we encourage that type of thing?” She takes a bite of cookie, a challenge in her eyes.

I follow suit, and my eyes practically roll back in my head. Her cookies are that good. “You’re right, we should.” I sip my tea and recognize the taste of chamomile. I see why the youth like Emma. There’s something comforting about her.

“I still don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Elijah. I loved Sydni. We became friends. I miss her every day. Don’t have much more I can tell you.”

“I guess I hoped you might have seen something on the day of the accident. If Sydni was washed downriver, it makes sense she would’ve tried to stop herself in your alcove.” If she was conscious.

“I wish I could tell you that’s what happened. Oh, how I wish for it,” Emma says in her gravelly voice.

“Ah, me too.” I tap my fingers on the table. As much as I’m enjoying myself, this is a dead end.

Emma rifles through her mail, placing the junk in one pile and the bills in another. One of the letters she quickly palms, but not before I catch FL in the return address.

My entire body stills. Florida. Where the Keys are located. Could it be? Is there any chance? Have I stumbled on Sydni through pure luck? “Tell me about yourself, Emma. Do you have children?”

“I do. I was born and raised right here in this house, then raised my own children here in this house. It’s the only home I’ve known.”

“Where are your children?” I ask, curiosity raging inside me.

“Spread out all over. They come home for Christmas and the like. None of them want to stay here anymore, though. They get themselves a hotel and lecture me on tearing this old place down. Not going to let that happen. No, sirree. I love this old place.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s your home.” I polish off my last cookie and final swallow of tea.

More than likely, one of her children lives in Florida. But I need to be sure. “Can I drop by again some time, Emma? This has been nice.”

“I always welcome visitors, except those ones I mentioned before. They can run along.”

I stand. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m glad you’re on Sydni’s side.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

Emma scoffs. “Well, aren’t you?”

I let that sink in. “Yeah, I am. I don’t think she’s been treated fairly. Hate to see her labeled as a suicide if that’s not what happened. I wish I knew what really happened that day. If only Sydni could tell me her story.” Again, I watch her expression closely.

“If only, Mr. Elijah. If only.” Emma’s poker face gives nothing away.