Chapter 3 - The Grandmother Who Refused to Give Up
Evelyn Price arrived at the Briar Creek Sheriff's Office shortly after sunrise.
She wore a lavender cardigan, sensible black shoes, and carried a worn brown handbag containing every letter she had written about her missing grandson.
For seven months, she had been told Marcus was irresponsible.
That he had probably left town.
That she needed to accept that young men sometimes disappeared because they wanted a different life.
But Evelyn had refused.
And now the federal investigators had found his name.
I watched her enter the temporary family assistance area established across the street from the sheriff's office.
Her shoulders were stooped, but her eyes remained determined.
When she saw me, she stopped walking.
“Judge Whitlock?”
I stood.
“Mrs. Price.”
She pressed one hand to her mouth.
“You came.”
“Your letters deserved to be taken seriously.”
She shook her head.
“Everybody said I was wasting my time.”
I guided her toward a chair.
“You weren't.”
For a moment, she looked as though she might collapse beneath the weight of those two words.
Then she opened her handbag.
Inside were photographs of Marcus.
A school graduation.
A birthday celebration.
A picture of him standing beside a blue pickup truck, smiling proudly.
“He bought that truck himself,” Evelyn said. “Worked two jobs. Saved every penny.”
I examined the photograph.
Marcus was twenty-six.
Tall.
Athletic.
A broad, joyful smile.
“He wanted to become a firefighter,” she continued. “He was taking classes at night.”
Her fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Sheriff Voss told me Marcus had been arrested for disorderly conduct. Then he told me he'd been released.”
She looked at me.
“But Marcus would never disappear without calling his mama.”
I believed her sincerity.
But believing someone was not the same as proving what had happened.
That was why evidence mattered.
Rebecca joined us a few minutes later.
She had changed into a fresh shirt but looked as though she hadn't slept.
“Mrs. Price, I'm Special Agent Hayes.”
Evelyn stood immediately.
“Have you found my grandson?”
Rebecca pulled out a chair.
“Please sit.”
The older woman's expression changed.
“Is he dead?”
“We don't know that.”
Evelyn's breath caught.
“We have recovered records that indicate Marcus may have been transferred to another location after his arrest.”
“Where?”
“That's what we're working to determine.”
Evelyn began digging through her handbag.
“I have everything. The dates, the phone calls, the money orders—”
Rebecca raised her eyes.
“Money orders?”
Evelyn froze.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Who requested them?”
The older woman looked embarrassed.
“A man called and said Marcus owed administrative fees. He told me paying them would speed up his release.”
“How much did you send?”
Evelyn swallowed.
“Eleven thousand dollars.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Mrs. Price, do you still have the receipts?”
Evelyn nodded.
“I kept every single one.”
She spread the receipts across the table.
Four payments.
Four different dates.
All sent to an account connected to a local property management business.
Rebecca's expression tightened.
“What happened after the final payment?”
Evelyn's voice trembled.
“The man called again.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Marcus needed another six thousand.”
“Did you pay?”
“No. I didn't have it.”
Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I told him I'd already sold my car.”
Rebecca waited.
Evelyn looked down.
“That's when he said something I'll never forget.”
“What?”
“He said, 'Then you better pray your grandson is worth more alive than he is missing.'”
Silence settled over the room.
I felt anger rising.
Not the dramatic anger that demanded shouting.
The colder kind that came from understanding the deliberate exploitation of someone vulnerable.
Rebecca documented every detail before arranging for Evelyn to provide a recorded statement.
Later, outside the assistance center, I encountered Deputy Ethan Cole.
He stood beside a vending machine, staring at an untouched cup of coffee.
“Deputy.”
He turned.
“Judge Whitlock.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I haven't slept.”
“That doesn't surprise me.”
He looked toward the sheriff's office.
“I keep thinking about everything I missed.”
I waited.
“When I started working here, I thought Sheriff Voss was tough but fair. People respected him.”
“Did they respect him, or were they afraid of him?”
Ethan considered the question.
“I didn't understand the difference.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“There were things that bothered me. Arrest records that disappeared. Prisoners transferred without normal paperwork. Deputies told not to ask questions.”
“Why didn't you report it?”
His eyes filled with shame.
“Because I was afraid I'd lose my job.”
He swallowed.
“My mother has kidney disease. I help pay her bills.”
I nodded.
“Fear can explain silence. But it doesn't erase the consequences.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“I want to make it right.”
“Then tell investigators everything you know. Even the things that make you look bad.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he said something unexpected.
“There's one person who might know where the River House is.”
“Who?”
Ethan glanced toward the parking lot.
“Sheriff Voss's brother.”
I frowned.
“His brother?”
“Warren Voss. He owns several properties along the county line.”
Ethan hesitated.
“Three months ago, I delivered paperwork to one of his buildings. There were security guards outside. And I heard someone calling from behind a locked door.”
“Did you investigate?”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“I told myself it wasn't my business.”
Before I could respond, Rebecca emerged from the building.
She was speaking into her phone.
Then she stopped abruptly.
“Ethan,” she said. “We need you.”
“What happened?”
Rebecca looked between us.
“Warren Voss's property company is connected to the accounts that received Evelyn Price's payments.”
Ethan stared at her.
“And?”
May you like
Rebecca's expression became grave.
“Warren's private helicopter left Briar Creek forty minutes ago. Federal surveillance believes he may be transporting people out of the state.”
