22

One month earlier…

Maggie parked her rental car—a Ford Focus hatchback that smelled of body odor and take-out food, the former coming with the car and the latter her own addition—in front of a double-wide trailer that seemed held together only by a new coat of paint. The family who lived here had once told her that they would never move. In hope that their missing daughter, Elisabeth, would find her way home to them. The for-sale sign in the front yard, however, told a different story.

She climbed out and headed up the sidewalk toward a screen door that looked like it was about to fall from its hinges. Through the front window, she saw a small living room lit only by the glow of a television set. Maggie raised her hand to knock on the wood surrounding the screen, but a woman with a deeply-lined and leathery countenance appeared on the side before she could. Even through the barrier and with a strong breeze blowing outside, Maggie detected the stink of cigarette smoke and beer. Without opening the door or greeting Maggie, the familiar woman peered through the screen, her lips flattening, and Maggie noticed door move slightly toward her, as if Elisabeth’s mother was holding it shut.

Maggie ignored the reaction and said, “Hello, Mrs. Crenshaw, it’s me…Agent Carlisle. Maggie. I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to stop in and check on you and your husband. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard from you. I’ve tried to call several times, but—”

Mrs. Crenshaw closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and looked into the other room for a moment before replying, “We’re no longer going to be sending you Elisabeth’s things, Agent Carlisle. Or helping in your investigation in any way. Please leave.”

“But ma’am, you would be surprised what difference even the smallest piece of evidence can make to a case,” Maggie explained, in much the same as she had all those years ago when she’d first convinced Elisabeth’s family to send her the packages that the Taker sent to them every year on the anniversary of the abduction—the scraps of clothing, hair, and buttons—so that she could have it thoroughly analyzed.

Mrs. Crenshaw laughed bitterly as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Every year, we send you everything we have left of our little girl. What have you been doing with it? What difference does it make?”

“Ma’am, as we’ve discussed—the post mark, the box or envelope, the packing material—every bit of it could contain some kind of trace evidence that—”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it has ever made a speck of difference. You’re no closer to finding him now than the police were back then.”

“That’s not true. We’re closer than we’ve ever been. Mrs. Crenshaw, there have been several new developments.”

“Have you found my daughter? Or the man who took her? Do you have any answers for me or just more questions?”

“Well, no, I just—”

“You’re worse than the Taker! He sent those packages to torture us, keeping our hope alive, keeping the memory of that anguish, that emptiness, alive. We knew exactly when it was coming, and the dread of it infected the rest of the year. At least he knew when to quit, and I’m grateful that it stopped. Our Elisabeth is long dead, Miss Carlisle, and we’re moving on. Your brother is gone too. You should do the same. But most of all, and you listen good now, you get off our property and stay the hell away from us.”

The inner door slammed shut, and Maggie heard the locks engaging. She turned numbly, heading back to her rental car. Maybe Mrs. Crenshaw was right, what had she been doing to find them all these years? Had she truly put forth her full effort and dedicated everything to locating Elisabeth and the other children and the man who had taken them?

She dropped in behind the wheel and sat a moment without moving, breathing hard. Then, with a wail of anger and frustration, she slammed her fist into the steering wheel over and over.

All her hope had hinged on acquiring Elisabeth’s package. The young girl had been the victim taken closest to her brother’s date of abduction, and Maggie hadn’t received a package for going on two years now. Fearing that the Taker had died, which meant she may never learn the truth, she had prayed to find that she was the only one. But, confirming her worst fears, Mrs. Crenshaw’s words about her daughter’s package echoed through her racing thoughts: At least he knew when to quit, and I’m grateful that it stopped.