POLICE TYPICALLY WAIT twenty-four hours before a child is considered missing, an archaic rule that has led to countless unnecessary deaths. That rule doesn’t exist in Bulloch County. In a town with two deputies and one desk clerk, where everyone knows everyone, Annie’s disappearance was instantly and immediately taken seriously.
Carolyn and Henry Thompson sit in the small office that makes up half of the Brooklet police station—she in a metal chair, he in his wheelchair. Across from them is Deputy John Watkins, a man who went to high school with Henry, sat in church next to Carolyn, and held Annie’s hand as she crossed Brooklet’s Main Street. His face is long, the lines enhanced by years of tobacco use and sun, aged even further by the morning’s events.
Carolyn had called their station at seven thirty-five a.m., speaking with Maribel, the department’s secretary. Maribel had radioed John, who had been across the street at the Old Post Office Café, having coffee with Hank, the department’s other deputy. Hank is now sweeping the Thompsons’ house, along with a few uniforms from the sheriff’s department. The radio on John’s desk, set to channel 8, kept them abreast of their findings—which have been absolutely nothing. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign of foul play, no blood, no strange items, and no tire tracks or witnesses. The window leading to Annie’s room is too small for anyone to fit through, and the flimsy desk beneath it shows no signs of being disturbed. She either vanished into thin air or got out of bed and just walked right out.
“I am certain I locked the front door when we went to bed last night.” Carolyn’s voice is steely, though her face looks as if it will crack at any moment.
“Carolyn often worries about the door,” Henry says. “She’ll usually get up and check it. She worries, you know, about us living out there all alone.” With a defenseless husband. The thought hangs, unspoken, in the air.
“You think Annie could have walked to the Bakers?” John leans back, looking at the couple over the pen in his mouth.
“Annie could have walked to town if she wanted to. You know that girl—she’s got enough determination to accomplish whatever she puts her mind to.” His raspy voice wobbles slightly but remains fierce in his pride. “But she is terrified of the dark. She wouldn’t have left the house in the middle of the night to walk down that dark road. And Carolyn checked her shoes; they’re all at the house. So she was barefoot.”
John nods, understanding the unspoken thought process. “I’m going to call the Feds. Have them go through the process of issuing an AMBER Alert. Can’t be too cautious.”
Carolyn stands, gripping her husband’s shoulder. “I’m going to call the store. Let them know I’m not coming in.” He nods, looking up at her, their tight eyes meeting.
“She’s gonna be okay, Carolyn,” he whispers. “I promise you, she’s gonna be okay.”
She blinks rapidly, smoothing down her dress. “I’m gonna call the store.”