the possible reasons. “Okay, let Dr. Dean at the examiner’s office know that he needs to compare the dental records of Carol Harlan.”
“On it,” he said, retrieving his cell phone. “I’ll run the system for everything on Carol Harlan as well.”
Walking up to the car, she said, “We also have an address now, 1457 Green Street.”
“That’s in the Parker Division,” he said, looking at his phone. “Looks like the Edison something company is the one doing the construction project. I’ll know when I get in front of my computer.”
“Maybe we’ll find Candace Harlan now,” she said.
Ten
The beginning of third grade was an exciting time for me—being eight years old was a new adventure. I would soon be beginning more academically challenging work—feeling like a real student instead of a child idly entertained by a teacher among a classroom of idiot children. My days were filled with the wonder of learning.
English.
Math.
And learning history made me the most content.
I was the happiest when I was away from home. It was the opposite for most kids, but not me. Not in the least. I imagined flying away to a better place—a magical place.
My home was a nightmare that had transcended into my waking life—every single day I stepped into the lion’s den praying that I would be okay—and not eaten alive. It didn’t matter what had happened that day—how fun it was, how good it was, how happy I was—as soon as I walked through the front door of my house, everything changed in an instant.
As I jogged up to the front porch with a heavy backpack slung over my right shoulder, dread always filled me. I glanced up at the outside light where the light bulb had been smashed and not replaced. Tiny remnants of the bulb still evident around the step corners were a constant reminder. The filthy step and worn-out doormat were the only things that greeted me.
The joy of school and all the new things I had learned faded away, replaced suddenly by deep despair and unwavering darkness.
My small hand gripped the front doorknob hoping it would open this time. I slowly turned it, and to my surprise it was unlocked. It was never unlocked. Ever. Gulping for air, I slowly pushed the door inward, but it jammed, only opening two inches. Something wouldn’t allow for it to open any farther. I could barely breathe. I pushed harder with all my strength, but it still wouldn’t budge.
I knew why.
Eleven
Tuesday 1345 hours
Katie and McGaven took turns driving. Katie often liked to ride quietly in the passenger seat reflecting on new information and clues they had gathered. Katie knew McGaven’s moods as he no doubt understood hers.
Today, however, she wanted to feel the steering wheel gripped beneath her fingers. The strength of the V8 engine roaring under the hood, catapulting them towards their next lead and keeping her focused. The case was complex and she knew that they would need to peel away the evidence one layer at a time.
Katie’s hands shook slightly in anticipation, as she took the appropriate exit from the freeway and slowed the car’s speed to take the uneven roads leading up to the Parker Division.
“What’s with the roads here?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“It’s been like this for a while. I’m assuming they will re-pave them when the development is finished.”
“Hmm,” she said, watching for areas where she could pull the sedan in and park.
Parker Division was made up of six roads from north to south intersected by three roads going east and west. Most homes still had dirt front yards as well as some final finishing touches on the porches and frames around the windows yet to do. But there were others still entombed with heavy plastic, unfinished and exposed.
Katie kept driving and found an open area that hadn’t been surrounded by temporary cyclone fencing. She eased the sedan down the street.
“So where’s 1457 Green Street?” asked Katie. She slowed the vehicle even more, scouring the area. “Seems strange here with all these empty houses and no one actually working. Like a ghost town.”
McGaven craned his neck, searching too. “Did they take the day off?”
“Shouldn’t we see work trucks from Edison, et al?”
“Wait,” said McGaven and pointed. “What’s that?”
There were three construction trucks parked in front of two unfinished homes that were being framed in. Stenciled on the doors was EFT & Company, Construction & Development, referring to Edison, Fullerton, and Taylor Demolition Company.
“There’s Green Street,” she said, making a right turn and stopping when