proceeds of which went toward new books, better computers, and more comfortable reading chairs.
In an age when community libraries were struggling for funding and in some cases relevancy, Bootleg’s library was thriving.
There was also an extensive local history section, which I was in the process of devouring.
I’d started out with good intentions. Jonah and my brother were off doing some fat-busting boot camp for two hours today. I planned to use the time to put together a timeline of defining events in town history.
But when I walked through the front door, the community bulletin board was different. There was no missing flyer of Callie Kendall where it always was. I’d guessed that flyer, or one like it, had been at the top of that bulletin board since the girl disappeared.
That made it even sadder, in my opinion. The surrendering of thirteen years of hope.
I pretended it didn’t matter and settled in to the matter at hand. But in my cursory search of local newspapers on microfiche, I came across an article about the Kendalls after Callie’s disappearance and then another. And another.
The disappearance had helped shape the community, I rationalized. I’d be doing a disservice by ignoring the tear that moment and the years that followed had ripped in the town’s fabric.
An hour, I decided. I’d spare an hour and do a little digging into the Kendalls. Then I’d go back to my own work.
The microfiche blurred before my eyes as I consumed article after article about the disappearance, the family statements, the investigation. It was interesting that the Kendalls had never wavered from their claim that their daughter was dead, had harmed herself. Not until Fake Callie came onto the scene.
I called up a photo of Callie and another of Fake Callie. There was a resemblance, I thought, squinting at the screen. But more of a “You remind me of a girl I knew” way. The more I looked, the less Fake Callie looked like real Callie. And that bothered me.
Wouldn’t her parents have known? If not by physical appearance, then by gaps in the imposter’s knowledge of family history. How had Fake Callie convinced the Kendalls that she was their long-lost daughter?
They’d rented an apartment for her in Philadelphia. Far away from their home, even farther from Bootleg Springs.
I drummed my fingers on my lips. If they’d believed Fake Callie’s story, wouldn’t they have wanted to be close? To make up for all those lost years? The parents had seemingly given up hope of ever seeing their daughter alive again from the beginning, despite the lack of evidence. Wouldn’t they have been overjoyed that she was still alive and reaching out to them?
Nothing about the situation sat right with me.
A thought fluttered in, took root.
On a whim, I pulled out my phone and ducked outside. It was hotter today. July arrived in a matter of days. The town was already decorating for the Fourth. Swathing everything that didn’t move in red, white, and blue bunting.
Opting for the shade, I walked down the library steps and took a seat on a bench under a yet-to-be-swathed oak. I dialed, waited.
“Shelby Thompson! What are you doing on the other end of my phone?” my old friend and former supervisor from Allegheny County Children Youth and Families demanded.
“I’m doing a little research down here in the great state of West Virginia, Amanda, and I could use a hand with something.”
“Name it, sweetie.” Amanda had been my supervisor during my brief tenure as a social worker in Pittsburgh. She’d even come to the hospital’s emergency department the night my career came to its disastrous end.
“Do you still have friends at the state level in Virginia?” I asked.
“Sure do.” I could hear the click of her fingers on the keyboard as she multitasked. CYF’s to-do list was never caught up.
“I was wondering if you could have them do a quick case search for me?”
“What county?” Amanda asked.
I screwed up my nose, knowing this was the big part of the ask. “All of them,” I said.
Amanda blew out a breath. “It’ll take a while.” Counties had their own databases for managing children and youth cases. There was no central database connecting them, which made looking for information tedious and time-consuming.
“I know, and I really appreciate it. It’s important,” I promised.
“Gimmie the names, and I’ll see if I can have something for you next week.”
“Judge Henry Kendall, Mrs. Imogen Kendall, and Callie Kendall.”
“Oh, boy. Sounds like you’re down there kicking a hornets’ nest.” She sighed.