“He’ll have wounds on his body that we inflicted. Scars now, maybe.”
“It won’t help. It’s not enough. And my father will kill me, if it comes out. He’ll kill me!”
They had been walking down a park path after school; Ruthie had chosen the venue because she didn’t even want to be seen talking to Kat. Their burgeoning friendship had been cut off by the events of the night at the pond, and they’d all stayed away from each other by unspoken rule, but now Shiloh was missing.
“You really think Shiloh’s been taken?” Ruthie had queried, her face screwed up in misery.
Kat shook her head. No. Shiloh had taken off a few times before for periods of time; Kat knew that from overhearing her father discussing Larimer Tate on the phone with someone else at the department. She really hadn’t believed Shiloh had been caught by the man who’d taken Ruthie, but what she said was, “All I know is we need to go to the police about your rape. Or at least my father. It wasn’t your fault. For God’s sake, you were attacked, Ruthie. Violated. You’re the victim here. Your father will understand that.”
Ruthie shook her head so hard her hair started to fall from its knot at the top of her head. “He’ll . . . he’ll . . .” She swallowed. “He’ll make an example of me at church. I . . . will be like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. You know that one?”
“Yeah, I know that one.”
Ruthie had then swiped at her eyes and stopped, leaning on the trunk of a massive tree for support. “He’ll show no mercy. He’ll be mortified. He sets his family up as this . . . this godly example.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He won’t see it that way.”
“Other girls are missing—”
“I know that! Don’t you think I know that? What would you do if it were you? Would you tell your father? And the police. Could you confide in some officer who looks at you as part of the job? And what about the people at the hospital or, worse yet, the local clinic? Sandi Thompson’s mom is a nurse there, and she goes to our church and . . . oh, can’t you see?”
The truth was Kat did see. Much of what Ruthie feared was true. Gossip spread like wildfire through the streets and shops of Prairie Creek.
“But—”
“Just think about it, okay?” Ruthie said, clearing her throat, seeming to pull herself together a bit. “What possible good would it do? You can’t ID him, and neither can I. It would be a great big, horrible circus, and I’d be the main attraction. All of my family would be dragged into it.” She squeezed her eyes closed and balled her fists. “I don’t know what to do, Kat. I want to tell the police, but it won’t help. All that will happen is that I’ll be humiliated. My father will never forgive me, and my whole family will have to move. Again!” She shook her head. “I should have gone in right after it happened,” she whispered. “You know, when they could do those tests.”
A rape kit, Kat had thought, but hadn’t said it.
“But it’s too late now. I mean.” She blinked again, fought for control. “I must’ve showered a thousand times, trying to get him off me. And I’ve prayed. I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed and still . . . still . . .” Letting out her breath slowly, she grabbed Kat’s hand, letting the tears she’d been battling run down her cheeks. “I . . . I . . . just . . . I just can’t.”
Kat had felt her own eyes burn, and she had never brought up the subject again.
Some of Kat’s anxiety lessened when, shortly thereafter, Shiloh called her mother to tell her she was fine, that she just wasn’t coming back. Faye Silva hadn’t been convinced that she was, so she’d forced her daughter to speak on the phone to the lead detective on the case, Patrick Starr. Faye was afraid that a kidnapper was forcing Shiloh to make the call, even though Shiloh had assured her she was perfectly fine. Shiloh had then gone to a police station in Helena, Montana, where an officer had confirmed that she was well, and, having just turned eighteen, was not a runaway.
Faye had been relieved. Yet over the years Shiloh’s name had become lumped in with those of the three missing girls. Her “miraculous” reappearance had given the parents of Rachel Byrd, Courtney Pearson, and Erin Higgins hope that their daughters were safe, a hope that had yet to come to fruition.
Detective Patrick Starr hadn’t been sidetracked by Shiloh. He’d doggedly kept on working on finding Erin, Rachel, and Courtney, though the department had never officially listed them as missing persons. Even after his retirement, Patrick kept a list of names with pictures of his suspects, a list that Kat had caught glimpses of over the years and now knew by heart. Those suspects had been interviewed several times when the case was hot, but nothing had ever come of it, and now the missing girls were assumed to be runaways. No crime had been committed, as far as anyone could prove, and since Ruthie hadn’t come forward about her rape, the three missing teens—now women—were a cold case . . . actually, hardly a case at all.
Skip Chandler.
Calvin Haney.
Rafe Dillinger.
Those three were at the top of Patrick Starr’s list because they’d all left town about the time girls had stopped disappearing, though none of them had ever been charged with the crime. Coincidentally, they were all three now back in Prairie Creek. Back when the girls disappeared, Calvin Haney, a loudmouthed womanizing wildcatter, and Skip Chandler, a known thief and con man, had taken off without telling anyone, including their relatives, where they were headed. The third man was one of the Dillinger cousins, Rafe Dillinger, a dropout who had dated Courtney Pearson. When Kat was a teenager, Rafe had been a notorious bad boy, stealing cigarettes and beer from Menlo’s Market, driving girls around in his truck, giving alcohol to minors, even, supposedly, getting Darla Kingsley pregnant, though that was never confirmed. Unlike other petty criminals, Rafe had the Dillinger fortune as a safety net when he screwed up. He’d left town around the same time that Shiloh had done her own disappearing act; some said Ira Dillinger had had enough of the boy.
There were others on Patrick’s list, but the three that had hightailed it out of town for a while were the ones he’d focused on. Kat wondered if one of them had been Ruth’s rapist. The problem was, even if Kat thought she could ID the man, there would be no proof of a rape, nor any conclusive evidence, such as DNA collected in a rape kit.
Kat looked at her father, seeing his florid face. With lack of evidence, no bodies, and no found kidnapping victims, no arrests had been made—and that, coupled with his lifestyle, had nearly killed Patrick Starr.
After the heart attack, he’d given up the cigarettes and booze, but he’d never let go of the case.
Now Patrick rubbed the back of his neck and said, “You and Shiloh were thick as thieves for a while in high school.”