Vanish in Plain Sight. Marta Perry

weren’t ordinary circumstances.

      She couldn’t read anything in his square, impassive face. She suspected he was trying to decide what and how much to tell her.

      As for Link Morgan—well, he’d backed away, as if trying to disassociate himself from the whole business. He probably regretted that he hadn’t thrown the suitcase on the trash heap without opening it.

      “People noticed that your mother wasn’t around any longer,” Byler said. “Your father said she’d left him. That she hadn’t been able to go on living English and she’d gone back to her people in Indiana. For the most part, the police accepted that.”

      Byler’s lips clamped shut on the words. Was the implication that he wouldn’t have?

      “You know that your mother was Amish?” Link Morgan asked the question with a kind of reluctant concern in his voice.

      She nodded. That she did know, but only because she’d pried it out of her grandmother, who was easier to talk to than her father. “I know. And my father said she’d gone back to her family because that was what he thought she’d done.”

      A shiver skittered along her nerves. She believed that. She had to.

      “My grandmother said my mother had talked about going back to her family,” she went on. “Grandma said my mother found it hard to give up her people and her faith the way she had.”

      But how could she leave me behind? The child who lived inside her asked the question she couldn’t.

      “You might want to see what else is in the suitcase,” Link suggested.

      She shot a look at him. That fine-drawn face, with the skin taut against the bones—she still had the urge to draw it every time she looked at him. What made him look that way? Illness? Grief? Guilt?

      Slowly she lifted out folded clothing. Her fingers hesitated when they touched the black garment. Then she lifted it, shook it out.

      “It’s the kind of apron an Amish woman wears. And there’s the prayer covering they always have on their heads.” He nodded toward the object in the bottom of the case, not moving.

      She picked it up, her fingers tingling a little. White organdy, a kind of small hat with long strings. She’d seen pictures of Amish women, looking almost like nuns in their dark dresses and identical hair styles, with the white covering on their heads. She’d taken a book out of the school library, she remembered, and hidden it under the mattress so Daddy wouldn’t see.

      “That would seem to confirm that she was planning to leave,” Chief Byler said. “As to how that suitcase ended up here, and where she went—we’re as much in the dark as we were twenty-three years ago.”

      For her father’s sake, she had to ask the question. “Is this a criminal investigation?”

      Byler’s expression didn’t change, but Link Morgan’s mouth tightened, as if in pain.

      “Not at this time,” Byler said. “For all we know, your mother did disappear back into an Amish community somewhere. That’s possible, even in this age of instant communication. If so, and if she doesn’t want to be found, the Amish would never give her up.”

      “I know.” Her thoughts flickered to her own futile effort to find out something from her mother’s relatives in Indiana. “So, if it’s not a criminal investigation, will you do anything?” She didn’t mean that to sound critical, but she had to understand.

      “We’ll pursue the leads we have.” That sounded final, and the police chief closed the suitcase and lifted it from the table. “If you’re intent on staying, please let my office know how to reach you. We’ll contact you if we find anything.”

      She nodded, watching him walk to the door. He hadn’t sounded particularly hopeful.

      He turned at the door, hand on the screen. “Don’t forget, Ms. Angelo. Let us know as soon as you hear from your father. We’d like to speak with him.” He didn’t wait for a response.

      Her stomach tightened in apprehension as she watched him walk toward the patrol car. The fact that the police would suspect her father hadn’t occurred to her when she’d rushed off in response to the phone call.

      “He thinks my father had something to do with this, doesn’t he?” The moment she asked the question, she regretted it. Link obviously didn’t want to be involved in her troubles, and she certainly had no reason to confide in him.

      “Adam is a fair-minded person. He wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

      “But the husband is always a suspect. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

      “I’m not thinking anything.” His tone was cool and dismissive. “I’m sorry for your—” he hesitated, and she suspected he’d been about to say her loss “—your situation, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

      “You found the suitcase. It’s your uncle’s house. You have a responsibility—”

      “I don’t have any responsibility at all.” The words came quick and angry. “There’s nothing I can do.”

      He’d walk away, she thought, except that it was his house, which meant she was the one who had to walk away. Marisa took a deep breath and realized she was trembling. Confrontation definitely wasn’t her strong suit.

      “I see.” She managed to keep her voice calm. “Thank you for your trouble.”

      She turned and walked to the door. She’d come here looking for answers, but it seemed all she’d found were more questions.

      LINK SCOWLED AT THE high-school photos that still adorned the wall of the room that had been his as a kid and yanked open a drawer to find a clean shirt. Mom wouldn’t hear of his being on his own when they’d finally released him from the military hospital, of course, and he’d been too weak to argue the point. But looking at the remnants of the life he used to live wasn’t doing a thing for his morale.

      Well, it would soon be over, and he’d move on. This business with the suitcase could have been worse. Now it was in Adam’s capable hands, and Marisa Angelo’s troubles were Adam’s concern.

      He’d been telling himself that all afternoon. So why did he still feel like such a loser? He wasn’t responsible for the woman.

      Trouble was, he’d always been a sucker for vulnerable brown eyes.

      He pushed away the image of that heart-shaped face. Marisa wouldn’t stick this out, anyway. She’d get tired of waiting around for news that didn’t come and go back to wherever she’d come from—Baltimore, Adam had said.

      Adam didn’t want the woman here. But he did want to see her father. Marisa had been right about one thing. The police did always suspect the husband when a woman disappeared.

      Funny that the cops hadn’t looked into it more thoroughly at the time. He’d have thought—

      No, he wasn’t going to obsess about Marisa Angelo.

      He started down the stairs, running his hand along the railing that four or five generations of Morgans had touched. He never used to spare a thought for things like that. Trey was the oldest son—he’d always figured Trey was responsible for carrying on the family traditions.

      But somehow the tour of duty in Afghanistan had made Link look at things differently, like this old house and the countryside that surrounded it. Morgan land, just like probably half of Spring Township was Morgan land.

      We have a duty to the land, Grandpa used to say. And to the people who live here.

      A stickler for duty, the old man had been, accepting no excuses for not doing what you should. Like dealing with Marisa Angelo’s problem. And Uncle Allen’s possible involvement.

      But he wasn’t going to see Marisa Angelo again.

      Voices