The Summit. Kat Martin

room filled with equipment.

      “Everything from more recent times is stored on microfilm. You’ll find copies of every paper printed and an index by subject matter. Just type in missing children and it should bring up what you need.”

      “Thank you.”

      Autumn sat down and set to work, going back five years, thinking little Molly might have been six then and eleven now. Since Autumn had been living in Seattle, she figured she might have seen or met her during that time.

      There were stacks of articles. Unfortunately, nothing looked remotely like it had anything to do with a little girl named Molly. There were a several children mentioned, missing then found. One was lost in the mountains and rescued by local search teams.

      She tried four years back, found a story about a pedophile named Gerald Meeks who had been arrested for molesting and killing several young children, but Molly’s name—thank God—was not among those mentioned.

      The year 2001, six years back, would make the child six then and twelve now, which was Autumn’s strongest suspicion. She was paging through the summer issues, reading snippets here and there, when an article popped up. The headline read, Issaquah Girl Reported Missing. The paper was dated June 30, 2001 and the disappearance had happened the day before the paper went to press.

      A six year old girl disappeared from her home late yesterday afternoon, the article read. According to reports, the child was playing ball in her yard with friends when an unknown man appeared on the sidewalk.

      The article went on to describe the incident and included a description of the missing girl: long blond hair, blue eyes, wearing jeans, sneakers and a purple T-shirt with a picture of Barney the dinosaur on the front.

      There was even a photo, one Autumn recognized the instant she saw it. And the name beneath the picture read Molly Lynn McKenzie.

      Autumn’s chest squeezed so hard it was difficult to breathe. Her heart was pumping, trying to beat its way through her chest. The child was real. The dream was real. The kidnapping had really occurred.

      Autumn felt light-headed. She reread the date. That summer she had been staying with her dad in Burlington before starting her teaching job in Seattle. She probably would have seen the article, which would have been carried in all the local papers, but in June she was in Europe—a graduation gift to herself—traveling with a group of climbers.

      McKenzie? McKenzie? Why did the name sound familiar?

      It hit her like a bolt of lightning—she had heard the name only a few days ago. Josh had mentioned it when she and Terri were working out at the gym.

      Autumn quickly scanned the article and there it was: Molly Lynn McKenzie was the daughter of sporting goods retailer Ben McKenzie and his wife, Joanne, residents of Issaquah, Washington, a town in the foothills just east of Seattle.

      Pieces of the puzzle began falling together. She had noticed McKenzie at the gym only recently. She tried to think back. As nearly as she could recall, the first time was somewhere around the time she had started to dream about Molly.

      She studied the screen, frantically pressed the button to skip forward in time. Article after article had been written about little Molly—interviews with her parents, the desperate search to find her. As she skimmed the pages, Autumn prayed the child had been found. Yet deep inside, she was certain the little girl had not.

      According to the Times, the search had continued for weeks, though the articles became more and more scarce. As far as Autumn could tell, no clue to the child’s disappearance was ever discovered.

      An image of handsome Ben McKenzie popped into her head. How devastated he and his wife must have been to lose their little girl. Her chest ached. She couldn’t begin to imagine the pain, the terrible grief they must have suffered. She had to talk to Ben McKenzie, find out as much as she could about what had happened.

      If Molly was still missing…

      She printed the newspaper articles, paid for the copies and left the building. She had to see Ben McKenzie and perhaps speak to his wife. She needed to know if anything had been discovered about Molly during the past six years. As soon as she got home, she would call McKenzie’s office and make an appointment to see him.

      God only knew what she was going to say.

      Ben ended the conference call he had been having with his financial VP, George Murphy, and Russ Petrone, a real estate broker in Issaquah. The town was Ben’s home when he moved to the area, the place he had opened his first store.

      According to Russ, a long-time friend who had sold him and Joanne their home then helped him lease the building for McKenzie Sporting Goods, that store was about to be put in jeopardy. Apparently his competitor, A-1 Sports, had been nosing around, sniffing out property within a two-block range of his Issaquah location, one of the top-selling stores in the chain. Rumor had it that A-1 had located a piece of real estate just across the street and was seriously interested in making a purchase.

      Ben swore as he hung up the phone and leaned back in his black leather chair. Sonofabitch! He didn’t believe for a moment that A-1 wanted to operate a store in the area. But he believed completely that they would do it if they thought it would urge him to sell them the McKenzie chain. With their lower prices, A-1 was tough competition. People were suckers when it came to getting something for less, even if it meant sacrificing quality.

      In the world of sports, cheap products not only didn’t last, they could actually be dangerous.

      A-1 was definitely a problem, one Ben was determined to solve.

      His intercom buzzed. “Your five-thirty is here,” Jenn said.

      “Remind me who it is.”

      “A woman named Autumn Sommers. She said it was a personal matter. You said to schedule her at the end of the day.”

      He tried to remember the name but it didn’t ring a bell. He had dated any number of women since his divorce, though none of them seriously. He wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship and he always made that clear from the start. But he enjoyed women and he liked sex. And the women he dated seemed to have no complaints. “Go ahead and send her in.”

      He stood up as the door opened, saw a petite young woman in her twenties, pretty but not gorgeous like the models and movie starlets he occasionally spent time with. He preferred them blond and buxom and this one was petite and dark-haired, though she seemed to have a very nice pair of breasts.

      She wasn’t really his type and he was almost positive he had never been out with her. That was something of a relief.

      “My assistant says you wanted to see me on a personal matter. I don’t believe we’ve met, Ms. Summers. What can I do for you?” He motioned for her to have a seat in front of his desk, but she walked over to the window and looked out across the city. He could tell she was nervous. He wondered why.

      “Spectacular view,” she said. “I live close to here but my condo looks over the city, not out at the water.”

      “It’s a very lovely view. Now as I said, what can I do for you?”

      She turned to face him, but still didn’t take a seat so neither did he.

      “You can start by calling me Autumn, though you’re right we haven’t met. I’ve seen you at Pike’s Gym a couple of times. I didn’t even know who you were until a few days ago.”

      He didn’t remember seeing her, but she wasn’t really the sort to catch a man’s eye…not at first glance, at any rate. “Autumn Summers. Interesting name.”

      “It’s Sommers with an O. My parents thought it was cute.” She walked back his way and sat down and Ben sat down across from her. There was something intriguing about her. She had big green eyes that tilted up at the corners, a heart-shaped face and thick, short, softly curling hair that was almost red but not quite. In the overhead light, there were streaks of russet and gold—autumn colors, just like her name.

      “So