Page 35 of Apple of My Eye

When the sisters pulled apart, Daisy gripped both of them by their arms and looked them over like she needed to confirm with her own eyes that they were okay. Satisfied, she exhaled and turned toward the porch.

Sheriff Patrick came out through the front door right as she stepped up. His expression steadied with the particularbrand of calm that serious men wore in difficult moments like these.

“We’ve cleared the property,” he said. “Inside and out. Whoever it was, they’re gone. It’s safe to go in, but I’d ask you not to touch anything in the rooms until we’ve dusted for prints.”

“How bad is it?” Daisy rubbed her arms.

“It’s a mess.” He paused. “Have a look. Tell me if you see anything missing.”

She absorbed that, jaw working once. “Thank you, Sheriff Patrick.”

He stepped aside to let them by. Colt and I followed them in. I wasn’t exactly sure what we could do for them by following, other than providing support when needed.

I had been in the Wylde farmhouse a few times. I had a general picture of the place: inviting, lived-in, the house that collected family history. Everything in it meant something.

It sat far from that right now.

The entryway had been gone through first. A side table was upended, the contents of a drawer scattered across the floor—envelopes, a few pens, a pocket knife, a folder of paper that had been opened and left. Several framed photos on the wall hung crooked. A hat rack near the door had been knocked from its mounting, the coats piled on the floor beneath it.

Daisy stopped in the middle of the living room. Her expression didn’t break, but I could tell she forced herself to assess instead of react.

“These are just things,” she commented, as if she had repeated it a hundred times to herself on the drive here. Maybeas a reminder to her sisters that things can be replaced. The important thing was that they were okay.

Ivy stood beside her, arms crossed, bottom lip between her teeth.

Sage pushed her glasses up and said nothing.

Daisy continued. “You heard the sheriff. We need to walk through and figure out if anything is actually gone.”

They peeled off in different directions. I followed Daisy to the kitchen. Drawers had been pulled and emptied on the counter. Cabinet doors left hanging open, their contents spilled on the floor. A ceramic bowl that had probably sat on the same shelf for thirty years was in pieces on one counter, the money hidden inside left untouched among the remnants.

“Nothing missing in here that I can see,” Daisy said, moving past it.

We went from room to room. The living room, upended. Their father’s old armchair turned to face the wrong direction, upside down. Books pulled from the shelf and not put back. A storage chest stood open and empty. The sitting room off the hallway, the bathroom, the utility room, each one checked.

“Nothing missing,” came their constant cry, baffled by it. Each confirmation landed a little lighter, yet heavier, at the same time.

Heavier meant whoever came in knew what they were looking for. I kept that thought to myself. I tracked the pattern of the disturbance as we moved through. This was a search rather than the wild scattering of someone grabbing valuables in a hurry. No television taken. No electronics gone. Somebody was looking. Not stealing.

Daisy moved into her bedroom upstairs last.

I stood in the doorframe while she inspected it; her gazegoing methodically from the closet to the bed. Clothes lay everywhere. The top of her dresser was swept clear, its contents on the floor. A quilt pulled off the bed.

She gasped and pointed. I followed to where her eyes had fixated on the nightstand.

The surface had nothing on it.

She checked the drawers on her bed, under the bed, all over the room. She stood, her hand pressing flat against the top of the stand.

“Dad’s notebooks are gone,” she cried and sniffled, her back to me. I fought every urge to go to her, but I’d be stepping on piles of her stuff. “Why those? None of this makes any sense?—”

She swiveled on her heels, face paled, and she rushed out of the room. I narrowly got out of her way.

She yelled as she went, flying out the front door to the sheriff. “The notebooks. They took Dad’s notebooks.”

We all followed her out.

“Are you sure?” Ivy checked. “Why would anyone want those?”