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Cost of Belief
The rolling hills and dense forests of Arkansas gradually gave way to lush, green mountains. Narrow, winding roads threaded through modest townlets—places untouched by modernity, still echoing with the rhythms of earlier times. Wildlife thrived in these secluded landscapes, yet Rachel barely registered the scenery. Her focus remained fixed on the list unfolding across her lap.
She scanned the paper, her brow furrowed. "So many hung around back then," she murmured, handing the sheet to her companion. "I'm not sure I have them all."
Detective Jerry Simms scratched at the rough bristle of his five o'clock shadow. "You're sure it was someone from your past?"
"How else would he know what he knows?"
Jerry considered that. Jeanie's obituary had circulated in the local paper, and Berryville was the sort of town where gossip moved faster than newsprint. Even the ugliest rumors had their staying power—like the one where he and his captain, Joe, were said to be lovers. Jerry rolls his eyes, chuckles, and says, "You and I both know how much that kind of talk floats around Berryville."
Rachel wasn't amused. "He knew about DFS taking us away. About Emma living with her aunt."
Jerry nodded. "That could've come from anyone. But your mama—she's still alive, right?"
"She is. She faked her death to keep Carlos and his crew off our backs. But if he was piecing things together through gossip, you'd think he'd know that."
"Unless he's pretending not to, just to throw you off."
She thought back to their conversations. She then recalls how skillfully he toyed with perception. "He does like to play mind games."
As they pulled up to a small brick house on the outskirts of Springfield, the scene grew dim. Tattered curtains drooped in the windows; torn screens dangled limply on hinges barely holding. The car parked in the center of the drive hadn't moved in months—its hood propped, tires flat, looking more dead than dormant.
Rachel knocked twice, her knuckles brushing chipped paint. A prickle of unease slid up her spine. She turned abruptly, her hand resting on her holster.
Jerry frowned. "You alright?"
"I feel like we're being watched."
Her eyes combed the desolate yard and surrounding silence. Nothing. Just the distant yapping of a mangy dog from next door.
Jerry glanced around. "As far as I can tell, it's just you, me, and that damn mutt."
"I know," she said, trying to shake the feeling. "Guess I shouldn't let him get in my head like that." Her eyes returned to the door. "She's probably not home."
They were halfway back to the car when the door creaked open. A haggard-looking woman emerged, her clothes wrinkled and stained, her hair matted in greasy, tri-colored tufts.
"Yeah? What do you want?" she slurred.
Rachel checked her watch. It was not yet noon. She tilted her head slightly, sizing the woman up. "Ginger Myers?"
The woman squinted through the sun. "You're looking at her."
"I'm Sergeant Bower with the Berryville PD. This is Detective Simms."
"Is this about my girl?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. Could we come in?"
"I'd rather you not." She stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind her.
The odor hit Rachel with force—thick, sour, clinging to the afternoon heat. She instinctively stepped back. "It'd be easier to talk inside."
"I've got company."
Rachel shifted her stance. "We found your daughter in an abandoned building early this morning."
"She OD'd, right?"
The woman's flat tone stunned them both. Rachel hesitated. "The ME's running a tox screen now."
"I'm sure she did," Ginger replied, scratching at a scalp visibly crawling with activity. "Last time she was here, she was strung out. I figured it was only a matter of time."
Jerry cut in. "When was that?"
"A year? Maybe two. Time slips away these days."
Rachel's gaze narrowed, suspicion edging into her voice. "You're saying your daughter came home and didn't report her kidnapping?"
"She said she already had. She told me she spoke to you. I welcomed her back and tried to help. Lisa said drugs were the only way she coped. Blamed me—said I was the reason she was taken. That she's like this because of me."
The porch fell quiet.
Jerry asked gently, "Did she say why?"
"She claimed she told me about her daddy—about how he raped her. Friends too, anyone who stayed the night. Said I ignored it."
Rachel's stomach twisted. The words pulled memories from the darkest corners of her own past. She remembered pleading with her mother. Emma is crying in the hallway. A locked bedroom door that didn't silence the sounds inside.
She stepped closer, fists clenched, voice low. "You didn't even consider for a second she might've been telling the truth?"
Rachel senses Jerry's hand land firmly on her shoulder. Without a word, she shrugs it off, but he pulls her back, his warning glare cutting through the silence.
Ginger's voice trembles with the weight of old excuses. "I figured it was a bunch of hogwash. Just a way to get Phil out of our lives for good. He left when I told him I was pregnant and didn't show his face again until she was nearly five. She hated that he came back, and I assumed she made it all up so I'd kick him out."
She pauses, fingers twitching at her side. "It was only years later I found out what she told me was true."
Jerry's tone stays calm. "How did you find out?"
"I came home early from work," Ginger says, her eyes dull and unfocused. "Found him in bed with the neighbor's little girl. I called the cops, packed up my shit, and left."
Rachel steps in front of her, the detective mask cracking just enough to show what's beneath. "You didn't try to reconcile with your daughter? Let her know you believed her."
"I did, Sergeant. I swear I did." Ginger presses a hand to her chest as if willing them to see sincerity. "I made weekly trips to Arkansas for months."
"But you said the two of you hadn't spoken in over a year."
"That's right." Her shoulders slump. "I kept going, hoping to run into her. But I never did. Then, late last year, I got a voicemail. She said, 'I hope you and my perv dad die a horrific death.' After that... I stopped trying."
Jerry's voice softens. "Did she tell you where she'd been taken?"
"No." Ginger's gaze drifts toward the overgrown yard. "She never gave me details."
Rachel nods, the weight of the interview settling in the air between them. "Alright. Thank you for your time, ma'am. And I'm sorry for your loss."
Ginger doesn't flinch. "I accepted her death a long time ago."
&
The sergeant and her detective pull up to the White residence, the engine rumbling into stillness. The house itself is modest—sunlight bouncing off pale siding, windows drawn shut against the heat of midday. Before Rachel Bower finishes knocking, the door creaks open, and Mrs. White appears, her expression already sagging under the weight of expectation.
The news is swift, devastating, and familiar. Stephine, like the others, had accused her stepfather of sexual abuse. The kidnapper, bizarrely, claimed to have saved her. By the time she was found, she was strung out—insisting she wasn't staying, only stopping by to collect a few of her personal things.
"No matter how hard we tried," Mrs. White says. Her voice cracking with every word. "We couldn't get Stephine to stay." A tear rolls down her cheek. "She was right. It was my fault. I should've seen what was happening in my home, but I was too caught up in my career to notice. I didn't know what he was doing, Sergeantot, not until it was too late. I tried to tell her I believed her. That I was sorry for everything she had to go through. But she wouldn't listen."
Jerry Simms keeps his tone measured when he asks, "Did Stephine say where the kidnapper took her?"
"She mentioned a farmhouse. She said it was out in the country, surrounded by woods. She said she and Lisa hiked for miles and finally hitched a ride somewhere near 7 South."
"Did she describe her kidnapper?"
Mrs. White nods slowly. "She said he was tall, around six-three, with a muscular build. She said he has short brown hair and wears black horn-rimmed glasses." The mother thinks for a minute, and then she adds, "I remember her mentioning something about a thick southern accent. She said he reminded her of our kinfolk in Kentucky."
"Can you remember anything else your daughter might've said?"
She replays the conversation in her mind, shakes her head, and says, "I'm afraid not."
Rachel hands her a card from her jacket pocket. "If you think of anything else, give us a call.
Ginger takes the card from her, reads it, nods, and then says, "I will, Sergeant.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
Returning to the car, Rachel slams the door shut a little harder than necessary. Her jaw tightens as she replays what she's told in her mind. "So we can assume the kidnapper thinks he's saving them."
"He kidnaps them, then gets them hooked on drugs so they're easier to control. His own form of conditioning, I suppose."
Rachel exhales through her teeth. "My question is, why didn't either girl go to the cops once they escaped?"
"Maybe they were so strung out or coming down so fast that all they could think about was their next fix."
Rachel recalls her mother's boyfriends and what they were like coming off of a high. "That could be." Her voice trails off. A beat of silence falls as she opens her laptop. "Let's head to the station."
"What do you want to do about the first victim?"
"I'll send a couple of uniforms to the homeless camp; see if anyone there can ID our Jane Doe or the perp."
"So we're hunting two people now?"
"Looks that way, Jerr."
Rachel pulls up the Berryville town map. She then zooms in on the area surrounding Seven South. Her screen lights rows of rural homes lining the borders of the woods. "It'll take us months to search through all of these."
Jerry glances at the screen and nods. "Assuming they're all still standing."
"True. "A tornado went through the town five years back and leveled half the county."
Her phone rings. Jerry lifts his brows. "Maybe it's some good news for a change."
"Wouldn't that be something?" Rachel answers. "Sergeant Bower."
The voice on the other end is too calm. Too familiar. "You have two adorable kids, Sergeant. Lulu's the spitting image of her mother. And little Joe… looks just like his dad."
Rachel's grip tightens. "You stay away from my family. Do you hear me? You stay the hell away from my kids."
"It would be such a shame if something happened to either of your youngsters." The caller purrs.
Her voice drops to a deadly whisper. "If you touch a single hair on my family's heads, what you've done to those girls will seem merciful compared to what I'll do to you."
A laugh crackles through the speaker. "You have to find me first."
Rachel grips the phone tightly in her hand. She squares her jaw; through gritted teeth she says, "Oh, I will, believe me, I will."
Have a safe trip home, pipsqueak."
The line goes dead.