Close to Home by Lisa Jackson

is predicting one helluva storm heading our way. Straight down from Canada. But that’s not all . . .”
    J. D. made a growling sound.
    One corner of her mouth actually lifted as she stepped all the way inside. “And good morning to you too. Geez, look who woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”
    He winced slightly. Ever since Sammi-Jo had left him two months ago, he had been a bear to work with, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to shake himself out of his funk. He placed his elbows on the desk he’d inherited along with this pain-in-the-neck job and said, “Let’s start over. What’s up?”
    â€œMissing person,” she said and slid into one of the uncomfortable chairs across the desk from him. “Seventeen. Rosalie Jamison. She’s a classmate of my younger sister’s, and so I know her mom, Sharon, kind of.” She tipped her flattened hand up and down to indicate that it was an “iffy” relationship. “We’ve met each other at some school functions. Anyway, Sharon called me this morning beside herself. Rosalie’s missing. Been gone more than twelve hours. I know, I know. Not twenty-four, but hear me out. She works at the Columbia Diner.”
    He knew the place, had frequented it himself on occasion.
    â€œSo she left work around midnight, clocked out at eleven fifty-three, but never made it home.”
    â€œRunaway?” he asked.
    â€œPossibly.” Lucy’s eyebrows drew together the way they always did when she was tasked with a problem she couldn’t figure out. “She’s had some trouble at school, but Sharon called around and the people who worked with her saw her leave, walking. One of the other waitresses, Gloria Netterling, offered to give her a lift, but the girl declined. Decided to walk.”
    â€œLast night,” he said, thoughtfully and tapped his fingers on his desk. “Bad weather.”
    â€œYeah.” Bellisario was nodding, her hair catching fire in the light from the overhead fixtures. “It’s about a twenty- to twenty-five-minute walk, so she should have been home by twelve-thirty at the latest. Her mom and stepdad, Mel Updike, were already at home, in bed, with the TV on. They figured she’d come in, and only the next morning did they realize she hadn’t come home. Sharon didn’t push the panic button because it had happened before, but by afternoon, she was worried and started calling around to Rosalie’s usual haunts. Drove to the diner and back, talked to everyone there, then called all her friends. No one had seen her since she walked out the door of the diner.”
    â€œBoyfriend?”
    â€œNone currently, though Sharon said Rosalie had mentioned a boy she’d met online. Sharon doesn’t even know his name, only that he claims he’s from around Denver, where her ex, Rosalie’s dad, lives.”
    â€œOnline? How the hell does that work when you’re a teenager?”
    â€œI don’t know, but probably the way it does for adults.”
    â€œWhat about a car?” he asked.
    â€œShe didn’t own one. Used her mom’s Chevy when she needed one, or walked, sometimes hitched.”
    Cooke locked gazes with Bellisario. The hitchhiking thing was a flag.
    â€œThere are other vehicles in the house. Updike has a truck and motorcycle, and they’re all accounted for.”
    â€œSiblings?”
    â€œNone who live with her. And only half siblings at that, a couple of ’em. Live with their dad. Updike’s got a handful, also. None of whom are in state.”
    â€œWhat about her dad?” He held up a hand and clarified, “I mean the biological father? The guy in Denver. She call him?”
    â€œMick Jamison. Yeah, she called him. Woke him up. He lives with wife number two, a woman Sharon doesn’t like or trust.”
    â€œDoes the first wife ever trust the second?” he asked rhetorically, the wheels