Trail of Secrets. Sandra Robbins

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      Callie swallowed her tears and turned the page. Entries that followed described the discovery of the body on the banks of the Mississippi River, the medical examiner’s report and facts about the investigation. It seemed every detail that had been known about “Hope” at the time of her death was listed on the pages. What pricked Callie’s heart was the fact that nothing about her identity had been added in the years since.

      She turned to the next section and read through what appeared to be hundreds of reports on missing persons near Hope’s determined age who had disappeared from various parts of the country about the same time as she had. Each entry contained notes on the victim, her uncle’s contact with the families and his conclusion that this wasn’t a match to the woman he was looking for.

      She frowned as she leafed through the thick stack of reports. He’d spent endless hours through the years tracking down dozens of leads, but nothing had yielded the identity of the one he’d buried in Memphis twenty-five years ago.

      Callie had never stopped to think about the number of people who disappeared in this country every year. Her uncle had known, though, and he had cared. She turned back to the picture of Hope and stared at it again. Who was she? Where had she come from? And how did she end up dead in the Mississippi River? Those thoughts must have run through her uncle’s head every day.

      She noticed a piece of paper that looked different from the others sticking from the back of the notebook, and she turned to it. It was a flyer advertising a homeless shelter near downtown. The name Dorothy Tipton, written in her uncle’s handwriting, was paper-clipped to the flyer. What was that about?

      She turned another page and frowned at the names listed with phone numbers beside them. She read through the names, but she’d never heard of any of them. One near the bottom had a check mark next to it, and she stared at it. Melvin Harris. Who could he be? She made a mental note to ask Seth if he knew the man.

      Closing the notebook, she sat there a moment thinking about what she’d found out tonight. Even though the news of her uncle’s secret case had surprised her, she had a different feeling toward it now. Hope had been a real person to him, a woman whose dreams and desires had been cut short by a killer. He wanted justice for her, and he’d tried to give it to her. Now he might not get to do that. Before, she’d felt only worry for her uncle, but now she understood a little better how much this case had meant to him. She was glad to think that Seth could continue her uncle’s work. She’d turn the notebook over to him when he came by in the morning.

      She took the last drink of her milk and was about to return the notebook to its drawer when the sound of shattering glass from the direction of the kitchen ripped through the house.

      She bolted to her feet and glanced wildly around to see if anyone came charging into the den. Another crash split the air, and a new fear engulfed her. She grabbed the edge of the desk to steady herself. Hissing and popping sounds mixed with the odor of an accelerant could only mean one thing.

      Someone had thrown a fire bomb into the house.

      Cold fear washed over her as smoke curled around the corner of the door. Callie grabbed the notebook and ran from the room toward the house’s front door. Before she could reach it, another firebomb crashed through the window to the right of the door. A trail of flames fanned across the entry as a combustible liquid spread across the floor. Another bomb slammed through the window to the left of the door. With a loud whooshing sound a giant wall of fire rose to cut off her exit.

      She clutched the notebook to her chest and stared in horror as she realized her escape routes had both been cut off. It only took her a moment to remember what Uncle Dan had taught her years ago when she’d come to live with him.

      Holding tightly to the notebook, she dashed up the staircase into her room. She raised the window and stepped out onto the roof of the garage that joined the house at a ninety-degree angle. Uncle Dan, always mindful of her safety, had assigned her this bedroom so she would have an easy escape route in case of a fire on the ground floor.

      Callie climbed out the window onto the roof and ran to the end where she shimmied down the gutter drainpipe at the corner of the garage. When she was on the ground, she ran to the back of the yard before she stopped and stared at the house now engulfed in flames.

      Tears ran down her face as she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911. “Nine-one-one,” the operator’s voice answered. “What is your emergency?”

      “My house is on fire!” she screamed.

      “Are you at 1901 Willow Springs Road?”

      “Yes.”