Gone by Lisa Gardner Read Free Book Online

weather. Last winter, Rainie and Quincy swore they’d do something about it as soon as it got warm. Have it regraded, have it paved.
    They never did. They loved their little wooden castle perched at its top. And without ever saying as much in words, they appreciated the driveway as their own version of a rampart. Not just any vehicle could make it up. And absolutely no one approached their house without being heard.
    Kincaid dropped his car into a lower gear and gunned the engine. The Chevy crested the hill just in time to startle a deer feeding on a salt lick Rainie had placed in the garden. The deer crashed back into the forest. Kincaid parked next to a bank of drenched ferns.
    He climbed out, already giving Quincy an arched stare.
    Quincy and Rainie had found the house just a year ago. It wasn’t large, but the custom-built Craftsman-style home presented the best of everything. A towering picture window that offered a panoramic view of the mountains. A crested roofline of alternating peaks and valleys. A sweeping front porch, complete with matching Adirondack rockers.
    Rainie had loved the open floor plan, exposed beams, and enormous stone fireplace. Quincy had appreciated the large windows and multitude of skylights, which maximized what little light one could eke out of such gray days. The house was expensive, more than they probably should’ve spent. But they’d taken one look and seen their future. Rainie curled up in front of the fireplace with a book. Quincy sequestered in the den writing his memoirs. And a child, nationality still unknown, sitting in the middle of the great room, stacking toys.
    They had purchased this home with hope in their hearts.
    Quincy didn’t know what Rainie thought when she looked at their home now.
    He led the way up the steps, then stopped in front of the door. He let Kincaid tug at the knob. The door was locked; Rainie never would’ve left the house any other way.
    Wordlessly, Quincy produced his key. Kincaid worked the bolt lock.
    The heavy door swept open to a shadowed foyer, light slowly seeping across the stone-inlaid floor. The wooden staircase, with its rough-hewn railing, was immediately to the left. The great room swept open to the right. At a glance, both men could see the vaulted family room with its massive stone fireplace, then, deeper in, the dining area and kitchen.
    Quincy processed many things at once: the plaid flannel blanket tossed in a puddle in front of the fireplace; the half-read paperback, lying print-side-down on the ottoman. He saw an empty water glass, Rainie’s running shoes, a gray cardigan slung over the back of the hunter green sofa.
    The room was disturbed, but nothing that suggested violence. It was more like a scene interrupted—Quincy half expected to spy Rainie walking in from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her hand and a perplexed look on her face.
    “What are you doing here?”
she would ask.
    “Missing you,”
he would answer.
    Except maybe Rainie wasn’t carrying a cup of coffee. Maybe it was a beer instead.
    Kincaid finally walked into the room. Quincy drifted in his wake, glad the sergeant was studying the room and not registering the raw look that had to be on Quincy’s face.
    Kincaid made quick work of the family room. He seemed to register the book, the glass, the running shoes. Then he was in the breakfast nook. The note was still on the table.
    Kincaid read it, glanced at Quincy, then read the note again. The investigator didn’t say anything, just walked into the kitchen. Quincy wasn’t sure if that made the invasion of privacy better or worse.
    The OSP sergeant opened the fridge. He caught Quincy’s eye, then opened the door wider, until Quincy could see the six-pack. Quincy nodded, and the other man moved on. Not much food in the fridge, but the kitchen was neat. A mug and bowl in the sink. Counters wiped down.
    Rainie had never been the best housekeeper in the world, but she was clearly keeping up with things. Not the