Miranda Jessup Buckley is back. Trying to find out what happened to Waylon's dad, Dougie Wilcox.

**********************************

I've gotten into the habit of waking up early and having breakfast with Waylon before he heads out for the bus. We don't have any great conversations, since neither one of us is a morning person. But it's nice just to spend the time together.

"Any tests this week?" I ask, stirring the eggs in the pan. I try to fix him a good breakfast most mornings. Eggs or French toast, sometimes I go all out and fix shit on a shingle (chipped beef and gravy on toast, if you weren't raised by an ex-Army man.) But Thursdays are Waylon's favorite breakfast. I bring home the leftover donuts from The Little Eagle. The bakery in town drops off fresh donuts twice a week. We used to trash them but since Rita's boys are getting older and Waylon eats like two grown men, we alternate. She takes the discards home Monday afternoon and I take them Wednesday night.

Since Mitch and his deputies have been stopping in, our donut order has doubled.

Waylon yawns and let's out a big sigh. "I've got a geometry test tomorrow. But that's no big deal."

"I failed geometry. Had to retake it my junior year."

Waylon laughs. "How do you fail geometry? That's like failing English."

"Smart ass. I'll have you know, geometry is hard. I don't have a math brain. I'm much better at other things."

"But you passed it that second time, right?"

I pretend to busy myself with getting the plates. Truth is, I cut a deal with my teacher. I would babysit her bratty little girl one day a week in the summer. That kid was a nightmare. I should have just gotten a tutor.

"You never answered me," he says.

I plate the eggs and pull the toast out of the toaster before it starts smoking. "Breakfast is served," I say as I put his plate in front of him.

"You didn't pass, did you?"

I smile at him. "Of course I did," I lie.

He shuts up until he has scraped every bit of egg off the plate. "Okay, I gotta brush my teeth and go to the stupid bus stop."

I nod, motion for him to put his dish in the sink instead of leaving it on the table like he is going to do.

"I'll see you tonight," I call out as he races out of the bathroom and grabs his backpack off the table by the door. "Make good choices," I say without looking up.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I go take a quick shower and dress. I don't put on the store issue polo shirt, instead I pull a sweatshirt out of the back of my closet.

I've been thinking about Dougie a lot. I mean like more now than when he first left me. There is less imagined violence in my thoughts now. And, no, I'm not in love with Dougie. I just have to find out what happened to him. Dead or alive, I have to know.

I grab my work shirt, my keys and purse and head out to my car. I'll start searching the last place we know he was. The swamp called No Man's Land.

It's about thirty-five minutes away. I turn down one of those maintenance roads and hope that I don't get stuck. Still don't have a cell phone, so if I do get stuck, I'm shit out of luck.

No Man's Land is a very popular place with photographers. The likelihood of seeing a bear, a coyote or fox far outweigh the chances of not seeing one.

Since I don't have bear spray, mace or a weapon of any sort, I honk my horn twice. No idea if that will scare predators away, but it annoys the hell out of Waylon when I have to pick him up from school, so I'll assume it might be a deterrent to a curious bear.

I look around before I exit the car. I walk over to the spot where Dougie's truck was found. The passenger door was open, a few spots of blood on the floor mat and a smear of blood on the seat. The battery was dead because the headlights were left on. Keys had been in the ignition.

Lights on meant he drove out here or was forced out here after dark. I knew two things, one Dougie was trying to get financial backing for a get rich quick scheme, and he got money from Missy. Did he try to skip out with the money? Who or what would cause him to drive all the way out here?

I kick through some over grown weeds. A familiar brown bottle rolls out. It's one of those expensive brews Dougie used to drink. I study the weeds. It might not even belong to Dougie. There half hidden at the back edge of overgrowth is another bottle.

Dougie didn't drink and drive. If these bottles were his, he was here hiding or waiting. Then it hits me, maybe he wasn't alone. I crouch down and reach into weeds to grab both bottles, praying that there isn't a nest of copperheads or moccasins in there.

I pour out the dirty water and carry them back to my car. I put them in the floorboard of the passenger seat.

I start my car and pull back onto the main road. The radio isn't anything but ads but background noise sometimes quiets the needling thoughts. The disc jockey reminds me that the nine at nine is over and will return tomorrow at nine a.m. It is then that I realize, I'm going to be late to work.

"Damn it," I say to absolutely no one. No cell means I can't even call Rita to give her a heads up.

I push the gas pedal down with a little extra energy and decide I just might make it to work on time. I'll be pulling in the lot on two wheels but I'll be there.

Forty-five, turns into fifty, which quickly escalates to sixty-five. I could have made it to seventy miles per hour, had I not heard the jarring mating call of the men in blue.

Reluctantly, I look into the rear view mirror. Sure enough, the dazzling blue and white lights of Patterson County's finest are bearing down on me.

"Dammit," I mutter, pressing the break to pull over.

I place both hands on the wheel and prepare for the worst.

"License and registration."

It's Mitch. Of course, it's him. Every time I do something stupid, Mitch is there to bear witness. "Look, I know I was speeding, but I'm gonna be late for work."

"License and registration, please."

I exhale loudly as I reach for my purse. "Are we really going to do this?" I mutter, fighting to get my license out of my wallet.

"Oh, yes, Miranda, we are going to do this. The speed limit on this stretch of road is forty-five. Do you know what I clocked you at?"

"Over forty-five?"

"Seventy miles an hour. Twenty-five miles over the speed limit. Just what the hell were you driving so fast for?"

"I was trying not to be late for work. But, now it's a moot point."

"What are you doing out here?"

I'd rather eat glass than tell him the truth. "Are you gonna write me a ticket or not?"

He hands me the registration and my license back. "No. This time you get a pass, but I'm going to follow you back into town. Slow down. Understand?"

I force a smile. "Thank you officer."

He shakes his head, turns and walks back to his patrol car.

"Slow down," he shouts once more.

Gosh, he's cute when he's mad.