I parked the Tacoma near the entrance to Aidan’s property and edged along the piney woods twenty feet from the main pathway. This time around, I planned to get the drop on him before he prepared a story.

A carpet of pine needles muffled my approach. Goosebumps from the late morning chill covered my skin. A partial view of his prodigious greenhouse guided my trek, its rounded top shining a beacon in the rising sunlight. 

As I meandered through the busted vehicles, playing in an imaginary world of the past, birds tittered warning songs that echoed between the trees. I slowed to avoid a clamorous announcement of my return.

Each rusted metal carcass I passed generated an imaginary tale, a vibrant portrait of those long-gone owners. This game I’d come up with as a child, conjuring people who’d owned the abandoned cars of my dad’s junkyard, developed detective skills. I would interpret the lives of unknown owners and drivers of broken relics, learning to understand people on a psychological level. Their conceivable choices and reactions made for vivid adventures.

Aidan had two rusted 1940s-era pickup trucks that had likely crossed the Canadian border full of whiskey and moonshine under an equally full moon. Idiots who drove using the same light that made them visible to the G-men who hunted them. A seventies El Camino trapped within a tree trunk grown around it, summoned a sideways drift on a gravel road, teenagers pouring through its windows and from the truck bed at the sudden stop, howling with joy. I skirted a 1970 Buick Riviera, its crushed top declaring a turnover in the ditch with a young driver clutching his head in agony over the loss of his most recent lover.

These exploratory narratives ended when I stumbled across a child’s stuffed koala. This bear was similar to the one I’d seen in Kayla’s room. Lorna said there was a twin, one that Kayla always carried with her. The dew-covered fur felt cool to the touch. Dirt and debris clung to the bottom, but the sunny side wasn’t filthy enough to have been in the woods long. I clutched the stuffed animal and continued the hunt for Aidan.

Rustling sounds from the dilapidated side of the greenhouse drew me in that direction. Easy steps carried me to the corner of the building. My pounding heart predicted a ravenous bear, hopeful for a meal in boots. 

Instead, I found Aidan rummaging through clutter. His rangy form grubbed in the dirty pots like the badger I’d grown to respect. The type of respect that filled the upper half of my chest with high-voltage energy. 

I tucked the koala into my jacket pocket and said his name, “Aidan.”

He jerked to full height, eyes wild and unpredictable. “What do you want?” His voice revealed sharp judgments. Those furtive eyes roved over me, calculating my threat level. 

“Came to ask why you made a complaint about my sister.”

“Your sister?” His legs were bent like loaded springs, his back arched in a preparatory lean. “Do I know her? I don’t think I know anybody’s sister.”

“Did you make another complaint? Against someone else?” I asked in precise rhythms, my body fixed and loose, warding off aggravation of his protective stance. 

He squinted hard. “Oh,” he said, letting his muscles relax. “I remember you from last time. Asked them questions about Kayla.” He returned to rummaging. “That skinny one’s your sister, huh? Well it’s no matter. I have a right to defend myself against threats.”

I rolled my shoulders to settle into a non-threatening gumshoe role. “You can’t see that she’s just concerned about Kayla?” 

The day had grown brighter by several lumens, warm tones diminishing the predatory image. Aidan appeared less alarming and more like a grubby homeless man foraging for leftovers.

“She doesn’t need to look after Kayla.” He popped upright and pushed past me into the open air, grabbing the pitchfork on his way out.

I had to jump out of the way to avoid a collision. “Why aren’t you more worried about your missing child?” I asked, regaining a defensive posture in case he made offensive use of the farmyard tool.

Aidan ignored me and carried the implement into the woods, winding his way through the scrap piles. His gait was quick and sure.

I followed, changing tactics, trying to keep up without stumbling. “I talked to Hugh Jenkins like you suggested.”

Aidan faltered a beat without outright acknowledging the news.

We weaved our way between the trees.

I kept talking, hopping branches and dodging hardware. “He said he’s not seen hide nor hair of Kayla on the property.”

He started to turn, then corrected himself without speaking.

My words chased after him. “Said Faye is too busy with the café to watch kids anymore. Did you know she wasn’t babysitting?” I damned near ran into a disembodied fender jutting out beside a tree. 

Aidan kept roaming, but talk of Faye must’ve prompted a response. “I never heard about Faye had a café around there. She’s always babysitted ones from town.” He hastened his stride. There didn’t appear to be a particular direction in mind. We could just be circling the property as a delay tactic. “He probably had Kayla on the property somewhere. Just lied to you. Hugh don’t trust strangers.”

I was huffing for breath now. “Possible. Then again, I met Faye at her diner when I came into town last evening. Hard to believe she could keep tabs on a kid out to the home place at the same time.”

Aidan turned on me, lifting the pitchfork between us as smooth as a military guard. His eyes turned glassy, and he began to rant. “I don’t have a daughter. That Vicky’s a bitch. Never appreciates anything. Never listens. Tells lies lies lies. She don’t want to be my daughter, I don’t have a daughter.” He spun on his heel and picked up another mph in his pace, toes flinging frosted soil like a badger running for supper.

The shift in logical continuity rattled me. “What are you saying?” I gripped the toy I’d found in my pocket. Its presence begged mention. “Are we talking about Vicky, or Kayla?”

“She’s not my child. Let someone else fret about her.”

“You mean Kayla?” I asked, yanking the koala from my pocket. “Who are we talking about, Aidan? Look at this.” I needed a dramatic moment to pull him back to reality. “I found this toy of hers over yonder next to a busted up Riviera.”

Aidan took a quick peek. The stuffed animal shocked him, and he damned near stabbed himself in the foot sticking the pitchfork into the dirt. “She’s nobody’s daughter, she’s an angel sent to reform us. I’m building the Glass Castle for her. She’s nothing like her sister, won’t listen to truth, wants to spread lies about her father. Kayla’s special. I’ll build the Glass Castle and we’ll stay there, away from molesters and Jezebels.”

We stared each other down. His puffy red eyes exposed a man in torment. Two differing ideas pulling his mind toward opposing truths. The man clearly couldn’t make sense of it.

Aidan held the visual battle for all of twenty seconds before a proximal paranoia took over. His gaze darted around the yard behind me, head swiveling with the smoothness of a gun turret.

“You gotta git. You gotta git. Ain’t nobody but me in this village.” He jerked the pitchfork loose and jabbed its tines at my midsection, barely missing contact.

I jumped a foot, heart slamming against ribs to break free from its confines. The tines sparkled in the daylight while my body sweat cooled to a chill. 

Aidan rocked back on his heels. A swirl of maddening confusion showed in his facial expression. He grunted. Or growled.

This was the type of data bound to get the Sheriff’s attention. Get out of here alive, get the details in front of him. 

I eased backwards, with that koala clutched in a death grip. It was my only witness to the threats of a deranged father.