Crimson Harvest

A sudden knock came from the front door. Her father squeezed her arm reassuringly. “That’s probably the police,” he said. “Are you ready to talk with them?”

“What do I tell them?” Heather asked. “They’ll think I’m a liar or that I’m crazy. . . . Or both.”

Her father took her arm and began to steer her down the hallway. “Just tell them what you told us. Tell them the truth. That’s all you can do even if it sounds crazy or others think you’re lying. I hope that nothing has happened . . . that it’s all a misunderstanding, but if it isn’t . . . if something has happened and someone is in trouble, we have to do what’s in our power to help.”

They walked into the long room, and when she saw her uncle, Heather could feel her face turn red. She liked her uncle a lot, but why did he have to be visiting now of all times? His eyes met hers briefly, then turned downward, his expression clearly embarrassed for her. She knew that she must look terrible, her eyes red and swollen from crying. At least she had put more clothes on and had wiped away most of the gaudy makeup that she had applied earlier. She definitely did not want to look trashy in front of her uncle, let alone her mom and dad.

Her father went to the door while her mother guided her onto the sofa, sitting down beside her.

“Hello, Logan,” came her father’s voice. “I’m glad you’re the one they sent.”