CHAPTER NINE
Ten minutes later, Rylie stood in the grass, listening to nothing more than the sound of highway traffic passing by, occasionally punctuated by the shrill cries of glee made by kids from a passing family from Vermont, playing tag in the field on the other side of the restrooms.
“Are you going to answer any of our questions?” she prompted, after watching him in silence.
The man sat at the picnic table, shoulders slumped, cuffed hands in front of him, trying to pick the dirt out from under his fingernails. Occasionally, he’d lift his hands to his mouth and tear off a dirty fingernail, then suck on his fingertip. “Nope.”
Rylie exchanged a glance with Michael, wishing he’d use his tough Clint-Eastwood voice to get the guy to speak. But he was standing there, just like her, arm
