“Mr. Olander, it isn’t that simple.”

“No shit. I’m not stupid,” he snapped. “I’m pissed off. I sold my farm, and I’ve nothing to show for it.”

Had he thought with enough money he could buy his son’s freedom?

“The past few years have been tough. I have nothing left. The fucking lawyers took what was left, and then Lena comes to me saying we need to hire another one. I told her”—his voice dropped off abruptly and his gaze shifted, as if he had barely stopped himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t—“I told her, ‘No. We already have a lawyer. I’m not throwing more money at a different one.’ I need you to give me whatever money my wife gave you as a retainer.”

“She didn’t give me any money. I turned her down. As I told your wife, you need an appellate lawyer—”

“Fuck you!” He leaped to his feet. “I know she gave you money. She took a check, and it wasn’t in her purse.”

Morgan had a brief but vivid flashback to the last time she’d dealt with an impulsive, violent client. He’d punched her in the face in the middle of the courthouse corridor. She’d suffered a concussion. Her face had healed, but the incident had left a mark on her confidence. Her heart sprinted, its beats echoing in her ears, and sweat broke out under her arms.

Was Mr. Olander just a bully? Or was he out of control and dangerous?

Chapter Fourteen

Lance stared through the windshield of Sharp’s Prius at the Olander farm. “Does anyone even live here?”

“The place looks abandoned.” Sharp turned off the engine.

They stepped out of the car in front of a sprawling single-story house. A second house of the same style stood on the other side of a meadow the size of a football field.

“This is Kennett Olander’s address.” Lance pointed to the home in front of them. With few trees to protect it from the elements, the primary house was old and had been weather-beaten to a dull gray. The second house appeared newer, the sheen of its blue shutters and white clapboards suggested vinyl siding. “He built the second house for Erik and Natalie.”

Sharp crossed his arms and studied the two structures. “Looks almost like a compound.”

Behind the houses, a long, low barn stretched out, surrounded by empty pastures and smaller outbuildings.

Lance headed up the walk to the single step that led to the front porch of the first house. “Someone will probably turn the whole property into a housing development of McMansions.”

Sharp rapped on the front door.

Wind blew across the open space. Other than the rustle of dead leaves across the porch, the entire place was eerily silent.

Sharp knocked a second time. They waited several minutes, but no one answered.

“Let’s look around.” Sharp walked to the nearest window, cupped his hand over his eyes, and peered inside.

Lance followed his boss around the side of the house, looking in each window as they passed. Normally, Sharp was nosey but tried to color mostly within the lines of the law.

“I wonder how long they’ve lived on the farm.” Sharp pivoted on his heel and strode across the grass. “Let’s check out the barn.”

They followed a dirt footpath from the house to the barn.

“From the smell of this place, I wouldn’t want to buy their milk.” Sharp skirted the carcass of a large rat. A scurrying sound inside the barn wall suggested there were live ones as well.

“Agreed,” Lance said. “Let’s hope the place was better maintained when they were in business.”

“I doubt it. This looks like long-term neglect.”

They walked into the large indoor enclosure that had housed the animals. Even with the cows gone, the pungent scents of manure and urine bit into Lance’s nostrils. Cobwebs clung to the few pieces of rusted equipment that remained.

The center space was two stories high. On either side, the building had two floors of offices and storage. Windows overlooked what appeared to be the area where the cows had been milked. Across the back of the building, a catwalk connected the two sides and presumably gave management a bird’s-eye view of the operation.

The barn was empty except for a few feral-looking cats. Lance poked his head into an office. Dust coated the file cabinets and battered desk. A gray tabby arched its back and hissed before darting through an open doorway into an adjoining office.

“I guess Mr. Olander isn’t here.” Sharp walked outside and headed back toward the house.

“We’ll have to try again.” Lance fell into step beside him. “Maybe we should call first.”

“When you warn suspects, you give them the opportunity to hide the incriminating shit.” Sharp liked to drop in on people.

“True. But consideration can produce cooperation. We aren’t police anymore. We can’t compel anyone to talk to us.” Lance stopped. “Wait. Do you have some reason to suspect Olander took Olivia?”

“No, but it would be easy to hide a woman in a big empty place like this.” Sharp turned in a circle.

“What would be his motivation?” Lance asked.

Sharp propped one hand on his hip. “Mrs. Olander came to Morgan’s office alone. Why didn’t her husband go with her? Maybe Mr. Olander didn’t want to appeal his son’s case.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he killed his daughter-in-law.”

“Do we have a reason why he might have done that?”

“No.” Sharp was reaching. “What if he knows his son is guilty, and he helped him try to cover it up?”

“That sounds more plausible.”

Sharp resumed walking. “Let’s go look at the other house.”

Lance followed Sharp to the footpath to Erik’s house. They peered through each window and moved on. The rooms seemed empty, not just of people but of personal possessions as well. The furniture had been pared down to the bare essentials, and cardboard moving boxes were stacked in what Lance assumed was the family room at the back of the house.

“This window is unlocked. Give me a boost.” Sharp tugged on a pair of gloves and pushed up a window sash. “We have the place to ourselves. We might not get this opportunity again.”

Lance boosted him over the sill. Then he returned to the rear corner of the building to watch the long driveway in case Mr. Olander came home. Sharp returned in fifteen minutes. “I checked the closets, attic, and basement. She’s not here. Let’s look next door.”

They jogged across the meadow and repeated the process at the main house, except Sharp had to jimmy a window to gain access.

“There’s no interior basement door,” Sharp said as he climbed out of the window and dropped onto the grass. He reached up to close the window.

“It’s an old house. It was common to only have an exterior entrance to the basement.”

They moved to a set of bulkhead doors around back. A chain and padlock secured the handles.

“We’ve already searched ninety percent of the property. We can rule out this last space pretty quick.” Sharp took lockpick tools from his wallet and began to work on the lock.

Lance didn’t bother to argue. This was not a normal investigation. If there was any chance—no matter how remote—that Olivia was in the Olanders’ basement, then they would look.