“Daniel,” I said, walking toward him through the high weeds.
He did not look at me, his eyes fixed on the opposite bank where three men in orange vests were walking through the brush.
His knuckles tapped rhythmically against his thigh, a steady, quiet beat against the heavy fabric of his trousers.
“They should be searching further down,” Daniel said, his words short and clipped. “Near the limestone.”
“The detective said the water is too low for her to have gone that far,” I said.
He did not answer, his eyes staying locked on the gray water that moved past us without a sound.
Detective Harris walked down the mud slope, his boots sliding slightly before he found his footing on a patch of river gravel.
“We found some footprints near the old fishing pier,” Harris said, pointing downstream. “But they look like they were made by heavy work boots.”
Daniel did not turn his head, his gaze remaining fixed on the center of the channel.
“Those are mine,” Daniel said. “I was down here on Tuesday looking for my tackle box.”
