We halted in the center of the ring at the place known as X. In that moment I felt joy and peace.
I dropped the reins on his neck and patted him. He lowered his head and started to walk forward, then stopped and came to attention.
A girl sat on the white board fence that ran along the road. She watched me with a sense of expectation about her. Even though I hadn't noticed her, I could tell she'd been there, waiting. I judged her to be about twelve. Her hair was long and brown, perfectly straight, and neatly held back from her face with a barrette on each side. She wore little round black-rimmed glasses that made her look very serious. I rode toward her with a vague feeling of apprehension that made no sense at the time.
"Can I help you?" I asked. D'Ar blew through his nostrils at her, ready to bolt and save us from the intruder. I should have let him.
"I'm here to see Ms. Estes," she said properly, as if she'd come on business.
"Elena Estes?"
"Yes."
"And you are…?"
"Molly Seabright."
"Well, Molly Seabright, Ms. Estes isn't here at the moment."
"You're Ms. Estes," she declared. "I recognize your horse. His name is D'Artagnon, like in the Three Musketeers." She narrowed her eyes. "You cut your hair." Disapproval.
"Do I know you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know me?" I asked, the apprehension rising up like bile through my chest to the base of my throat. Maybe she was a relative of Hector Ramirez, come to tell me she hated me. Maybe she'd been sent as a decoy by an older relative who would now pop out of nowhere to shoot me or scream at me or throw acid in my face.
"From Sidelines," she said.
I felt like I'd walked into the middle of a play. Molly Seabright took pity on me and carefully climbed down from the fence. She was slightly built and dressed neatly in sensible dark slacks and a little blue T-shirt with a small daisy chain embroidered around the throat. She came up along D'Artagnon's shoulder and carefully held the magazine out to me, folded open to an interior page.
The photograph was in color. Me on D'Ar, riding through thin ribbons of early-morning fog. The sunlight made his coat shine as bright as a new penny. My hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail.
I had no memory of being photographed. I had certainly never been interviewed, though the writer seemed to know things about me I didn't know myself. The caption read: Private investigator Elena Estes enjoys an early-morning ride on D'Artagnon at Sean Avadon's Avadonis Farm in Palm Beach Point Estates.
"I've come to hire you," Molly Seabright said.
I turned toward the barn and called for Irina, the stunning Russian girl who had beat me out for the groom's job. She came out, frowning and sulky. I stepped down off D'Artagnon and asked her to please take him back to the barn. She took his reins, and sighed and pouted and slouched away like a sullen runway model.
I ran a gloved hand back through my hair, startled to come to the end of it so quickly. A fist of tension began to quiver in my stomach.
"My sister is missing," Molly Seabright said. "I've come to hire you to find her."
"I'm sorry. I'm not a private investigator. This is some kind of mistake."
"Why does the magazine say that you are?" she asked, looking stern and disapproving again. She didn't trust me. I'd already lied to her once.
"I don't know."
"I have money," she said defensively. "Just because I'm twelve doesn't mean I can't hire you."
"You can't hire me because I'm not a private investigator."
"Then what are you?" she demanded.
A broken-down, busted-out, pathetic ex-sheriff's detective. I'd thumbed my nose at the life I'd been raised in, been ostracized from the life I'd chosen. What did that make me?
"Nothing," I said, handing the magazine back to her. She didn't take it.
I walked away to an ornate park bench that sat along the end of the arena and took a long drink from the bottle of water I'd left there.
"I have a hundred dollars with me," the girl said. "For a deposit. I expect you have a daily fee and that you probably charge expenses. I'm sure we can work something out."
Sean emerged from the end of the stable, squinting into the distance, showing his profile. He stood with one booted leg cocked and pulled a pair of deerskin gloves from the waist of his brown breeches. Handsome and fit. A perfect ad for Ralph Lauren.
I headed across the arena, anger boiling now in my stomach. Anger, and underlying it a building sense of panic.
"What the fuck is this?" I shouted, smacking him in the chest with the magazine.
He took a step back, looking offended. "It might be Sidelines, but I can't read with my nipples, so I can't say for certain. Jesus Christ, El. What did you do to your hair?"
I hit him again, harder, wanting to hurt him. He grabbed the magazine away from me, took another quick step out of range, and turned to the cover. "Betsy Steiner's stallion, Hilltop Giotto. Have you seen him? He's to die for."
"You told a reporter I'm a private investigator."
"They asked me who you were. I had to tell them something."
"No, you didn't have to. You didn't have to tell them anything."
"It's only Sidelines. For Christ's sake."
"It's my name in a goddam magazine read by thousands of people. Thousands of people now know where to find me. Why don't you just paint a big target on my chest?"
He frowned. "Only dressage people read the dressage section. And then only to see if their own names are in the show results."
"Thousands of people now think I'm a private investigator."
"What was I supposed to tell them? The truth?" Said as if that were the most distasteful option. Then I realized it probably was.
"How about 'no comment'?"
"That's not very interesting."
I pointed at Molly Seabright. "That little girl has come here to hire me. She thinks I can help her find her sister."
"Maybe you can."
I refused to state the obvious: that I couldn't even help myself.
Sean lifted a shoulder with lazy indifference and handed the magazine back to me. "What else have you got to do with your time?"
Irina emerged from the barn, leading Oliver-tall, elegant, and beautiful, the equine version of Sean. Sean dismissed me and went to his teak mounting block.
Molly Seabright was sitting on the park bench with her hands folded in her lap. I turned and walked to the barn, hoping she would just go away. D'Artagnon's bridle hung from the ceiling on a four-pronged hook near an antique mahogany cabinet full of leather-cleaning supplies. I chose a small damp sponge from the work table, rubbed it over a bar of glycerine soap, and began to clean the bridle, trying to narrow the focus of my mind on the small motor skills involved in the task.
"You're very rude."
I could see her from the corner of my eye: standing as tall as she could-five-feet-nothing-her mouth a tight little knot.
"Yes, I am. That's part of the joy of being me: I don't care."
"You're not going to help me."
"I can't. I'm not what you need. If your sister is missing, your parents should go to the cops."
"I went to the Sheriff's Office. They wouldn't help me either."
"You went? What about your parents? They don't care your sister is missing?"
For the first time Molly Seabright seemed to hesitate. "It's complicated."
"What's complicated about it? She's either missing or she's not."
"Erin doesn't live with us."
"How old is she?"
"Eighteen. She doesn't get along with our parents."
"There's something new."
"It's not like she's bad or anything," Molly said defensively. "She doesn't do drugs or anything like that. It's just that she has her own opinions, that's all. And her opinions aren't Bruce's opinions…"
"Who's Bruce?"
"Our stepfather. Mom always sides with him, no matter how asinine he is. It makes Erin angry, so she moved out."