Waylon sat in front of Angie, panting and wagging his tail. He was a Labrador retriever. If nothing else, he was happy. It was like a default setting. Angie scratched him behind his ears. “They will never call me out again, Waylon. Not even to find a lost doll.” The body was gone. Clearly, the body had been here. The grass was bent and lay flat, as if something heavy had been left there. Angie waved her flashlight across the foliage. If a body had been dumped here for a day or two, the grass would be discolored. It was the same as propping a tent in the backyard overnight. There was no discoloration, though, which meant the body had not lain here long enough to disrupt photosynthesis. Maybe an hour or less, she guessed. The one certainty: the body was gone—and in Angie’s world, bodies only moved because people moved them. The only option was to send out her dog to find the new location of the body, assuming it was nearby and hadn’t been relocated by the killers.
