Free The Lost Girls by Heather Young

four inches of fresh snow—the low stone walls of the bridge they’d crossed the day before were nearly covered—and Justine wondered uneasily who would plow it. Fortunately, the county road was clear. They followed it through winter forests and small hamlets barely large enough to justify signage: Kishawnee, population 120; West Liberty, population 179; Six Arrows, population 86. Each one a scattering of dirty white houses and a small, understocked-looking general store. Justine turned on the radio. The rock station from Fargo was fuzzy, but she didn’t care.
    After twenty miles they passed a sign that said WELCOME TO WILLIAMSBURG, POPULATION 2,425, and the small houses gave way to larger ones, some sturdy and plain, others with wraparound porches and fussy Victorian woodwork. Large oaks lined the street, their roots rippling the shoveled sidewalks. After a few blocks, the street ran into a small central square framed by quaint nineteenth-century storefronts. The Jones General Store anchored one corner. On the opposite corner sat Lloyd’s Pharmacy, twin wrought iron benches framing its door, and there was a gazeboin the center of the square. The little town looked like a Rockwell painting, even with the dirtying snow and the metal-gray sky.
    â€œIt’s cute, don’t you think?” Justine asked the backseat as she slid the Tercel into an angled parking space. Neither girl answered, and as they picked their way down the sidewalk, cold air biting their faces, Justine saw that up close the stores’ signs were worn and paint was peeling on many buildings. Several shops were closed, with faded FOR LEASE signs in the windows. She walked quickly, hoping the girls wouldn’t notice, but a glance at Melanie told her that she, with those sharp eyes that found fault in everything, had.
    The law office was on the first floor of a plain two-story building facing the square. On its plate glass window the firm’s name was stenciled in chipped gold and black: WILLIAMS & WILLIAMS, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW, EST. 1885. Its waiting area was furnished with four straight-backed chairs and a coffee table on well-worn parquet floors. At a small desk a woman with neat gray hair looked up when they came in.
    â€œI’m Justine Evans. I’m here to see Mr. Williams.” Justine glanced at the lettering on the window. “Arthur Williams.”
    â€œThere’s just the one. Mr. Williams’s uncle passed ten years ago.” The secretary picked up her phone and motioned them to the chairs. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
    Justine and her daughters sat. Angela swung her feet until Justine stopped her with a hand on her knee. Melanie picked at her fingers. It was quiet except for the clacking of the receptionist’s fingernails on her keyboard until the door beside her desk opened on a slight man of about sixty, stooped in tweed pants and a light blue dress shirt. His gray eyes behind wire-framed glasses followed Justine with keen but friendly interest as she and the girls entered his office, which was surprisingly opulent after the austerity of the waiting room. Its shelves were heavy with law books, an Oriental rug lay on the floor, and the mahogany desk was the size of a small boat. Justine took one of the two leather chairs and lifted Angelaonto her lap while Melanie took the other. Arthur sat in the enormous desk chair. It made him look even smaller.
    â€œThis office was my great-uncle’s,” he said with a smile, as though he’d read her thoughts. “Apparently it was important to him to have the biggest desk in town. How are you faring at Lucy’s?”
    Justine smiled back, liking him. “It’s cold.” She cleared her throat. “But the house is clean. The beds were made up for us.”
    â€œI told Matthew you would be coming. I trust he’s been helpful.”
    â€œHe brought us some groceries.”
    â€œWell, don’t