Stockholm

Chapter 7

Wyatt's sedan rolls down the gravel road as if it's immune to the bumps and dips. It's a smooth ride, quiet, nothing but the hum of the air conditioners fan to fill the air. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Wyatt picked the car up and has been fixing it in anticipation for Laney's sixteen birthday. Before I left, he told me all the plans he still has to make it perfect for her. He's got a buddy that's going to give it a fresh coat of paint in another month and another friend who's going to freshen up the interior. It'll be emerald green, with a black interior.

I'm glad it's still boring silver with its gray interior, I don't need to stick out. Especially for this.

I pull the car into the driveway at the end of the road, the poppies and cone flowers still smiling up at the sky above. The cat shaped lump in the cushion on the porch bench is missing but I bet if I walked closer there'd be remnants to show the long cat naps it harbors. Killing the engine, the car grows even more silent than it was before and I take a steadying breath before I climb out. His white truck is parked in the driveway, an unremarkable truck, one that looks like countless other white trucks on the road. There's no stickers or added decals to set it apart.

It's a newer truck, maybe bought in the last two years, still untouched from the salt that litters the roads in the winters.

I've played this walk out countless times in my head the past few days, making sure I take note of all the various trivial details. The ones that might not be so inconsequential in the long run. The sidewalk that leads to the front door is neatly trimmed, a little hand print pressed into the corner with the name Elias below it and a penny that's lost its copper shine to the elements.

I already know who Elias is. He is Henry Ozak's only son. He's an adult now, no longer living at home. I didn't deep dive into Elias Ozak but I know he has a young daughter with his partner. Information I've stored in my mind to lay down as a way to bring Chloe's case closer to home for him, if needed.

There's a doorbell mounted to the vinyl siding, the plastic housing just ever so crooked and I press the button listening for the faint chime that rings through the home.

Taking a step back, I roll my shoulders out, trying to dispel the rigid formality that I normally have. I'm not here for my job, I'm here simply as a curious civilian, trying their hand at cracking an old cold case. Maybe I'll make a podcast out of it. I grimace at the idea of Chloe's case aired for the public, for the names that would be brought up again, the family's cobwebs dusted and swept out for the public to scrutinize whenever they hit play on their nearest device. Her family deserves answers as much as they deserve privacy.

The hinges of the door squeak as it's pulled open, Henry Ozak standing before me in a pair of faded denim jeans and a gray tshirt. He's mostly unremarkable, a man who's aged a little more than he should have because of his career choice, weathered skin and a hardened body even in his 60's. Salt and pepper hair trimmed neat along with a beard, dark eyes that sit beneath bushy brows. Faded tattoos peak out the sleeves of his shirt, a silver ring on his left hand stating he's off the market.

His voice is smoother than I anticipated, a gentle hum if anything as he greets me hello.

"My name is Kyle Miller, are you Henry Ozak?" I thrust my hand out toward him, a smile on my face that aims to be trustworthy.

"Nice to meet you, what can I do for you?" His mouth twitches up in a smile, the creases in his face softening but I watch as he takes a glance behind me at what I presume to be Wyatt's sedan.

"I'm doing a podcast about the disappearance of a little girl named Chloe that happened 30 years ago and I was wondering if you'd be willing to sit down and talk about what you remember from that day?" I rattle my speech off without much effort. I've only gone over it in my head countless times.