Page 51 of Little Stolen Memories

I grabbed a piece of toast, took a bite, and thought about how to explain what I’d just experienced. “Most dreams like these are hard for me to interpret. I feel like people speak in riddles, or give me bits and pieces, but not enough context to understand what they want me to know.”

“How was this one different?”

“I was at a park not far from Cora’s house, except it’s a park I’ve never been to before. Owen was there. He was standing behind a tree at first. He said he was waiting for me to wake up. Then he walked over and sat beside me.”

“Owen is the kid who used to be Cora’s neighbor, the one she fancied, right?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He knew Cora was alive, and he knew he was dead. He was aware the other four teens at the cabin were dead too. He made a comment about them being stuck here, in limbo. Seems like they’re unable to move on.”

“Why do you believe he came to you in your dream? Do you think he was trying to give you a message or a clue about his murderer?”

“I’m not sure he was trying to do anything. It seemed like he just wanted to have a conversation with me.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I asked him to tell me what happened right before he died. He didn’t say much that I didn’t already know. He acted like time had taken a toll, blurring his memories from the events of that night.”

“Did he say anything useful to you?”

“It wasn’t what he said, it was something I observed. In the crime-scene photos, Owen isn’t wearing a chain around his neck. None of the young men are. In my dream, he had a gold chain around his neck. I asked him where he got it, and he said it was a gift from their football coach. All the star players had them.”

I pointed at a vintage black satchel sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the room.

“Would you mind grabbing that for me?” I asked.

Giovanni stood, retrieved the bag, and brought it over to me. I undid the flap, opened it, and pulled out the case file. Grabbing the photos, I spread them out on the bed. In the crime-scene photos, Aidan, Jackson, and Owen did not have a chain around their necks.

“Maybe it’s a clue, and maybe it isn’t,” I said. “It’s worth talking to Whitlock and Harvey, to be sure. I don’t remember reading anything in the case file about missing gold chains, but one of the parents could have mentioned it.”

My phone buzzed.

I grabbed it off the nightstand and looked at the time, realizing I’d slept in a lot later than I’d planned. I needed to get up and get going. The buzzing sound was a text message from Hunter, asking me if I’d gotten the address she’d sent over for Xander’s place. I confirmed I had.

“What is it?” Giovanni asked.

I took a few more bites of toast, drank the orange juice, and tossed the blankets to the side, sliding out of bed.

“Hunter sent me Xander Thornton’s address yesterday,” I said. “He’s the kid who was bullied in school. The good news is, he’s not far. He lives in Cayucos.”

CHAPTER 23

I showered and dressed in one of my favorite vintage skirts—black, knee-length, and pleated—a white, short-sleeved knit cardigan, and red and white, T-strap Mary Janes.

As I headed to the door, Luka circled around me, indicating his desire to be my sidekick for the day. I bent down, giving him a long scratch behind the ears as I said, “Not this time, buddy. Soon, I promise.”

He gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t pleased, and then he trotted off toward Giovanni. He stopped halfway and turned back as if giving me a chance to change my mind, and I almost did. But I expected today would be a busy one. Being my sidekick would have to wait.

Cayucos was a short twenty-minute drive from Cambria. As I made my way toward Xander’s place, I ran through questions I wanted to ask him when I saw him in person.

I wanted to know why he hadn’t turned Jackson and the others in after what they did to him.

I wanted to know why he’d prank-called some of the young women he went to school with back then.

And, I wanted to know why he’d cried at the funerals of high school kids who’d treated him as poorly as they had.

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