Page 58 of A Killing Cold

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say. I don’t know how to explain this without explaining too much.

“I know it was a tragedy,” Vance says. “A terrible thing.”

“And you’re sure you have no idea where Mallory and her daughter went?” I ask.

“She took off without a word. And in a hurry,” Vance says. “Can’t blame her for not sticking around.”

“Did she leave anything?” I ask. “Something that might give any hint—”

His face clouds with suspicion. “Why are you so interested?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I have no good explanation. “I just… I’m just curious. I’ve always been curious. One of my faults.”

He grips the mug, but he hasn’t taken a sip in a long time. “You know,” he says slowly, “I kept a few of her things. In case the girl—in case they came back for them.”

My heart gives a hard thump in my chest. “Are they here? Can I…?”

There’s another beat, his eyes dark and bright. And then he stands. He goes to the wardrobe that sits against one wall and opens the bottom drawer. He pulls out a plastic bag—just a grocery bag, gone thinas tissue paper from age. He carries it over and hands it to me without ceremony.

At the top of the bag is something large and soft. I lift the bear out gingerly. Its fur is slightly dingy, its black eyes dulled.

I blink. There are tears in my eyes, but I don’t dare wipe them away; Vance will see.

“It was her favorite,” Vance says. I can’t look at him. I focus all my will on keeping my breathing steady. “The little girl.”

“I don’t even know her name,” I say.

“Her mother called her Teddy,” Vance says, and I nod. It has to be enough, I suppose. “But her real name was Rowan.”

The breath goes out of me, and I can’t get it back. Rowan. The name is like a blow to my chest. I know that name. I know it. She called me Teddy when she was happy and laughing, when she was sad and brushing the hair away from my face, but Rowan—

Rowan, run.

She called me Rowan the day she was afraid.

My hands are gripping the teddy bear tight.

“Why don’t you hold on to that?” Vance says quietly. “Don’t know why I’ve bothered to keep it all this time. Guess I was still hoping she’d come back for it someday. But she’d be all grown up now, of course.” I can’t read his expression. There’s something hard in his eyes. Something grim.

I turn my attention back to the bag to break eye contact. I draw out a rich blue scarf. It smells musty, like the bear, but it’s still soft.

Blue. It was blue, I think, but still something in my memory rebels.

There’s one more thing in the bag. It’s a framed photograph, facing down. I pick it up gingerly, turn it over, and there she is. Smiling, a little girl’s face pressed up next to hers. The woman in the photo has freckles over her nose and a birthmark right at the corner of her left eye. Her eyes are brown and so is her hair, a honeyed brown that falls in soft waves around her long face. A face that holds traces of my own—the large eyes, the prominent cheekbones, the way it’s not pretty, not exactly, but it catches your eye and holds it.

“She was a lovely woman,” Vance says, and I know he’s not talking about her looks.

I stare at the photo and don’t answer. I’ve seen this woman before.

Not in my memory. In a photograph—several, actually.

The photographs hidden in Alexis’s suitcase.

27

“I have to go,” I say. I’m already on my feet.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Vance asks. “You haven’t touched your coffee.”

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