Page 108 of The Witch's Orchard
I answer with a question: “What are you doing up, Tina?”
“Figure the ass crack of dawn is just about the only time to catch you.”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble. My voice rustles in my chest. I suppress a cough.
“I mean, rest of the time you’re running all over hell and half of Georgia blowing up meth labs, finding dead girls. Good night, Annie, you know that town you’re in is all over the news?”
“I’m not surprised,” I say.
“And another little girl is missing?”
“Yes,” I say.
I put her on speaker, sit up, and cough as I tug my shoes on.
“You sound like hell. I’m telling you that country air isn’t good for you. You need to bring Honey back home. It’s safer here.”
I snort, and the snort turns into a cough.
“Seriously,” Tina says when the coughing dies down. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just working. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to stick around. The FBI is rolling in.”
“Well, it’s probably for the best,” she says. “But until they boot you out of there, will you be careful?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m always careful.”
“Annie, sweetheart, you’ve got a lot of excellent qualities, but ‘careful’ cannot be named among them. Watch your ass.”
“Okay,” I say.
“And Honey’s.”
“Okay.”
“Bring her back safe.”
I finally manage to get off the phone and stumble into the bathroom. I try to remember what day it is, and it takes longer than it should to figure out that this is Saturday. I’ve been here since Sunday night. Almost a week, which is all I promised Max. And yet, in spite of how awful I feel, and the fact that the FBI are on their way, and that all I’ve managed to do so far is probably make things worse, I know I can’t and won’t stop looking until someone makes me.
Washing my hands, I hazard a glance at my reflection, and grimace at the sight. I look like nine miles of bad road, but I force myself back into the bedroom, where I pull on leggings and a T-shirt and a threadbare Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt. I clip on my holster and my gun and stutter-step out the door.
There is an almost imperceptible rain. It is almost only fog. Almost only water suspended in the air. And yet, when I run, it splatters against my cheeks and slides down, over my jaw, onto my neck, and into my clothes.
I ignore the rain, or try to ignore the rain, and think.
Ten years ago, someone took Jessica Hoyle from a church playground while her mother slept in the car not fifteen feet away.
Weeks later, someone took Olivia Jacobs from a picnic in the park while her mother was distracted by Olivia’s big sister.
Days later, they brought her back.
Weeks later, someone took Molly Andrews from her house in broad daylight.
Five days ago, after I arrived in Quartz Creek and began asking questions, someone brought Molly back. She had been strangled with a length of soft fabric and left for the crows wearing a handmade red velvet dress, her insides damaged by some unknown catalyst.
Two days ago, someone took Lucy Evers from a Fall Festival at her grandparents’ church while her mother ran a cakewalk booth.
In every instance, an applehead doll was left behind.
