Page 17 of The Witch's Orchard
“We thought… Weknewwe’d lost her for good. Search parties went out that night. And the next day. And the next. Everyone came back empty-handed. The news came. And then the FBI. There was nothing.Nothing.I felt so, so hopeless. I remember wishing I could just… go back. God, it was awful. But then, two weeks later, I came outside one night for a smoke. And there she was.”
Kathleen’s eyes stare across the porch at the empty, weathered swing and farther. Into a decade ago.
“I thought… God, at first I thought she was dead. She was lying there on her side in the swing. Asleep. And when I touched her… she was so cold. It was summer but it had been a chilly week. Cloudy. And… I don’t know how long she’d been out there. Just… asleep like that.”
“You woke her up, took her inside,” I say.
She nods, puts out the butt of her cigarette. Lights another one.
“She was covered in scratches and bruises. All over her arms and legs. We begged her to talk to us. But she… she never would. Never, never could. And then, two weeks later.”
“Max’s sister,” I say. “Molly Andrews was taken.”
She nods. The cigarette shakes. She sniffs and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Does Olivia communicate? Does she type or draw or…”
Kathleen shakes her head.
“She draws pictures if she has chubby crayons. And, when she’s inclined, she’ll use her iPad and a program with picture cards to tell us things she wants or needs. She’s not mute—her voice box works just fine. Sometimes, in her sleep, she moans. Sometimes she screams at us, wordless.” Kathleen looks back at me, a hint of a challenge in her eyes now. “I’m a nurse. I’ve taken her to all kinds of therapy. When Arnold was still around, he took her everywhere he could. All the specialists in the state. We’re all just doing the best we can, Ms. Gore.”
“I know.”
“Arnold left when Olivia was in middle school. He stuck around that long. He tried.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s a contractor. He went to another town. Got another job there. Another life. He pays his child support, though. On time. Every month. When she feels up to it, Olivia goes to school, but usually it’s just too overwhelming for her. So, at most, it’s a couple half days a week. She has a homebound tutor who’s very good with her. Lord, we’re lucky for that.I work nights so I can be here in the day and Nicole stays with her in the evenings.”
“I’m not DSS, Mrs. Jacobs. I’m not here to check up on you or look into Olivia’s living situation,” I say. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Molly, what happened to all of them.”
She chews on her bottom lip for a while and then lets out a sigh.
“I know,” she says. “I just… I feel guilty. I feel sick every time I think of that Andrews girl. It makes me want to puke.”
She pauses, swallows hard, takes another drag. Smoke billows out of her mouth as she says, “Because I know that she took my daughter’s place.”
Tiny taps of rain begin to spit around the porch, hit the deck, the table, me. Kathleen stubs the cigarette out and stands up. I stand with her. This meeting is over.
“If I wanted to talk to Olivia—”
“You can’t.”
“But if she could—”
“She won’t. Listen, you think this is the first time someone’s come around, trying to talk to her? You think the cops didn’t try to talk to her after she was brought back? The FBI? No, she didn’t talk to them. And she won’t talk to you. I’ve been more than generous, and that’s because I feel for poor Max. I really do. He’s a good kid and he deserves a better lot than life handed him. But I’ve got nothing more to say to you. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Please leave or I will call the sheriff.”
She turns and stomps back inside the house, slides the door shut. I move off the deck and back toward the road. Around the front, through the living room window, I see Olivia Jacobs sitting on the sofa, watching a British gardening show. Two women in neat cardigans prune roses in front of a stone Cotswold cottage. The blooms fall to the pristine green grass. Music plays. Olivia watches, rapt.
I slide my hands into my damp back pockets and head to the car.
SIX
NEXT ON THE LISTis Jessica Hoyle’s residence, and between the now-driving rain and the remoteness of the address, it’s not exactly a quick jaunt. Rain hammers Honey’s roof as I pull off the side of the switchback road and find the pink stuffed pig in the passenger seat floorboard. It was left over from a case I’d worked when I first got my PI license, almost five years ago. A mom and little boy trying to get away from a bad situation. The boy had left the pig in the car when I drove them to the airport and they’d never called to get it back. I suppose I could’ve donated it or given it to a neighborhood kid, but the pig had made itself an instant reminder of what success in this job can mean for the people who hire me.
I look down at the pig. The Fog Hog, Leo had called it when we sat together in my car the last time, using the back of the soft pig to mop the windshield on a cold, misty night.
I mop up the windshield now, smack the dash where the vents are. Seems like sometimes that helps. Seems like sometimes maybe I just need to smack something.
