Page 34 of The Witch's Orchard
“Isn’t it?”
“I guess I’d better head down before it gets dark.”
I give her my card. She takes it and slips it into her gardening apron pocket, and I feel fairly certain it’ll go straight in the trash as soon as she gets inside. “Let me know if you think of anything else. I know it’s been a while, but I’ve promised Max I would look and, you never know, sometimes people remember things a long time after.”
She squints at the card, biting her lips together for a moment, obviously mulling something over before she finally meets my eyes again and says, “I believe I’ve told you all I know. I went over this many times with the police ten years ago.”
“Yes but—”
“Please don’t come back here,” Deena interrupts. She takes a sharp inhale of breath, pausing. Her inborn politeness is fighting what she wants to say, but she carries on anyway, “The year Harvey died was the hardest of my life. And these questions only remind me of that time. Of his absence. I may have been in the Andrewses’ house that morning, but I have no knowledge of where those girls went. Please, I only wish to be left alone.”
“I can’t promise that,” I say. “I may need to talk to you again.”
“And I may need to call the sheriff if you step on my land again.” It sounds less like a threat and more like a calm statement of fact. I nod in response, and she gives me a brief smile as if all this is just a small misunderstanding.
She follows me to Honey, and I turn back before I open the door. I look up at the elegant, A-frame, glass-fronted cabin.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “Take care.”
“Sure,” I say. “Have a good night.”
She waves me off and I swing into the driver’s seat and rev the straight six. After a very long day, I’m down the switchback road twice as fast as I climbed it.
ELEVEN
I’M AT MY LAPTOP—SITTINGbehind the narrow strip of butcher-block countertop in Max’s cabin taking notes—when I hear whispers and footsteps outside, see shadows pass through the warm, orange light of the porch bulb. There’s a knock on my door and the sound of a little kid giggling. I slip my gun back into the holster I never got around to taking off, and answer.
“Hi!” says Shiloh, exactly as cheerful as I’d seen her earlier that day. Max, Shiloh, and Shiloh’s little girl—Lucy—are all there. Shiloh is holding a basket and Lucy a tiny pumpkin with a long, curly stem.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Max says, his cheeks flushed from the night air. In the company of Shiloh and Lucy, he is smiling—a real smile—and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen it.
“We’re looking for a good carving pumpkin,” Shiloh says. “Lucy liked this one but it’s a bit too small. We thought it might look nice in the cabin and I was bringing this by anyway.”
She hands me the basket, and my belly grumbles at the scent of pumpkin bread and fresh cinnamon rolls.
“You’re amazing,” I say, staring down at the treats. “Marry me.”
“I’ve got enough on my hands as it is,” Shiloh says with a chuckle, “without hitching myself to a woman of action.”
I take the basket and she says, “Oh, I put some savory hand pies in there too. Sausage from my daddy’s farm. I’m told people can’t live on sugar alone.”
I offer my heartfelt thanks, and then Lucy tugs at the hem of Max’s barn coat and says, “Can we look at the creek?”
Max glances at Shiloh, who nods, and then he leads Lucy down the steps and onto the path.
“You take good care of him,” I say, watching Max and Lucy.
“I’ve tried to watch out for him, that’s all.”
“Can’t have been easy. You were just a kid yourself, weren’t you?”
“Sixteen when Molly was taken, yes. But it was the right thing to do,” she says. “He lost his sister, his father, and his mother all within a couple of years. He was left alone to carry the burden of what had happened. I kept in touch when I went to culinary school. Then, when I came back, he helped me refurbish the building for the bakery. He’s been saving for a PI since he was a kid. I think he needs to do it. Needs to know he did what he could do. He could have a big future, I think, but…”
She looks past my shoulder, and I turn, following her gaze to the woodblock print above the fireplace.
“Did he tell you about that?” she asks.
