Page 76 of The Witch's Orchard
“You caught me,” AJ says with a broad grin. “It was me all along.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he laughs.
“Impressive work for a fifteen-year-old,” I say. “What was your alibi?”
“Pretty sure I was running wind sprints until I puked just about every day that summer. I was determined to get a football scholarship and Coach told me I should start early.”
“Okay, I’ll mark you down as improbable.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically and I ask, “How many other houses are down the lane?”
“Six down around me, but more farther on.” He rubs a hand over his stubble, thinking, his gaze traveling up to the ceiling. “The road forks, with one side going up the mountain and another going down into a woodsy holler.”
“Anyone of note?”
“Now that you mention it…” he says.
“Who?”
“The Zieglers. Pastor Bob and Rebecca. They live out a piece in a split-level they built when they moved here.”
“Is it a big house?”
“Big enough for what you’re thinking, yeah,” he says, his eyes scanning the report from the day Molly was taken as he talks. “It’s not a palace or anything, but maybe three thousand square feet? I think Rebecca inherited a bunch of land and money from her father or someone and—oh—”
He stops mid-sentence, and I watch him, hopeful for some big break.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The Zieglers were there that day,” he says, looking up at me.
“Does it say why?”
“No, and I can’t find their statement. I’ll have to look again tomorrow. God, I can’t believe what a mess these files are. All I have is a list of those interviewed concerning Molly’s disappearance. Bob and Rebecca are on the list.”
“Jessica was taken from the church parking lot,” I say. “Olivia was taken from a church picnic.”
“But not Molly,” he says.
“No, but the Andrews family went to First Baptist. And it doesn’t say why they were visiting that day?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll have to talk to them,” I mutter. I go back to my own thoughts, letting my mind wander, hoping some connection will suddenly spring up, but the only one I can find is fairly weak.
“You know who else goes to First Baptist?” I say.
“About half the town?”
“Deena Drake. She plays piano there. She said she gave a statement on the day of Molly’s disappearance, and she was at the picnic and the church the day Jessica was taken. Is there anything from her on that day?”
He flicks through until he finds an old scan of a handwritten list.
“It’s not a lot to go on. A list of people in attendance when Jessica went missing, and all the cars they went through—make and model—with the names crossed off once they were searched. Deena’s car is on here, that old Range Rover she drives. It’s the only one in town, pretty distinctive.”
“Who checked it?” I ask.
“Donald Kerridge,” he says. “The sheriff. That’s his initials by the car’s check. At the bottom is a note about how they called in Fish and Wildlife to help look in the woods.”
