Page 87 of The Witch's Orchard
The coffee grows cold in Shiloh’s hands.
Shiloh’s parents approach and look at us. Shiloh’s dad’s hands are still shoved deep in his coat pockets and Shiloh’s mom holds her purse tight to her body.
“Come on, Shiloh,” her dad says. “It’s up to the police now.”
She blinks, slowly, and swallows whatever thoughts her dad’s words have conjured.
She stands and turns back toward me and her voice is hoarse from screaming her daughter’s name as she grips my shoulder tight and says, “Find her, Annie.”
TWENTY-NINE
ILOOK AT THE PHOTOof the doll on my phone. I’d snapped it before the sheriff’s department showed up, and now I’m zoomed in on the doll’s shriveled apple face while I sit at the counter in the cabin’s kitchen after about three hours of restless sleep. It’s Friday morning, the fifth morning of this investigation, and all I can feel is a dismal unease. I pour another cup of coffee, try like hell to think of anything I could’ve missed, anything I can do. Eventually I just go back to staring at the doll face.
I swipe the photo around, looking at a close-up of the hair. It was gathered together in little bunches and then joined with a rubber band, which was then glued to the apple, and, the glue failing, the clumps of hair were stuck in with straight pins.
I call AJ.
“How’s Shiloh?” I ask.
“Not great,” he says. “We’ve got a deputy with her back at the bakery. She didn’t want to stay at home.”
“What else have you got?”
“We took more dogs out this morning. Nothing. We’re sending the doll down to Raleigh for analysis.”
“Make sure they test her hair,” I say.
“Her hair?”
“It looks just like Molly’s.”
“You think maybe itisMolly’s?” AJ asks.
“Maybe.”
I look at the doll’s dress. It’s not the same as the others. It’s not the same kind of simple, home-sewn garb made with velvet scraps and bits of cast-off lace. This is a store-bought doll dress, all cheap shiny fabric and scratchy lace.
“This body…” I say. “This is a Lovely Lady Lavender doll.”
“Jesus,” AJ breathes. “My sisters had those. Everyone had them. They were made—”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know. They were made here in town.”
In the very factory I’d barely escaped two days before.
“Find anything else at the scene?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Just like the others. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”
“Except for the dolls.”
“Sheriff Jacobs has been on the phone with the FBI all morning. He’s trying to get a team down here.”
“It’s about time,” I say.
“I think he’s realized that what happened ten years ago isn’t really over,” AJ says.
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t think it ever was.”
