Page 62 of The Witch's Orchard
“Mister Andrews, I don’t think it would have helped. I don’t think a change in scenery would’ve done anything to sway Max from looking for answers. I don’t think he could have left it behind. Finding out what happened to his little sister has been his purpose in life, if not since Molly was taken, then at least since—”
I bite my tongue before I say, “Since you abandoned him. Since his mother did.”
He stares at me, cold and hard. Then nods and looks away, back toward the farmhouse he left behind years ago.
“Please stop,” he says. “Now that Molly’s been found, maybe I can convince him to leave this place.”
“Mister Andrews—”
He holds up a hand, stands.
“Please stop,” he says. “I’ll pay you to stop. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay you double. Whatever it takes.”
I shake my head. He stares at me, eyes watering, and he says, “Think about it. Think about what this is doing to him. If I lose him too…”
It’s less of a threat and more a moment of quiet anguish, frustration born of powerlessness.
“Please,” he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but then turns and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Shit,” I breathe. Then again, “Shit.”
I march off into the bedroom and then the bathroom and strip down. I leave my damp clothes in a heap on the floor and my gun on the top of the toilet tank while I take a steaming-hot shower, running the honeysuckle-scented soap through my hair and over my skin. It smells like summer, I think.
And I think about that hot, desperate summer when three little girls were taken and one was brought back. I think about the plant that closed and the jobs that were lost and the empty swing set at the church. I think about the carved faces of the applehead dolls and their empty, black eyes and their lace-lined dresses.
“Shit…” I say out loud. I slam off the water, grab a towel, and wrap it around me. I pit-pat into the kitchen and yank the drawer open, take out the manila envelope, open it, slide the pictures onto the cabinet.
Yes, here is Molly clean and naked as a baby on the slab in the morgue and here, clothed in the forest, just like I found her. Her hair is arranged in beautiful waves around her, like a halo, and her skin is ashen gray except for the white scar on her chin.
And her dress. Red velvet. White lace.
“Red velvet, white lace,” I say. “Red velvet, white lace.”
I close my eyes and try to focus. I open them and call AJ.
“Hey,” I say. “Any luck on those original case files? I need to see something.”
“Working on it,” he says. “There are a lot of files. A lot of stuff is from the FBI and a lot of it is incomplete. Plus, here in good ol’ Quartz Creek, everything was still on paper ten years ago. The files were all scanned into the system a couple years back but nothing was labeled the same or tagged like we do now so…”
“I need the picture of the applehead doll that was left in Molly’s place.”
“Okay,” AJ says. “Let me see… I remember running across all that stuff when I came in. But then, there was a break-in at the pawnshop this morning and I’ve been caught up with—oh, okay, here it is.”
“Describe it to me,” I say.
“It’s red. Uh… with white around the… oh.”
“Red velvet. With white lace, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Damn. She’s dressed like…”
“A doll,” I say. “And not just any doll. She’s dressed like the doll that was left in her place.”
“And now she’s been returned,” he says.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I look at the screen.
“Hey,” I say. “I’ve got a call coming in. Come by tonight if you can, with the files.”
