Bailey turned onto Henry’s gravel drive, then moments later drew to a stop in front of the cabin. She stepped out, slamming the car door behind her and lifting her face to the sun. It didn’t get better than this.
Tony heard her and charged out of the brush, ears flapping, his giant grin giving him the look of a cartoon character. Or one of the creatures in a Dr. Seuss story. He threw himself against her legs, nearly knocking her over. After she’d caught her balance, she bent and petted him. “Happy boy,” she said, scratching him behind the ears. “You look how I feel.”
He panted and wagged, then turned and charged up the porch steps, barking excitedly to announce her arrival. Shaking her head at his antics, she followed at a more moderate pace, reaching the door just as Henry opened it. He broke into his strange, twisted smile. “Ms. True, you’ve come to see me.”
He always said it in a way that expressed complete surprise and deep gratitude, as if it would never cross his mind that he deserved a friend.
“I have,” she said. “And look what I brought you.”
She retrieved the Baby Ruth bar from her purse and his eyes lit up. He took the candy bar and ripped away the wrapper. “Have something for you.”
He said it around the chocolate and she smiled. “That’s so sweet.”
“Wait here.”
He turned and hurried back inside, then returned a minute later with a wooden box. Beaming proudly, he held it out.
She took it. It was about the size of a man’s shoe box, substantial and obviously handmade. The wood was handsome, though nicked up. A hasp held the hinged top closed.
“What is this?”
“For you.” He smiled again.
She took a seat in one of the rockers, he sat in the other. “Did you make the box?”
He shook his head, reached across and tapped its bottom. She tipped it up. Initials burned into the bottom. And a date.
L.W.A. MAY 2, 1988
Logan’s initials. She did the mental math and realized he would have been ten. She ran her fingers over the letters, imagining Logan as a boy, proudly “signing” his creation.
A perfect treasure chest for a ten-year-old boy.
Tears stung her eyes. “Thank you, Henry. I love it.”
“Open it,” he said with childlike eagerness.
Bailey lifted the lid. And caught her breath. The red shoe. Clean and dry and nestled in a kitchen towel.
After he’d walked her home, Henry must have gone back for it. A lump formed in her throat as she recalled the terrible things she had thought about Logan. Awful things.
“I got it for you.”
“I see that.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Henry.”
He reached into the box. “Want to try it?”
She didn’t, but he looked so hopeful, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. She slipped off her mule and into the pump. It fit as if it had been made for her and gooseflesh ran up her leg.
The shoe of a dead woman.
She yanked her foot out, doing her best to hide her shudder.
“True’s shoe,” he said.
She looked at him. “What did you say?”
But he had already moved on. He reached into the box. “Look.”
She frowned. He held up a silver bangle bracelet. Costume jewelry, one of those wide, shiny ones.
She lowered her gaze to the rest of the box’s contents. A collection of trinkets. Not new, they looked as if Henry had found them on the ground. She reached in and sifted through them: A sparkly hair clip. An initial necklace, the fancy N hanging from a cheap, dollar-store chain. The bracelet. A tube of lipstick, the color a bold pink. An LSU key fob.
And finally, a girl’s class ring. Covington High, class of 2010.
She stared at the ring, the weirdest sensation coming over her. Like that moment when the last of a combination lock’s tumblers clicks into place, or when that one puzzle piece fits and you have it. The whole picture.
Bailey closed her fingers around the ring, struggling for calm. She knew what this box was, what the items represented. Even as she tried to talk herself out of it, horror ran over her in an icy wave.
A killer’s souvenirs. His box of trophies.
“Bailey!”
Her vision cleared. Raine was staring at her, wide-eyed and worried. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Bailey blinked. “Yes.”
“You completely went off grid. Just zoned out.”
A killer’s souvenirs.
L.W.A. May 2, 1988.
“You’re doing it again.”
“I remembered—” Bailey stopped. She had no clue how Raine would react if she told her. It could be ugly. The other woman could totally lose it, become violent even.
She needed to think. Take a moment to digest … figure it out.
How many objects had there been in that box?
Six. Plus the shoe.
“Talk to me, Bailey. What did you remember?”
True’s shoe, he’d called it.
Was it? Could Henry have somehow known that? What had he seen and heard living out there, alone in the woods?
But he thought she was True; had found her digging the shoe out of the mud. Then retrieved it for her.
In his damaged mind, it had been her shoe.
“Bailey? You’re scaring me.”
What did she really know about the shoe or the box and its contents? Nothing. In that instant, Bailey decided. “I remembered I saw Henry the day he died. I visited with him.”
“My God. He was fine? Nothing wrong or—”
“No, he was fine. He was … Henry. Sweet and happy to see—” Her throat closed over the words. “I miss him.”
“And that’s it?”
Bailey brought a hand to her head. “I don’t feel so well.”
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No. But I think … I need to lie down.”
“I’ll sit with you.”
“No.” The word came out more sharply than she intended, and Bailey softened her tone. “I want to be alone, Raine.”
“Okay, but I’m not leaving. Tony and I will hang out down here.”
Tough, sophisticated Raine suddenly looked like a scared little girl. Bailey squeezed her hand and started for the front of the house. She stopped in the kitchen doorway and looked back: Raine sat on the couch, Tony beside her, her arms around his neck.