“Ah,” she said as though my answer meant something. But she didn’t explain.
“She wore that coat to the park in the days before she disappeared. Then the day she disappeared she wore a different coat. I think the man who took her—the man in that drawing—gave her the flower. It was right before Valentine’s Day.”
“Hmm.” Susan held the bag in her hands, turned it over, and looked at it from all sides. Her nails were short and unpainted. She seemed to be taking the flower very seriously. “Maybe she picked it up off the ground. Or took it from the cemetery, off of a grave. Or a school friend gave it to her. There are other possibilities.”
“Why would she keep it in her coat if that was the case? It’s like she was hiding it.”
Susan shrugged. “I think you should share this with the police. It’s over my head, to be honest. But if it’s evidence, if it’s important, they should see it.” She handed the bag back.
I took it and held it in my hand for a long moment. I couldn’t imagine giving it away to the police. It was foolish, I knew, but it seemed like a strong link to Caitlin, and I couldn’t just give it away.
“It’s like an artifact, isn’t it?” Susan asked.
“You read my mind.”
“I don’t do that. But I will tell you that when my husband moved out of our house he left some of his things behind. Some old clothes, some books. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them.”
“When did you finally do it?” I asked.
“Never,” she said. “They’re still right there and probably always will be. That’s why I understand how that woman I mentioned felt about her son. And how you feel about this.”
“I don’t know if that’s encouraging or disturbing,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
I slipped the plastic bag into my coat pocket. “Well, since we’re telling each other all our dirty little secrets, I thought I could ask you one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“You read the paper, right? And saw the story about the press conference where the police released the sketch? You know that I mentioned seeing something—someone—in the park where Caitlin disappeared.”
“The ghost,” she said, holding her hands up and making air quotes.
“What do you make of that?” I asked. “Is it possible? Did I see something . . . ?”
“You saw something,” she said. “I’m an open-minded person by nature. I tend to think it’s possible there are things we just don’t understand in this world. People and things we don’t understand. Maybe you just saw what you wanted to see.” She paused and studied my face. “We all have ghosts, Tom. We trail them along behind us like banners.”
“Or like weights,” I said.
“What are you going to do with your weight?” she asked.
I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.
But I didn’t get up to leave. I stayed in my seat.
“The police . . .” I said.
“What about them?”
“The police think Tracy might know the man she saw in the strip club. And she came by my office at the university and hinted at the same thing.”
“I told you I shouldn’t—”
“And then she asked me for money.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Did you give it to her?”
“Am I being played here?” I asked. “Is she up to something?”
“Tracy is not fully healed. You need to keep that in mind when you have dealings with her. If she asks you for money again, I suggest you don’t give it to her. I’ve made that mistake with her before.”
“I guess it’s hard to resist the urge to help,” I said. “It’s hard to forget she’s somebody’s daughter. Somebody somewhere.”
“We all are, aren’t we? We all are.”
Chapter Twenty
The cell phone woke me the next morning. My eyes fixed not on the buzzing, vibrating phone, but on Caitlin’s red coat, which I’d tossed across a chair the night before. The coat that had held that red flower.
I looked at the clock: 6:15. Early. It was still dark beyond the curtains. Predawn.
I didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. I thought about letting it go to voice mail, but I looked at the coat again. Something wasn’t right. The phone shouldn’t be ringing so early . . .
“Hello?”
“Tom? This is Detective Ryan.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Tom, I need you to come down here right away.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the coat. I felt cold, the blood in my body icy.
“What is it? What happened?”
“We may have found Caitlin, and we need you to come down here and see this girl for yourself.”
I tried to work my mouth, but no sound came out. My jaw moved up and down like a broken hinge.
“Tom? Can you come down here, or should I send a car to get you?”
“You found her,” I said. “And you need me to identify . . .”