I do the only thing I can do. I crank the engine and the heat, and I drive home.

  Owens follows me the entire way.

  I open my eyes to see Tyler standing beside Grandpa’s couch. I try to speak. I try to touch him, but I’m too shocked to move. He holds out an old-fashioned key with a heart etched into it.

  My body jolts awake. I jack-knife up off the couch. My eyes tear. I reach for my little brother, but of course, he’s not there.

  It’s been hours since Owens followed me home. I sat down here, waiting for enough time to transpire where I could leave again. I must have dozed off.

  Still dressed in my coat, I stare at the spot where Tyler just stood in my dream.

  My face hardens.

  I’m out of the house and around to the shed in seconds. I throw open the door and I stare intently at the contents. I’d put the wood box with the engraved heart back up on the shelf, but I take it down now and open it up.

  Dressed in pajama bottoms, crocs, and an oversized sweatshirt, Mom quietly approaches. She holds a cup of coffee between gloved hands. When I look into her face, her expression shows curiosity, and fright.

  “Mom, what does this key go to?”

  Shrugging, she steps inside the shed. “I’ve never seen inside of this. Ever.” Placing her coffee on a dusty shelf, she drags an unmarked cardboard box down. She holds it in her arms while she wedges off the lid. Inside are thick files. The tabs read first names only:

  Bernard. Danny. Gerry. Kevin. Max. Peter. Randy. Sean. Thomas. Wade.

  Ten total. All boys.

  Her gloved finger tabs through them. She looks over at me with bewildered, wide eyes. I choose the first one “Bernard” and slide it from the box. My heart picks up pace as I open it.

  The top page shows a picture of a little boy with MISSING written across the border in red. It dates back forty years. If I remember correctly, that’s when Grandpa left the Army and became a cop. The next sheet gives stats: height, weight, address, social security, parents' names, and siblings. After that comes witness statements, details on neighbors, and a timeline. After that are pictures of Bernard’s home, belongings, school, playground, and family members. There are pages of notes Grandpa took on the investigation to find the little boy. I note the address where Bernard lived. I think that’s one county over.

  Quickly, I thumb through the rest of the pages, dreading that I’ll find something I don’t want to—though I’m not sure what. But I see only more details of a thorough investigation.

  Or a thorough cover-up.

  I don’t like that I just had that thought.

  Mom’s looking at the one labeled “Danny.” She shivers. “What the hell is this?”

  I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure if it is an investigation or a cover-up. I’m not sure about Grandpa at all anymore.

  She hands the box to me. “I don’t want to look at those.”

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday, 4 p.m.

  I stare at the files spread out on the studio floor. Carl lies in the corner, quietly observing me. I’ve been here for hours, searching for a connection, but all I feel is even more perplexed.

  If I was hoping to uncover secrets, it’s not working.

  For forty years, little boys have gone missing, all within a ninety-mile radius of White Quail, Tennessee. Grandpa’s name is listed on all the cases, the earliest one as an assistant and then as lead investigator on the rest. All were unsolved. Sheriff Owens’ name pops up in a few of the later files after he joined the force.

  Are these files Grandpa’s ghosts? Are they reminders of how he could have done better? Or are they a window into something darker?

  I don’t know, but I’m currently looking at the one labeled “Randy”—missing for twenty-five years now. Of all the boys, Randy was the closest one, geographically, to Grandpa. I imagine this one plagued Grandpa more than the others. This one happened literally in his backyard.

  But what’s bugging me is Randy’s face.

  Something about it seems familiar.

  I keep staring at his eyes and cheeks, hoping something clicks when Carl begins to mumble. “I’m being a good boy.”

  It’s the first words he’s said since Mom came here. They fill me with a punch of adrenaline. Finally, he speaks. “You’re not a boy. You’re a man. What the hell are you talking about?”

  His eyes tear.

  “Oh, stop the bullshit. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  “I’m a good boy. I get to go home.”

  “Tell me where Tyler and Luca are, and sure, you can go.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”

  “How what works?”

  He opens his mouth, and he screams. It’s so loud, I flinch. He thrashes, rolling his body back and forth, getting enough momentum that he bowls himself right over the files and into me. I shove him hard. He rolls back into the corner.

  “You want this to stop? Tell me where the boys are. Who did you give them to?”

  More screaming.

  “WHO?”

  Screaming. Horrible, horrible screaming.

  I take a breath, gathering the files. Carl thrashes, knocking his head over and over again into the dirty rubberized floor. “Stop it.”

  He keeps going.

  “Stop it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  He keeps going.

  “Stop it!” I lunge across just as his body stills. I roll him over, seeing fresh blood. I feel for a pulse, finding a steady one. He knocked himself out.

  “You stupid idiot,” I mutter, surprised at the tears in my voice. “Why did you do that?”

  My phone buzzes with a text from Grace

  Grace: Sheriff Owens just called Mom about the studio. If you’re there, you better get out!

  Through the boarded-up windows, I see Sheriff Owens pull in and park out front. He gets out and looks around the deserted area before considering the small building.

  With a deep breath, I watch his every move.

  He paces the perimeter, observing every detail. He circles the back where I parked Grandpa’s truck. I hear him jiggle the back door.

  I make a mad dash into what was once the lounge, and I sit cross-legged on the floor. Leaning my head back against the wall, I close my eyes.

  Sheriff Owens enters. His boots tread the hallway. The flooring beneath his feet creeks. He enters the room where I am, coming to a stop. He waits. I keep my eyes closed. After a few seconds, he walks to me, toeing my leg with his boot.

  With a jerk, I open my eyes. They widen with pretend surprise.

  “I knew you were in this neighborhood for some other reason than a Mountain Dew at the Dollar Store,” he says.

  I never told him I bought a Mountain Dew. He checked.

  “I’m not going to find Carl Keller in here, am I?”

  With a disgusted sigh, I stand. “Look around. I don’t care. Grace knows I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because I can’t be around all the drama. You’ve seen Mom. She’s a mess.” I hate diming her out like this, but I don’t know what else to do.

  Owens considers me. “Think I will look around.”

  “Not much to see.” I motion him on. “Help yourself.”

  He steps away, walking back out into the hallway and down to where the bathroom is. I stay where I am, breathing.

  Footsteps echo as he leaves the bathroom and paces the small entryway with the old receptionist desk still in place. I’d tucked the box of files underneath it. Unless he bends down to look, he won’t see them. I hear him come back down the hall. He re-enters the lounge.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?” he asks.

  “Didn’t think I needed your permission.”

  “Everyone needs my permission when a little boy goes missing.”

  “Two little boys.”

  He looks around the dirty area, noting rodent droppings at our feet. “You get that shed open?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “‘Pray for the best. Prepare for the worst.’ Your grandfather used to say that.”

  “I remember.”

  He claps his bare hands and blows into them. The sound in the otherwise quiet room makes me jump. He notices before turning away. I follow him into the office. Panic pulses through my veins when he stops at the black door.

  In my back pocket, my phone rings. I ignore it.

  “You going to get that?” he asks.

  I swallow. My gaze naturally wants to go to the black door, but I force myself to maintain eye contact with him. I take a breath. My heart pounds.

  Suddenly, his rings as well.

  He answers.

  This time mine buzzes, a text. Quickly, I read:

  This is the girl from the Dollar Store. He just came in.

  Owens hurries whoever he’s talking to. “Did you get his plates?”

  Distracted now, he thumbs over his shoulder to the black door, asking me, “What’s in there?”

  “The studio.” I step around him and open it, ready to face what might come.

  Still on the phone, he spares the dark, silent area a glance. It looks like what it is—a soundproof room, no longer with equipment, and a drop cloth covering the stains made by Carl. Crinkling his nose, he turns away. “What died in there, a rat?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been in there.”

  “Pack up and go home.” That’s all he says. Then he just leaves, his phone still to his ear, his boots echoing with his retraced steps.

  For several long moments, I don’t move. I listen to his car pull away. I’m dumbstruck. I can’t believe that just happened.

  When I’m sure he’s miles gone, I step back inside the studio, and I look behind the door. Carl’s still unconscious, right where I left him.

  Evan Lager.

  That’s the name of the bearded man I chased. He shares the same last name of the dead man I found in Richards’ cellar, one Tom Lager. That’s no coincidence.

  Evan also lives on the same road as Donna and Carl Keller—out in the middle of nowhere. That’s no coincidence either.

  My tires eat up the roads, winding out into the country. I pass the landfill and a mile later the Keller property comes into view. Down from their driveway and tucked into the trees sits the home I thought was abandoned, a dirt bike now in the front yard.

  This is where Carl was heading the night I took him. He and this man are in on it together.

  A cop car sits parked in the overgrown driveway, but not the sheriff’s vehicle. I park the truck and get out. I look around, finding the area empty. Where’s the cop?

  Up the driveway I walk, my hand gripping my hunting knife. At the front door, I knock. A few seconds go by. The door opens, just a sliver. A bearded man appears. It’s the same one I chased.

  “Evan Lager?” I ask.

  The man shakes his head. He starts to close the door, and I plant a hand to stop him. Evan pauses, assessing the situation. Briefly, his gaze darts past my shoulder and to the empty cop car parked in his driveway. He starts to push the door closed again, and I wedge a shoe in the jamb.

  Evan shoves me, and I come right back, shoving him just as hard.

  “Fuck!” someone from behind me yells.

  I turn to see the same uniformed cop from before. He’s stepping from the woods. What the hell? Did he go take a leak?

  Evan rams me. I stumble back. He leaps over me and takes off running into the trees. The cop yanks out his gun and sprints after him.

  I don’t waste a second dashing through the front door. The last remnants of sun filter in behind me, showing black painted walls and closed shutters. The smell of bleach permeates the air.

  “Tyler!” I scream. “Luca!”

  I flip on the light. It crackles to life, illuminating a room with a single blow-up mattress, a TV sitting on the floor, a sectioned-off area where a brown bunny plays, a clean and sparse mini-kitchen, and a pile of folded kid clothes.

  My gaze freezes on the jeans lying neatly on top. Those are Tyler’s.

  A breath stutters in and out of my lungs. My vision blurs. Sweat slicks my brow. Slowly, I move further inside. One step. Two. Three. I come to a stop at the clothes. But I don’t touch the jeans. I’m too scared.

  Instead, I turn.

  Printed across the opposite wall in glowing red letters is:

  be a good boy and you can go home

  With unsteady hands, I slide my phone from my back pocket, and I take several photos.

  “Of course, you’re here, treading on my crime scene. Jesus Christ, Nell. What the hell?”

  I turn to see Sheriff Owens. “I haven’t touched anything.”

  He opens his mouth to respond at the exact second a shot reverberates through the air.

  TWELVE

  Thursday, 5 p.m.

  I sit beside Mom in the police station. Matthew stands in the corner, waiting on Grace.

  Twenty-four hours ago, I was entering Evan Lager’s home. Now he’s dead, shot by the cop who chased him. Our one solid lead and now he’s gone. Just like that. Gone.

  Olivia bursts through the door that leads into Owens’ office. With a look of horror etched into her face, she rushes past us down the hall and out of the station. Grace comes next, tears streaming her cheeks. Her eyes meet mine for a moment. The look in them stuns me.

  I stand up.

  Shaking her head, she walks into Matthew’s arms.

  Owens steps through his door, looking as shaken up as I now feel.

  Reaching down, I grab Mom and I pull her to her feet. She’s already crying. I put my arm around her and lead her into Owens’ office.

  Unlike last time I was in here, his desk and a foldable table are covered in clothes, notes, photos, files, and evidence bags.

  Behind us, the door closes softly, but it ricochets through my brain loud and slamming. Mom falls into a chair.

  Dread burrows in. I struggle to ask the question I know needs to be asked. “D-did you find the b-bodies?” I whisper.

  “No,” Sheriff Owens quietly says. “There wasn’t a trace of the boys at all—no prints or fibers or hair. Only these.” Clearing his throat, he moves to the other side of the foldable table. He nods down to evidence bags with clothes and toys inside. “The clothes were freshly laundered. We found the Spider-Man wallet on Evan, and the rest in his house. Olivia and Grace positively ID’d Luca’s shirt, pants, and socks. Do you recognize anything?”

  My body goes cold. I don’t look at the jeans that I know belong to Tyler. Instead, I stare at a brand-new tee with a Dollar Store tag still on. “Why would the clothes have been freshly laundered?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

  “He made them change. Either he wanted them in something else, or he had no choice.”

  “What do you mean he had no choice?”

  “The boys may have soiled themselves and needed fresh clothes.”

  Mom gasps.

  Owens gentles his tone. “It’s hard to say.”

  Then don’t say anything at all, I want to snap but then again I did ask.

  “These,” Mom murmurs, reverently touching my little brother’s jeans covered in plastic. Her finger shakes as she points to the Spider-Man wallet. “That, too.” She points to a Superman action figure and a Star Wars Stormtrooper. “These, too.” She moves in closer, leaning in to smell, even though plastic covers the items.

  The room goes silent.

  I feel sick.

  Mom stares at Owens, her eyes silently begging him to tell her this isn’t true.

  Wearily, he looks at his watch.

  Sudden and acute anger fires through my body. “This is on you, you son of a bitch. You wasted time following me. Now Evan’s dead, shot by some cop barely out of the academy. You let this happen. Evan could’ve led you to them. You weren’t even first on the scene at his place. Where were you?”

  “I was on the way.” He levels me with an accusing look. “I understand you were the one who knocked on his door and flushed him out?”

  My jaw opens. I’m too stunned to reply. He’s turning this one on me? Oh, hell no.

  His brows come together. A look of regret flashes across his eyes. He knows he just spoke out of turn.

  With a sigh, Owens looks down at the clothes. “I did everything I could,” he replies, his tone laced with guilt.

  “Yeah? You keep telling yourself that. I see now why Grandpa didn’t like you. He thought you were cocky and a slacker, and he’s right.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Owens murmurs.

  “Have you even bothered to test Evan’s DNA against Tom Lager? Seeing as how they have the same last name and everything. And what about Carl Keller? You have his prints from when you arrested him. Did you find traces of him in Evan’s house?”

  The sheriff straightens. “We did do a DNA test. Though Evan and Tom Lager share the same name, they do not share DNA. It’s likely a coincidence of the name.”

  I don’t believe in coincidences. “What about Carl’s prints?”

  “No traces in Evan’s home. Then again, the place had recently been scrubbed with bleach, as if Evan was expecting us.”

  “Well, did you circle back around to Donna Keller? She and Carl live right across the road from Evan. Talk about coincidences.”

  Owens takes a patient breath. “Yes, Nell, we did speak with Donna again. She knows of Evan Lager in that he’s a loner. She’s rarely if ever interacted with him. Carl, too.”

  “Did she know Tom Lager?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “So… they’re dead?” Mom looks up at me. “Are they dead?”

  “No.”

  “But…”

  I slam my palm down onto the table. “No.”

  Mom goes rigid.

  My eyes bore into Owens’. “You listen to me. I’m not giving up. I’m going to find Tyler and Luca, and I’m bringing them home. You understand me?”

  Owens doesn’t respond.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11