He sighed. “I guess if it’s anywhere, it would be with the rest of Ryan’s stuff. All right, I’ll send you the address. Yes, we can go as early as today—because I know that was your next question.”
I was ten miles over the speed limit the whole time I was driving to south Los Angeles. Madcap’s storage facility wasn’t the typical self-serve, but gated; I gave my name and Skip’s to an intercom at the front and pulled into the lot.
“You beat me,” Skip said when he arrived. “But I don’t want you to get your hopes up, okay?”
I laughed nervously. “We’ll see.”
The storage facility was rented by several other businesses, and the hallways were long, windowless, and claustrophobic. I felt my heart beat with every muffled step we took down the linoleum floor.
“Here it is,” he said, pulling out a ring of keys. “This is where we shoved any of Ryan’s old stuff, anyway.”
Skip unlocked the heavy metal door and slid it aside, switching on a fluorescent light that buzzed over the square room. As my eyes adjusted, I saw stacks of framed posters of Ryan, bins piled high, mic stands and stage equipment gathered in one corner. Clothing racks with garmentbags containing Ryan’s famous costumes and red carpet outfits were tucked neatly to one side of the room. I noticed the famous Met Gala spider dress behind the clear plastic. Boxes of CDs and merchandise were everywhere, and I recognized a Ryan Holding lunch box that a younger cousin of mine had used back in 2010.
“Knock yourself out,” Skip said. “The ‘White Lace’ stuff would probably be somewhere in the bottom of ... that pile, unfortunately.”
We dug in silence. Nothing but merch, old records, and props that I didn’t recognize. It was strange to go through these things with my own hands, like I was finally encountering the relics of a strange history I’d been studying all this time. None of it was familiar to me.
Until I reached the fourth bin.
There, at the very bottom, was something spherical wrapped in a black cloth. I kept my hands steady as I grasped at the shape and shook it free of the other junk. Pulling its covering back, I saw opalescent glass and a small wooden stand.
The crystal ball.
It was smaller than I remembered, somewhere around the size of a cantaloupe. I was about to call to Skip when I turned it over and saw a small opening in the bottom where a light bulb would go to illuminate it. As I shifted the ball in my hands, something very quietly rustled inside.
I shook it. Turned it upright again.
“Shit, I remember these old magazine features,” Skip said with a laugh, his back to me a few feet away. “I don’t know what we were thinking, putting her in a T-shirt over a long-sleeve shirt with a vest on top, nonetheless. What the hell was up with all those layers?”
“And the plaid Bermuda shorts,” I agreed, careful to keep my voice steady as I raised the ball over my head and peered inside. A tiny scrap of paper rested at the edge of the opening. I took one more glance at Skip, then hooked it with my nail and managed to pull it out without ripping it. I slipped it into my pocket.
Then I said, “Skip, I think I found it.”
“Yeah?” He stood up and brushed his hands on his jeans. “Well, I’ll be. I guess we do still have it.”
“Yep.” I turned it over, looking for any other markings, then handed it to him. He did the same, squinting through the hole with one eye.
“Nothing, huh?” he asked, looking at me. “I guess I don’t know what it is you’d even be looking for.”
“Me neither,” I said. “It was just ... the best clue I thought I’d gotten since they disappeared.”
“It was worth a shot.” Skip sat down heavily on one of the bins and ran a hand over his face. “I have to believe they’re okay out there. And just choosing not to get in touch ... for whatever reason.” He sighed. “It hurts a little, doesn’t it?”
I forced down the lump in my throat and nodded. “It does.”
He looked at me for a moment. “Maybe we’ll have some answers someday.”
I met his gaze, unwavering. “I’m hopeful.”
Less than forty-eight hours later, I was sitting on a plane, unfolding the scrap of paper that held a single word in Wilder’s handwriting.
Hailuoto.
I’d googled it the second I was back in the safety of my car, waving Skip off. Hailuoto—an island in the North Bothnian Sea, just off the coast of Finland. Eight hours north of Helsinki.
It was madness to go there, to think that Ryan and Wilder could be there. But why would the note be in the crystal ball? What else could it mean?
What other options did I have?
