A throat clears.
The officer has reached us. He stands a few feet away with his hat in his hands, his expression soft. Before he can ask for a statement, however, the front doors slide open again.
A woman rushes inside with the same frantic energy as my dad and the Calloways. Only there’s nobody waiting to intercept her. When she reaches the front desk, she sets both hands flat on the laminate counter. “Please, can you tell me if my daughter is here? Her name is Ivy Winslow.”
The name hits me like a punch to the gut.
Ivy Winslow.
I couldn’t remember it earlier, but I recognize it now. The quiet girl in AP Lit. Always drawing in a notebook. Except when we readThe Scarlett Letter. She had strong opinions about that book.
“I keep trying to call her, but none of my callswill go through. She was at the party. Do you know if she was brought in by ambulance? Do you know if she’s okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of her face—terrified, frozen in that final moment—before she … combusted. Disintegrated. Evaporated.
Her life gone in an instant.
Just like Lainey’s.
“Please check again,” the woman says.
The staff member behind the desk gives her screen a quick glance. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but she’s not here.”
The woman shakes her head, her hands curling into fists.
The officer steps in.
“Ma’am,” he says gently. “Just because Ivy is unaccounted for doesn’t mean she’s not safe.”
“What happened at that cemetery?” Miss Winslow asks, her voice edged with hysteria.
“We’re still trying to sort that out,” the officer replies. “At the moment, we believe someone may have been trying to cause a scare, being Halloween and all.”
Miss Winslow’s cheeks turn pink. “You think this was a prank?”
“It’s a working theory, ma’am. Equipment blew, the ground was unstable, and many of the teens on site were under the influence. Not a good combination, I’m afraid.”
“I can assure you, my daughter doesn’t?—”
He holds up his hands. “I’m not accusing anyone. I’m just letting you know what we’ve established so far. I promise you we’re doing everything we can to sort it out. Why don’t we step over here, and you can give me Ivy’s full name and description. I’ll make sure it’s passed along to everyone at the scene.”
I watch them walk away with my heart in my throat.
Because it won’t matter.
They aren’t going to find Ivy Winslow.
Or Lainey Sikes.
I reach into Jude’s lap and take his hand, thankful, so very thankful, that Twig escaped with nothing more than stitches and a burned foot.
57
NOT EVEN A TRACE
Fire crackles in the grate. Rivulets of rain streak the windowpanes, smudging the dreary afternoon outside. I sit in the center of Jude’s four-poster bed surrounded by familiar items while he strips his wall, removing photographs, journal entries, and news articles.
I pick up the gemstones, emptied of their power, and shake them in my palm like dice, my gaze wandering from the carved-out Bible to the gold-plated compass to the charred silver husk that was once the locket.
