“The man, Keith Gilbert, who’s accused of killing and harming people in Blue Gil, Michigan.”
“Not goldfish,” Kenzi interjects.
“Not goldfish. Well, as we said before, Mr. Gilbert is the brother of the coach who died. He’s also a detective in Marquette. He worked the cold case.”
“Let me tell them, Ali. Keith Gilbert has now been charged with the killing of Diana Jones. That’s three dead victims and two that were assaulted.”
“He’s a serial killer,” Ali says.
“We need to look into more cold cases. There could be more victims.
“This really is a turn of events.”
I pluck the earbuds from my ears and throw them onto the seat, certain that Sheriff Manes wouldn’t be happy if he knew our village was mentioned in a nationally syndicated true-crime podcast. Blinking my disappointment in Keith away, I turn the radio back on.
Mom told me that the two podcasters, McKenzie Shaffer and Allison Buckley, visited Blue Gil after I was assaulted. They met with the same resistance Keith and I experienced. Apparently, the cold shoulders of Blue Gillians didn’t stop them from continuing the story.
I slow down as I get closer to where Keith and I were that one afternoon, the place where both Craig and Marty were found. I didn’t intend on ending up here, not consciously at least.
Turning the music down, I slow the old truck as I pull onto the shoulder and slowly approach what remains of the memorials. Over the last month, the commemorative displays have diminished. The flowers have wilted, teddy bears faded, showing the effects of rain and sun, and deflated balloons flop in the breeze.
Parking the truck, I walk along the opposite side. The fence post where Keith found the camera is now empty. A few holes are the only evidence that a camera was ever present. I keep walking and wondering...
Who did the camera belong to?
Was it Keith’s?
Was it Serena’s?
Was it someone else’s?
There’s so much I don’t know—will never know.
I continue to walk up the incline, my shoes stirring up dust on the easement.
Crossing the road, I stand still along the edge of the pavement and look down to where I parked the truck. I’ve walked farther than I realized. Looking down, the marred dirt shoulder is indented with tire tracks and footprints. Abandoned beer and soda cans and cigarette butts litter the ravine. Looking down into the depth of the swale, I see part of a hubcap shining in the sunlight. It’s barely visible, buried beneath the dried mud. As I begin to walk back to the truck, I spot something orange wedged in the dirt near the tall grass beyond the swale.
I’m drawn to it as I climb down and up.
There’s no telling how long it has been here.
It may have been lost yesterday or a year ago. Lodged into the grass and soil, its presence is only now visible with the drought.
Using my fingers, I pry it from the gravel and mud, only to discover that the orange treasure is a broken piece of a turn signal.
The script of an episode comes back to me as I recall that all casings and parts have serial or product numbers. I can’t recall the specifics. Nevertheless, I know that they all contain an identifying number linking them to the make and model of the vehicle.
My shoes are dirty as I turn the orange glass in my fingers. Step by step, I make my way back to the truck.
My feet still as I lift the glass next to the front turnsignal of Dad’s old truck, the part Ollie had difficulty locating.
Though the one in my hand is a bit faded, the markings are a perfect match.
Something else Keith said comes back to me. “Sometimes the answers are right in front of us, but we don’t want to see them.”
Chapter
Forty-Three
