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But what had he done that might have led to whatever was going on now?

That day. The last day. I still didn’t remember it beyond the moments I’d come into the house, finding it cleaner than usual and Wilmot not there. I didn’t remember calling Calloway, but he said that’s what I’d done. I didn’t remember the searches, the confusion.

The days right after that were still a blur of questions without answers. Calloway and Dixie were always there helping or feeding me. Others trying to figure out what to do with me, social workers, judges, and then … life just went on, and those old days fell away to “life before.” I’d had to figure out all the after.

I still missed my father, grieved him, but not with devastation or gut-wrenching immobility.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Glad to have something else to focus on, I answered, “Hazel Dylan.”

“Ms. Dylan, this is Police Chief Verro. I need you to meet me in front of the post office.”

“I’m on my way.”

I gathered both my hat and the knife and cut through the middle curve of the S, next to the diner, coming out on the other side. Verro stood across the street and in front of the post office.

He nodded. “Thanks for being so quick about it.”

“What’s up?”

“This is the direction you saw the man who attacked you run?”

“Well. Kind of.” I pointed behind me. “From in front of the diner, he disappeared around the end of that building. I hurried to follow him but didn’t see him anywhere. I thought he could have run through the spaces in between the buildings here, but I didn’t even see any stirred-up dust out there.” I moved to point out toward the open desert. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“But he could have come this way and gone through behind the post office.”

The longer I thought about it … “It’s possible.”

“Follow me,” Verro said.

We made our way around the post office to an area that I knew about but hadn’t thought about. It wasn’t an alley, but it was used like one. It was dark, a closed-off old patio area where garbage cans and other random things were kept. It didn’t smell and it wasn’t filthy, but it wasn’t a comfortable place.

Jenna stood at the far end of the space, next to another opening and some old garbage bins that appeared not to have been used for some time. I didn’t know the business that used to be on the other side of the wall, but I knew the small spot next to the post office had been empty for a while.

The closer we got to the bin, the better I could tell that it wasn’t a garbage bin but an old barrel.

Verro put his hand up to stop our hurried pace. “I want you to look inside the barrel and tell me what you see.”

Jenna grabbed her phone, illuminated the light, and aimed it inside the barrel.

“Got it,” I said.

Verro lowered his hand, and I took the remaining few steps so I could peer inside too.

Along with old, dirty debris, there were two items inside the barrel. One was an old boot that appeared to be stuck to the bottom by a crusty film that spread side to side.

The other item wasn’t as dirty. It was a red scarf, just like the one around the first bone sculpture’s neck.

“Oh.” Some mental gymnastics set off in my mind. Was the man who’d accosted me the same one who’d built the sculptures? Why had someone left a scarf here? Was this all just random?

“We heard about the scarf on the first sculpture,” Verro said.

I nodded at him. “The one in the barrel looks like a match.”

“Do you think the man who attacked you was the one to put the scarf in here?” Jenna asked.

“That he might be the one who created the sculptures?” I asked.

“Yes,” Verro said.