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“Horrible.” She gives him a loving smile and kiss on the head.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
EPILOGUE
Christmas Eve
Every year, we hold the candlelight vigil for Ainsley and Sam in the town square. The church choir sings, and Mrs. Wallace talks about her daughters, remembers them separately, tells stories about their childhood. How Sam was obsessed with her Girl Scout badges. How Ainsley always loved horses but was afraid to ride one. How they never fought like sisters and were always close and good to each other.
Then we all take our turn remembering them. Anyone who has something to say is welcome to come to the mic and share.
Finally, Mrs. Wallace pleads to the crowd to come forward with anything they might know, might have remembered, kept secret.
“My girls are still out there. Somewhere. Help me bring them home.”
Every year we have left with grief, hopelessness, and a sense that maybe some questions never have answers. A thing that always hurt me as much as it hurt my father; another year with the girls still missing, no closer to finding them.
Tonight, the energy is different.
The snow from the storm has been cleared from the paths around the square, and the big tree towers in its center, colorfully decorated with ribbons, ornaments made by the local grade schoolers, a gleaming star on top. The gazebo is decorated with white Christmas lights.
It’s a cold, clear night, the sky riven with stars. As I stand behind my father’s wheelchair, I try to think of Santa on his sleigh, not Chet in his horrible Santa mask.
Not Lolly, recovering in the hospital.
Not the other girls—including Ainsley and Sam—who police believe are buried at the Blacksmith lake house. They’ve been up there, all this time.
Chet, who we all thought we knew so well, is a stranger accused of murdering four women, including Ainsley and Sam, abducting Lolly Morris. He blames Evan Handy, claiming that he was in Evan’s thrall that night, remaining in contact with him via mail, where Evan encouraged him to be his worst self. Apparently, there’s a chilling correspondence that spans a decade discovered on Chet’s computer.
I still can’t reconcile it. The Chet I knew all his life, to the one he was inside. The boy whose hand I held, who I defended against his impatient older brother, whose skinned knee I bandaged, who I tucked into bed more than once. How?
Mrs. Wallace stands before the crowd that’s gathered. There are hundreds of people tonight, all bundled against the cold. I stand behind my father, resting my hands on his wheelchair. Miranda, Ernie, and Giselle surround me. Badger thought it best he didn’t come, considering.
“Tonight, Christmas Eve,” says Mrs. Wallace hoarsely. She’s aged about a hundred years in the last ten. I still remember her as she was—her laughter, her glittering, smiling eyes, the passion with which she cheered for her girls on the field, the meals she used to make for us. “Is a homecoming of sorts. Not the homecoming any of us have ever hoped for.”
Her voice breaks and I feel another powerful rush of emotion. I’ve been buffeted by so much feeling—rage, grief, sorrow, regret—it’s as if some kind of dam has burst inside me. I’ve never felt so much, in all these years. And as painful as it is, there’s relief, the relief of something stuck breaking loose. I put my hand on my father’s shoulder and he puts his hand to mine. It’s warm and strong. He is, finally, getting better.
“But the homecoming of truth, of justice, of answers. It will be some time before the bodies found at the Blacksmith lake house are properly identified. But I think we all know the truth. I can feel it. I’ll finally be able to put my baby girls to rest.”
There isn’t a dry eye in the crowd, people sniffling, wiping their eyes, holding each other. Faces are washed in the golden candlelight.
“Every year at this Christmas Eve vigil we’ve all prayed to God for Ainsley and Samantha’s safe return, hoping against hope. This is not what we wished for, or what we asked for. We don’t always get that. But this year perhaps we get a kind of closure, a permission to rest our weary souls, as we are finally allowed to lay theirs to rest.”
She stops another moment to collect herself and I stand admiring her as I always have for her strength and fortitude. A mother’s love can be the most powerful, the truest form of devotion. I think of my own mother, a different breed than Mrs. Wallace. But for the first time in forever, I don’t judge her. I let her be who she is.
“Some people have stood with me through this long, dark journey. Sheriff James Martin never gave up on my girls, sacrificing his health and his own life. Maddie Martin was a tireless friend to Ainsley and Sam in life, a child of my heart, a smiling place at my table. And when her father couldn’t go on, she picked up the mantle and kept looking. It’s because of her that we may have answers.”
Everyone turns to look at me with smiling faces. It’s not true, I want to say. I failed us all so many times. But I just stay quiet, holding my dad’s hand.
“And Harley Granger, who agreed to reinvestigate our case, bringing fresh eyes to a story people were trying to forget, making connections between other women who went missing and were forgotten. He will continue to investigate this case until its conclusion and tell the whole story for anyone who cares to listen to the truth. Because the truth, no matter how painful, can heal, can teach, can be a beacon for us to follow and do better.”
Harley Granger stands near the front, dutifully recording Mrs. Wallace on the stage. He gives her a wave, and a wave back to the crowd. As he does, we lock eyes, and he offers me a respectful nod that I return. I know he still plans to talk to Evan Handy, that he’ll be gathering all the pieces of this puzzle for a good long time. And now I understand why.
The candlelight glimmers.
The choir sings “Silent Night.”
And I don’t even try to hide my tears.
