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I take the recorder from him and look it over. “Ready?”

He nods and steps back, giving me space to move around the table. I turn on the recorder and set it in the middle of the table.

I breathe in, roll my shoulders, and then hold my hands together and blow into them to dispel the settling cold.

I don’t follow the order in which the objects are laid out. I follow the pull of energy and reach for a small bag in the center of the table. Inside is a pair of sunglasses. I close my eyes and open myself. The images start.

“The young woman has a brilliant smile. Long, straight brown hair. Vivid brown eyes. She’s the kind of person who’s always happy.”Wasalways happy. “A man reaches for her, takes the sunglasses off her face, and tosses them in a car through the open window. It’s a sunny day. He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. His face is shadowed by the sunlight behind him.”

I set the sunglasses down and allow the pull to grab my attention again.

A bigger bag this time. Fabric. A sweater. “Fabrics are hard to read. They don’t hold energy well.”

He frowns. “Why is that?”

“Because they get washed. Water is a natural cleanser. But traumatic events amplify the energy.”

He nods, and I close my eyes. Open myself more, reach deeper, and invite the images to come. These images feel older than the sunglasses. “Fall. Late fall. I see trees, and most are bare. There are leaves all over the ground. They are outside. The day is cold and windy. She keeps moving hair off her face. Brown hair with soft curls. It’s the same woman. The man reaches for her and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear—” I gasp.

“What is it?” Jake’s voice is low but intense.

“The scar. It’s the same scar I saw when I found the necklace. It’s the same man. I’m sure of it.”

My body moves and sways a little. I allow the image to take over.I’m her now.I tilt my head up, cross my arms over my chest, and hug the evidence bag with the sweater to myself. I’m cold. The image flashes, and she’s somewhere else with the man. “They’re walking. She’s standing by a blue car. It’s quiet wherever they are. He gives her a to-go cup. She takes a sip, but the lid is not secure, spilling the light amber liquid on herself. Maybe tea?”

Heat flows into my chest as if I, too, have been doused with hot liquid.

“She’s embarrassed and pulls the sweater away from her chest. The man takes the cup from her. He tells her to take her sweater off and put on his jacket. She refuses, but he insists.”

I stop and dig for more. There’s something there, just out of sight. “Damn it.”

The floor creaks under Jake’s feet, but he stays quiet this time.

I frown and search the images flashing behind my closed eyelids. “I see . . . it’s a sign. A wooden sign. There are painted words in red and green. Three letters—D E R.” Come on, move, look up, show me. “Cider. The sign says HOT CIDER.”

I open my eyes and place the bag back on the table and slump against the windowsill.

Jake takes two steps toward me and then stops himself. He drops the notepad on his desk and opens a mini fridge I had never noticed before. Takes a bottle of water from it and hands it to me.

I take the bottle, open it, and take greedy gulps. “It was cider. She spilled cider on herself. And he made her take the sweater off and gave her his jacket. These things don’t belong to Alice or Lena. Where did they come from?”

Jake leans against his desk, his long legs crossed in front of him. “The items were found in a duffel bag about a hundred yards from where Alice’s car was located when a perimeter search was conducted. I had no idea whether it was linked to Alice or not. It looked like someone tossed the bag over the railing, and it should have fallen all the way down an embankment. But the bag got caught on some branches. Otherwise, it would have never been found.”

My mind races. “So, that means more people are missing.”

His posture seems relaxed, but his shoulders are rigid. “It’s likely there are reports of others missing in surrounding towns.”

“Why isn’t everyone freaking out over this?”

His head drops. “Because we don’t really search for missing people. I told you that.”

I don’t know what to say to this. It seems crazy. I turn my back to Jake and focus my attention on the table again, hovering my right hand over each sealed bag. Memories reach out to me like spiderweb tendrils and tickle the palm of my hand. I reach for a small bag. A lipstick tube. Images flood my senses. “This is a different woman. There’s a trail in the woods. It’s narrow in some spots and wide in others. It’s well-marked. Many footprints on the ground. Some are well-defined, like people were running in mud and the tracks kept their shape after drying in the sun. Others are mere smudges.”

My heartbeat speeds, and my thighs and calf muscles ache. Like I’ve been running for miles. I know this burn well. “She’s running. There’s a race or marathon. I see other runners ahead of her. There’s a chill in the air, and the trees around aren’t quite leafed out yet. It’s early spring.”

My feet are firmly in place, my eyes still closed, but I allow my body to mimic hers. My arms come to my sides as if I am running alongside her. My breaths come in shorter bursts. “Someone jostles her. The impact makes her lose her footing, and she trips. She tries to regain her balance and twists her ankle.” Sharp pain wraps itself around my ankle. I gasp.

The floor creaks and I put a hand up, anticipating Jake’s approach. My eyes are still closed, and I lower myself to the floor. Then, I wrap my free hand around my lower left leg.