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I can still smell the faint trace of clay, sharp and earthy. There is a bookshelf with various knickknacks and photographs, and one wall boasts some of her work, mugs and plates and such.
It feels like walking into a mausoleum. I look at her pottery wheel, untouched since the morning she died. I glance down at the spot where I know her body was and shiver.
I don’t think Marion would have wanted this shed to become a tomb. I think she’d want it to be used.
One of the photographs catches my eye and I walk over to the bookshelf. It’s a much younger Marion and Russell. The photographer caught them both mid-laugh. The joy that emanates from this photo is palpable. I don’t think I’ve seen Russell Everton smile, much less laugh. It makes him look a bit like Caden. I can see the similarities in his mouth and eyes.
I walk around the space, taking everything in, trying to see if there’s something else the police missed. But what? It’s all knickknacks and clay vases and stuff. Nothing that screams secret stalker. I have an approximation of where the killer must have been standing—almost directly in the center of the shed, about five paces back from Marion’s pottery wheel. I set myself there and look around. Everything seems normal. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find.
In front of me is the pottery wheel. To my right are shelves of Marion’s work. To my left, the bookshelf. It’s large and sturdy, reaching up to the ceiling, like something out of a different century where furniture was built to last for decades. There’re some signs of age at the corners, chips or stains. The top and bottom of the bookshelf have been beautifully carved, scrolled into shapes that remind me a little of the detailing on the dressers at the Thorn, like the one Caden is fixing up for my booth. Two arched cutouts that come to a point at the center, like an elongated heart, leaving a small space between the curve and the floor.
A glance at the dust around the base of the bookshelf tells me it hasn’t been moved. And while the cutouts are small, I know things can get under there. I lost an earring under one of those dressers when I was changing the sheets in one of the Thorn’s guestrooms.
I get down on my hands and knees. This is probably pointless, but it’s worth a shot. I take out my phone to turn on my flashlight. I shine the light under the right-hand curve of wood at the base of the bookshelf and see nothing but flooring and dust bunnies. I scooch a little closer and shine my light inside the left-hand curve.
At first, there’s nothing. Same as on the right side. I’m about to give up when my light catches on the tiniest glint of gold. I stop and run the light over the same spot again. For a moment, I can’t find it, and I wonder if I imagined it. Then my flashlight hits it again. It’s almost like you have to be in a certain spot in order to see it. It’s definitely some kind of metal, and it looks like it’s fallen into a space between two floorboards. My pulse starts to race. I don’t want to get ahead of myself though. It’s probably nothing—just a ring, or some other token of Marion’s, fallen under here a long time ago.
I scramble to my feet and try to move the bookshelf but it’s impossibly heavy. I can’t get it to budge, not even when I put all my weight against it. I look around the shed and see a thin length of wire on the floor nearby. I grab it and get back on the ground, sticking the wire under the bookshelf, trying to find purchase on the mystery object. I manage to poke at it enough so that it’s halfway out of the floorboard.
When I shine my light again, I see the object more clearly. Or at least, one end of it. A buzzing begins to grow in my ears.
It’s not gold—it’s brass. Thanks to my investigative work, I’m now intimately familiar with this object.
My heart starts pounding all over my body and my mouth goes dry.
It’s a casing from a bullet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CADEN
“We’ll get this processed as quickly as we can,” Sheriff Briggs says as a deputy uses tweezers to drop the casing into a clear evidence bag.
Isla did it. I’m still swimming in shock. When she came racing into the house shouting my name, I had no idea what was going on. She had to saycasingabout six times before it all clicked together.
This whole time, the evidence has been right there in Mom’s shed.
My siblings are gathered on the terrace: Alistair blinking in the sunlight, clearly hungover; Daisy in her pajamas; Finn and Von looking as polished as they always do. Even when she’s wearing jeans, Von looks like she’s about to head into court. I think Finn might actually sleep in those button-down shirts he always wears.
Dad called the sheriff and in record time, cop cars were descending on the house. I bet Sheriff Briggs wanted to show Dad he’s taking this seriously. About damn time.
“I can’t believe they missed the goddamn casing,” I mutter to Isla as Dad talks to the sheriff.
“To be fair, it was really hard to find,” she murmurs back. “I didn’t even see it at first.”
I wrap my arm around her. “I think you missed your calling in life as a detective.”
“Oh no,” she says. “That’s way too much pressure. I’ll stick to baking, thank you very much.”
Dad has some curt words to give the sheriff before he and his men leave. Probably as mad as I am that they’ve missed this all these years. Then he turns to Isla.
“It appears I have yet another reason to thank you, Ms. Davenport,” he says.
Isla tucks her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I want this case solved too. The whole town does. We all loved Marion.” Then she adds, “And it’s just Isla.”
My father nods. “Isla.” He turns to me. “Briggs said we’ll have to be patient again.”
“I’m sick of being patient,” I say.