Page 11 of The Witch’s Orchard

“No, I mostly only babysat when Mrs. Andrews went to PTA or church meetings or when she and Mr. Andrews went out. She didn’t really need a babysitter that often.

Honestly, Max could’ve been left alone. He was eight and never got into trouble but, like I said, Molly was a bundle of energy and had a touch of wanderlust. A scary combination in a four-year-old.

Anyway, I knew them from church and I’d just turned sixteen and I wanted spending money so it worked out. ”

“And the day Molly was taken they were…”

“Mrs. Andrews was working in the garden, as far as I know. That’s what Max said. And he was in a piano lesson.”

“With”—I roll through my memory—“a… Deena Drake?”

“That’s right. Have you talked to her yet?”

“No, but she’s on my list.”

I take another bite.

“How is it?” Shiloh asks.

“This is the best pumpkin bread I’ve ever had in my life. I could eat it every day forever.”

She giggles. It’s a bubbly laugh for such a big woman, and I can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“I went to culinary school,” she says. “I actually worked in an upscale bakery down in Asheville for a couple years, but I always wanted to come back home. You know?”

I shrug. I don’t know. I never wanted to go home. And my visit to the Hoyles reminded me why. I shove another warm hunk of bread in my mouth, try to forget about the cold in my bones.

“When my grandmother died, she left me some money. Not a ton but, combined with what I’d managed to save, I came back home and started up the business.”

“Looks like it’s going well,” I say.

“So far, so good,” she says, and then flops the dough into a wooden bowl, covers it with a towel, wipes her hands and the work surface before pulling an iced cake from a rack behind her. I watch as she fills a bag with orange buttercream and then twists it closed.

I ask, “Did you notice anything strange in the days or weeks leading up to when Molly was taken?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot over the years,” Shiloh says. She kneels over the cake, turns it on its stand, and begins piping orange roses onto the top. Bright orange petals swirl outward from their center, their sugary smell wafting toward me.

“But things just seemed so normal at the time. Max and Molly were the same as ever. I didn’t see Mr. Andrews much, except at school.”

“Max said he was the biology teacher.”

“Yeah. I had him junior and then senior year, which was the last year before he quit and started trucking. He was pretty haunted after Molly disappeared, but not like Mrs. Andrews.”

I think about Max’s mom. The picture of her in his casebook was actually one of the whole family, everyone dressed up, standing in front of the farmhouse.

In this picture, Janice Andrews is wearing a blue floral A-line dress with her long ponytail pulled over her shoulder.

She’d been a sporty-looking woman with a golden-brown tan, wide-set hazel eyes above freckled cheeks, and a straight-toothed smile.

Hard to imagine that kind of woman doing what she did.

I catch myself, pause, ask myself what kind of woman it’s easy to picture locking the bedroom door behind her and sitting down on the bed to end her life. I stop before I go too far down that road.

Instead, I ask Shiloh, “Did you notice anything about her beforehand?”

Shiloh shrugs. “Mrs. Andrews seemed kind of stressed out that summer. She was doing a lot of community work. The toy plant closed down that year, and it put most of the town out of work. She was involved with fundraising and food bank stuff with the church.”

“The church?”

“Yeah. First Baptist out on Laurel. We went there too. Mrs. Andrews was on some… committee? She did outreach work, organized bake sales, Vacation Bible School, that kind of thing.”

“Do you remember when the first girl was taken? Jessica?”

“Vaguely,” Shiloh says. “I was sixteen, you know? So busy with stuff that seemed so important at the time. I remember there being talk about a little girl going missing, but that’s all.”

“Right,” I say. “But then Olivia Jacobs was taken.”

“Exactly,” Shiloh says with a meaningful nod. “Once that happened, I think everyone sat up and paid attention. Worried there was some kind of crazy serial killer or pedophile lurking around. I mean, the applehead doll thing did feel sinister. God, it still does.”

She shivers, and I admit to myself that I was thinking the same thing. Serial killers leave trophies, tokens, evidence of their presence. No bodies were ever found, but most of the bodies of serial killer victims are still hidden, likely never to be uncovered.

“And then Olivia was returned,” I say, reminding myself that at least one girl escaped whatever dark fate someone had planned for her.

“That’s right,” Shiloh says. “The strangest thing, isn’t it? Olivia Jacobs taken away and then just… poof. Brought back. To be honest, once I got older, I suspected some kind of trafficking ring, but… the dolls? And what kind of trafficker actually returns a kid unharmed?”

“I saw Olivia this morning,” I say.

“Really?” Shiloh says, pausing for a moment. “I’m surprised Kathleen let you in the door.”

“She didn’t. Kathleen talked to me on the back porch.”

Shiloh snorts.

“Kathleen’s good people,” she says. “But she’s protective of Olivia. You can understand why. I don’t think I ever really understood what real fear was until Lucy came along. Children change you in ways you just don’t expect.”

She finishes one rose, pauses to turn the cake and give it another look, then starts on another rose.

“Mama?” a little voice croaks from a doorway on the other side of the room, as if on cue. She’s carrying a stuffed pony with a purple-yarn mane and her hair is a mess of frizzy dark curls. She looks like she just got up from a nap.

“Hey there, Cupcake!” Shiloh says. “You finish Peppa ?”

Lucy nods.

“You want some pumpkin bread?”

Lucy nods again, then seems to see me for the first time. Shiloh prepares a plate with pumpkin bread and butter and a glass of milk identical to mine and says, “This is one of Mister Max’s friends. She came to help him find something. Her name is Miss Annie. Can you say hello?”

“Hello, Miss Annie,” Lucy says. Like her mom, she’s tall, all arms and legs and big brown eyes.

“Can you tell Miss Annie how old you are?”

Lucy holds up four fingers with one hand while she uses a kid-sized fork in the other to hack into the orange bread.

My mouth stretches into a broad grin at the sight of this unkempt, hungry little girl, and I say, “Nice to meet you, Lucy. And you can call me Annie.”

“Annie,” Lucy repeats, and throws her full focus back onto the pumpkin bread.

“Anyway,” Shiloh says, piping another rose. “I think it’s really good you’re helping him out.”

“Well, he’s paying me.”

“I know. But I think it’s good for him to put this to rest. Max needs to have… He needs some kind of closure, I think.”

“I’m not sure I can help him there,” I say. “Like I told him, it’s unlikely I’ll turn up anything after all this time.”

Shiloh finishes the last rose and sets down the piping bag. She turns the cake again and again, then pushes it aside and rests her big fists on her hips.

“He saved up for this attempt you’re making.

It’s all he’s wanted for years. And I think that he knows it’s all he can do.

I think he just needs to know he did the best he could.

I don’t think he can go on with his life until he’s tried.

Finding his sister is all he wants.… He’s an amazing artist. Did you know that? ”

“He told me he does prints.”

She nods.

“He’s so good. He needs to be out there—in the world—becoming the guy he deserves to be. But… he can’t. Not until he can get past the grief and guilt he’s saddled with.”

“You think he blames himself?” I ask. It seems crazy, but I’ve seen crazier.

“I think so.”

“He was only eight when she was taken,” I say.

She shrugs and says, “I know. But he was right in the other room. And he was her big brother. He always will be.”

The double doors open, and the woman who’d been working out front sticks her head in the room. “Hey, some cops here to see you.”

“Oh?” Shiloh says.

“No,” the woman says, “Her.” She points at me.

“Ah,” I say. I toss back the last of my milk. “It’s about that time.”