Page 85 of The Witch’s Orchard

“Where’s Mrs. Ziegler tonight?” I ask, seeing the empty chair behind the table and assuming that it should belong to her.

He glances around, searching, and then an answer seems to dawn on him.

“Oh, that’s right,” he says. “We needed an extension cord for one of the heaters. We thought it was here, but I think she ran home to get it. She’ll be back soon.”

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions in the meantime.”

“All right.”

“You visited the Andrews house on the morning of Molly’s disappearance.”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you remember why?”

“Rebecca and I both went, I believe. But the matter was private.”

“Private? It’s been ten years.”

“Miss Gore, counseling sessions are always private.”

“Counseling? Were the Andrewses having trouble?”

He looks down, and I follow his gaze. He’s wearing knit gloves and rubbing his hands together. When he catches me looking, he says, “Arthritis. I’m afraid I’m not as immune to the cold as I once was. What were you asking?”

“The Andrews—” I start. But my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I check it and see AJ’s number.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I just got off duty. Wanted to see if you’d like me to come by tonight?”

“You’re all done with the goats?”

“We can only hope. Sheriff took off early tonight and I decided to stick around the station to see if I can find any more of the old files. My God, you’d think this entire place burned down after Sheriff Kerridge died. The whole system from that time is a wreck. Between that and the stuff that was cross-filed with the FBI, I’m still not sure I’ve got everything. But I’m happy to bring by whatever I can. Have you eaten? There’s a place in town that does some great fried catfish.”

“You really know the way to my heart. How about—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of shouting.

Shiloh, I realize.It’s Shiloh’s voice.

“Gotta go.”

I turn and, amid the crowd of festivalgoers, I see her shouting at someone.

There is a heavy, sick feeling in the bottom of my gut, and I feel myself being pulled to the sound of Shiloh’s voice. I push through the throng of princesses and superheroes and cowboys and ponies and the sugar-scented air and the vibrating murmur of questioning while Shiloh’s voice booms out above the rest.

“Lucy!” she shouts. She draws the word out so it’s long and it carries and only barely wavers at the end.

“Shiloh, what’s going on?”

She’s standing beside two people who can only be her parents. The woman on her left is slightly shorter than Shiloh with the same good looks. The dad is a beanpole with salt-and-pepper hair and his hands shoved into the pockets of his thick barn coat.

“Lucy,” she breathes. “Lucy is gone. We can’t find her. She was with my mom.”

I look to the woman beside her.

“What happened?”