Chapter 7
"Just a preliminary debrief, Clara," Miller told me in the hall, lowering his voice as Eleanor escorted the girl into the den. "The state attorney’s office is breathing down my neck. If Daisy was held against her will—if there’s an active kidnapper out there within tri-county jurisdiction—we have to run every single lead down before the trail gets any colder than it already is."
"Of course, Thomas," I said, offering him that gentle, sorrowful nod he had seen a thousand times over the last ten years. I took his wet trench coat and hung it on the brass hall tree. "Whatever she can handle. You know how fragile she is."
"You're a rock, Clara," he murmured, patting my shoulder with a heavy, paternal hand. "Always have been."
We sat in the den around the low walnut coffee table. Eleanor had propped the girl up on the sofa with two floral pillows, a mug of chamomile tea resting untouched on a coaster beside her. Arthur sat in his armchair, gripping his mahogany cane with white knuckles, looking between Miller and the girl like a guardian dog waiting to bite anyone who dared raise their voice.
Miller clicked the red button on the digital recorder. The small LED glowed like an ember on the polished wood.
"For the record, this is Sheriff Thomas Miller, interview with Daisy Vance, October twelfth," he rumbled. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his tone softening to the gentlest register a six-foot-two lawman could muster. "Daisy... can you tell me a little more about what you remembered yesterday? When we spoke on the phone, you said the fog was beginning to lift."
The girl didn't look at Miller. She kept her eyes cast down at her lap, her fingers slowly pleating the wool fabric of Daisy’s old gray sweater. She looked exquisite in her misery—the picture of a wounded creature attempting to mend itself.
"It comes in pieces," she whispered. Her voice trembled, catching in the back of her throat. "Flashing lights. The smell of gasoline and wet leaves."
"Take your time," Miller said softly. "Nobody is rushing you."
"I was near the bonfire by the old quarry road," she murmured, her eyelids fluttering shut as if the memory caused physical pain. "I remember an argument. People were drinking. I wanted to go home. I thought... I thought if I cut through the reservoir access trail, I’d reach Maple Street faster."
My spine stiffened. My hands remained folded gracefully in my lap, resting atop my dark wool skirt, perfectly composed.
"And on the trail?" Miller prompted.
"It was so dark," she breathed. A single tear leaked from beneath her right eyelash, tracing a slow, glistening path down her cheek. "I heard a car behind me. Slow. Creeping along the gravel. The engine had that distinctive, sputtering whistle... like a belt slipping."
Arthur leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "Our old Ford station wagon had a loose alternator belt that whole autumn. Remember, Ellie? You kept telling me to take it into Henderson’s garage."
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. "Arthur, don't interrupt her."
Miller didn't take his eyes off the girl, but I saw Deputy Harris’s pen scratch across the notepad.
"Go on, Daisy," Miller urged.
"The headlights went off," she whispered. "The car stopped. I turned around, but I couldn't see anything except the silhouette against the trees. Then someone got out. I called out... because I recognized them. I thought they were coming to give me a ride home."
She paused. The den was so silent I could hear the rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* of the mantel clock and the heavy drops of rain lashing the double-hung windows.
"Did you see their face?" Miller asked, his voice barely above a breath.
The girl opened her eyes.
She didn't look at Miller. She didn't look at Eleanor.
Her hazel eyes slid across the room, deliberate and cold as a winter pond, locking directly onto mine.
"I didn't see the whole face," she said, her voice dropping into a hollow, terrifying cadence. "Just the eyes. Familiar eyes. Green, like mine. And I smelled... I smelled lavender cold cream. And wool."
Eleanor let out a sharp, choked gasp. "Lavender...?"
"And then they struck me," the girl wept, suddenly collapsing forward, burying her face in her hands as silent, racking shudders tore through her small frame. "Someone grabbed me from the darkness. An iron tool... a heavy blow that sent me into the dirt. Everything went black before I could even run."
"Oh, God! My baby! Stop it, please!" Eleanor cried, throwing her arms around the girl, shielding her from the room, glaring at Miller with maternal fury. "That’s enough, Thomas! Look at her! You're torturing her!"
"I'm sorry, Eleanor," Miller said, his face pale, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. He reached out and clicked the recorder off. "I'm sorry. We’ll stop for now."
Arthur was on his feet, his cane trembling against the hardwood. "You find who did this, Miller. You find them and you bring them to justice. You hear me?"
"We’re going to find out what happened, Arthur. I promise you that," Miller said.
He stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the floral wallpaper. He looked down at me. The warmth that had been in his eyes yesterday—the awe, the reverence for the devoted older sister—was completely gone. In its place was something cool, measuring, and deeply unsettling.
"Clara," he said quietly. "Could I speak with you in the kitchen for a second?"
"Of course," I said.
My voice was liquid silk. I stood with effortless grace, smoothed my skirt, and walked ahead of him through the swinging door into the kitchen.
***
The kitchen smelled of burnt toast from that morning and the sharp, vinegar tang of the window cleaner I had used to wipe the glass.
Miller closed the swinging door behind him. He didn't lean against the counter as he usually did. He stood square in the center of the linoleum, his thumbs hooked into his leather gun belt, his breath coming in slow, heavy measures.
"You wore lavender cold cream back then, didn't you, Clara?" he asked.
The question was dropped casually, like a pebble into a deep well, but the ripples were unmistakable.
"Half the girls in Oakhaven wore Yardley lavender back in 2014, Thomas," I answered smoothly, leaning against the edge of the sink, meeting his gaze without a flicker of evasion. "It was the only brand the pharmacy kept in stock."
"And the green eyes?"
"Daisy and I share a mother," I said, tilting my head with a faint, sorrowful smile. "We share half our features. If she’s experiencing traumatic dissociation, her mind is going to project familiar faces onto the dark. Dr. Vance at the clinic told us that when Mother had her breakdown. You remember."
Miller rubbed his stubbled chin, his eyes drifting down to the linoleum floor, then slowly rising back to my face.
"I pulled the old case file last night, Clara," he said. His voice was lower now, devoid of its usual neighborly warmth. "Went through the binders we archived back in November of fourteen."
"Did you?"
