Amma stared at the wedding photograph for another few seconds, her eyes clouded with sorrow. She dropped it back into the box and said, “Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” Her smile was thin and trembling. “Nathanial Hawthorne said that, I think.”
They sat a few more minutes together, quietly looking through the rest of the photographs. Amma offered commentary on a few.
“This was your grandfather’s first boat.”
“That’s your second cousin Esmerelda. She was a lovely ballet dancer when she was young.”
“I think this was when your grandfather and I went to Paris. Yes, look, right there, you can see the Eiffel Tower in the background.”
“Oh, and this was our Grand Canyon trip. I was pregnant with your mother, and your grandfather didn’t get enough ice for the cooler, and all our food spoiled, and I threw up because of the smell.” She laughed. “I was miserable the entire time, but you know, looking back on it, I can’t help but think, it wasn’t so bad. We were so young and in love and your grandfather—” She pressed her hand to her chest in a swoon. “So handsome, that man.”
Her smile faded. “You know what’s funny. I can’t remember where I put my car keys some mornings, or what that thingy in the kitchen is called with the metal and the handle and the sharp edges that slivers the cheese. I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, thinking Frank is in bed next to me. I can feel the weight of him, but when I slide my hand over the sheet, it’s cold and flat. I forget some days that he’s dead. But then I come up here, and I see these pictures, and it’s like all of this happened just yesterday. I remember it so vividly.”
Brett flipped through a stack of photos featuring Pop and his fishing buddies. She recognized a younger Henry Bascom among the faces, bald even back then, but his mustache was dark, and he was about twenty pounds skinnier. Her humiliation at his earlier reprimand returned, and she shoved the picture aside.
Amma picked it up and her smile widened again. “Look at Henry. So young here.” Her gaze shifted to Brett. “Henry knows about me, doesn’t he? About my…” She tapped a finger to her temple.
Brett nodded. “I’m sorry, Amma. I didn’t tell him.”
“Henry’s a smart man,” she said, that soft smile still tugging on her lips. “Maybe it will be better for you. For me, too. Ever since Frank died, Henry’s tried to be there for me. He checks in on me, makes sure I have what I need and that I’m not lonely. Even when I push him away, he keeps coming back. I think it’s good that he knows. Good for everyone.”
Dust drifted through the spray of light cast by the bare bulb hanging overhead.
“Are you lonely, Amma?” Brett asked.
“Not anymore, I’m not.” Amma brushed her thumb over Brett’s cheek. Then she scooped up another stack of pictures and flipped through them before returning them to the box.
She looked happy reminiscing, surrounded by old memories and pictures of people she had cared deeply about for many years, people who were long gone. Brett couldn’t imagine what it must be like for her, how terrifying to have the memories of your life stutter and disappear, to watch the faces of your loved ones fade into blankness, to lose the very things which defined your sense of self. To grasp for some part of who you used to be, only to find the air in front of you empty. Brett was still angry with Henry, but maybe he wasn’t wrong. What Amma needed most was support from the people she loved. What she needed were people she could count on to be there for her, people who would show up when she was no longer able to show up for herself.
“Oh, here’s one of you,” Amma said, growing excited. “This looks like it was taken outside of the cannery. I wonder if Frank even knew you were there.”
Brett took the picture from her and studied it. Pop had clearly been trying to take a picture of a fishing trawler. The way the sun glinted off the rigging made the whole thing feel magical. It could have been a postcard. Wish You Were Here. But it was a figure near the right edge that Amma was pointing to.
A young woman ran past the boat with her back to the camera. She held her hands away from her body like she was sweeping the wind toward her. One foot was lifted, the photographer caught her mid-step. Her blond hair blew sideways in the wind. A bit of yarn was braided through one side. The light on her was golden, too, her skin kissed by a sinking copper sun. She wore a sleeveless sundress that looked white in this picture, but Brett knew it was yellow, pale lemon with orange and red flowers dotted all over it.
“This isn’t me.” Her finger stroked the blond tresses.
“Are you sure?” Amma took the picture back and held it close to her face, blinking and squinting. “I could swear it’s you. Oh, no, you’re right.” She lowered the picture again. Sadness clouded her eyes. “Do you remember how Pop took you girls to see that James Bond movie three times that summer?”
Brett nodded, even though the memory was muddled for her, the edges blurred by time. She wondered if this was what it was like for Amma when she struggled to remember.
“You were always eating ice cream. I remember that. Your mouth and fingers were so sticky with sugar. And Margot’s bikini. That pretty emerald green that matched her eyes. Her hair was so long, she was always sitting on it.” A smile teased the corners of her mouth then vanished as her tone shifted, turning bleak. “I remember other things, too. Things that aren’t so pleasant. Like the look on your mother’s face when they came and told us the news. Sometimes I wish I could choose what to forget and what to hold on to.” A shudder ran through Amma’s shoulders. “Your father blamed Frank and me for what happened. He said we let you girls run wild, that it was our responsibility to set boundaries. But you were so happy doing what you wanted to do, making your own rules. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, though, I worry he might have been right. You can’t let girls run free like that and not expect trouble.”
She handed the photograph back to Brett. “You keep it. It’s a nice picture of her.”
Amma began to gather the rest of the photographs into a pile.
“I can clean this up later,” Brett said, but Amma insisted.
Once everything was returned to the box, Amma rocked back on her heels and said, “You know, it’s okay to want more for your life, Brett. It’s okay to move on. It’s not good for you to be always reliving the past, regretting a tragedy over which you had absolutely no control. You were a child. You’re not responsible for her death.”
A lump formed in Brett’s throat as she stared at the picture of her sister, frozen forever in this snapshot of a moment. “There’s still so much I don’t understand about what happened that summer, Amma. I need answers.”
“And will that change anything? Will getting those answers finally make you happy?”
Before Brett could respond, the doorbell rang.
Amma swiveled her head toward the sound.
“More trick-or-treaters,” Brett reassured her.
Amma smiled. “Well, I guess we should go down there and give them something sweet before they egg the house.”
Brett helped Amma out of the attic, then folded the ladder and closed the hatch.
As they went downstairs, she slipped the photograph of Margot into her back pocket.
* * *
Brett knew when she pulled into Irving’s driveway that it was too late to drop in on him like this, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she knew for sure. She would have come earlier, except Amma insisted on passing out candy to trick-or-treaters, and Brett couldn’t leave her alone for fear she’d end up giving out raisins or thumbtacks instead. By the time their doorbell stopped ringing, it was almost 10:00 PM. Brett got Amma settled in bed, then grabbed her keys and jacket and drove across town.
Irving answered the door wrapped in a plush navy blue bathrobe, wearing a pair of duck slippers on his feet. He blinked at her, clearly baffled as to why she’d be standing on his front porch this late at night.
“Trick-or-treat?”
She smiled nervously.
“You do know what time it is, right?”
From inside the house, a woman’s voice called out, “Irv? Who is it?”
“No one. Go back to bed, sweetheart.” He started to close the front door. “Goodnight, Brett. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“Irving, wait.” She stuck her foot in the gap. “Amma and I found something in the attic tonight.”
She pulled the picture from her pocket and handed it to him. He frowned, tilting it to catch the light.
“It’s Margot,” Brett explained. “That’s the same dress she was wearing the day she went missing.”
Chapter 33
Irving shook his head, still frowning at the picture Brett had handed him. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Look at the date on the back.”
He turned it over. Stamped on the white backing was a date. September 14, 1964. One month after Margot was found dead. It was the date the photograph had been developed, not the date it had been taken. But Brett remembered Margot buying the dress she wore in the picture earlier that summer before they drove up to Amma and Pop’s. She found it on clearance, but even then, to be able to afford it, she’d had to do extra chores and babysit the neighbor’s kid a couple of times. She’d had a big fight with Dad over it because the skirt was too short, and there were no sleeves, just thin straps. But she’d worn it anyway, partly, Brett thought, to spite him. Pop had taken this picture that same summer, and Brett was confident, the very day Margot went missing. The dress and the sandals, the shimmering charm bracelet on her right hand, and the pink and green yarn braided into a chunk of her hair. Brett had braided that yarn for her the day she went missing. On the dock, the morning sun hot against their tanned skin, she’d twisted the threads up with Margot’s golden tresses. In turn, Margot had twisted yellow and blue into Brett’s brown hair.
Her fingers lifted, twirling the hair near her temple. “This photograph was taken the day she went missing. I’m sure of it.”
Irving turned the picture back over to study the image of Margot on the pier. “The sun’s starting to set,” he said, and his expression changed as he realized what it meant for the case. “She went missing later than we thought.”
Brett nodded. All this time, she thought she’d been the last one to see Margot when she left Amma and Pop’s house around ten. All this time, the police investigated under the assumption that Margot went into the woods sometime in the morning. But here was proof she had still been in town, alive and well, much later in the afternoon.
“Why didn’t your grandfather say anything about seeing her back then?” Irving asked.
“I don’t think he even noticed her when he took the picture. His focus wasn’t on her. She must have darted by right as he was snapping the shot.”
“But when he developed these, he must have noticed her then, in the background. He should have brought this to our attention.”
Brett shook her head. She couldn’t speak for her grandfather, and he wasn’t here to explain himself. “We know now, though, and now we can take another look at the interviews, right? The alibis. You asked people where they were in the morning, didn’t you?”
“Of course we did.” He sounded annoyed that she would even ask.
“Who was unaccounted for?”
“Just Danny.”
“Who else did you interview?”
Irving thought a moment, a frown tugging on his lips. “We didn’t have a lot of leads, but Stan did talk to a few kids who’d been hanging out with your sister that summer. Let’s see. Eli, for one.”
“Our Eli?” Brett interrupted, her cheeks warming when she said it. “Officer Miller, I mean.”
He nodded. “And Marshall Trudeau. Stan talked to both of them, briefly.”
“He told me he was in love with her,” Brett said, and then clarified, “Marshall did. The other night at the Pickled Onion. But I don’t remember seeing his interview in the file.”
Irving pursed his lips, and she realized her mistake telling him she’d seen the file when she shouldn’t have, but a lecture from Irving was the least of her worries right now.
He shook his head, apparently deciding to let it go. “The boys didn’t know anything,” he said. “Danny told us to take a closer look at them. He said Margot had been spending a lot of time with them that summer. But Eli’s father was a city councilman on the fast track to becoming mayor. And Marshall’s father owned half the property in this town. They threatened to bog us down in red tape if we so much as hinted their boys were persons of interest. So, Stan, he did what he could. I had barely any interview experience, seeing I was still so new to the job, but he let me sit in. Watch and learn, he said. We talked to Marshall and Eli with lawyers in the room, which meant Stan didn’t get much from them. I guess whatever he got, he didn’t think it was worth writing down.” He thought a minute, then continued, “If I remember right, Marshall was working at the country club pool as a lifeguard. Eli said he was playing golf with his father all morning. They had airtight alibis. Everyone did.”
“Except Danny,” Brett said.
He nodded. “Except Danny.”
“But now we know Margot didn’t go missing until later that day. Which changes everything, doesn’t it? Who might have had the opportunity? I know, I’m rushing ahead, I just want to get a jump on this while we have the chance.”
“Brett, it’s late.” Irving handed the picture back to her with an apologetic look, then glanced over his shoulder as if listening for his wife.
“Yes, but—”
“Nothing’s going to get done tonight. Go home and get some sleep. Bring the picture with you to the office tomorrow, and we’ll figure out what to do next.” He stepped back into his house and closed the door.
The lock clicked. The porch light snapped off, and Brett was left standing in the dark.
* * *
It was nearing midnight, and downtown Crestwood was quiet. The kids who had come out for trick-or-treating earlier had filled their bags with candy and all gone home. Main Street was empty. Brett’s Beetle was the only car along the entire mile-long stretch.
As she drew close to the place where Zach Danforth had lain dying, she slowed. Over the past few days, a memorial had appeared on the sidewalk. People had left the usual things, candles and flowers, stuffed animals and balloons, and less usual things like guitar picks, a Clash poster, and a bong. Posters with Zach’s face and words like, “We Miss You,” “RIP Zach,” “Gone but not Forgotten,” hung on lampposts and the walls of nearby buildings.
The shadows near the memorial shifted, and two figures separated from the dark. One kicked over an unlit candle, bouncing it into the street. Another tore down a poster and ripped it to pieces. Brett parked and approached the girls quietly. Elizabeth wore her hair in a long braid down her back. June had on a knit cap, but it sat crooked on her head, her blond hair jutting out at crude angles. They were too focused on their frenzied destruction to notice her. Elizabeth picked up a teddy bear and tried to tear off its head, but the stitching stayed. She dropped it onto the sidewalk and ground the heel of her boot into the soft stuffing instead.
Brett cleared her throat.
The girls were startled by her sudden appearance. Instantly, their tough acts vanished. They cowered together in the dark.
“Do your parents know you’re out this late?” Brett asked.
Elizabeth and June exchanged a look.
“I’ll take that as a no. Okay, come on, let’s get you home.” She guided them to her car.
The girls huddled in the backseat and spoke in whispers too quiet for Brett to hear what they were saying. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Elizabeth glared back at her and slouched low in the seat. Between the chaos of Zach’s murder on Saturday, the ensuing investigation, and worrying over Jimmy’s sudden disappearance, Brett realized she hadn’t had a chance to check in with Elizabeth. She hadn’t yet told her about fi
nding the underwear in Zach’s bedroom, confirming he had been the one who attacked her at the party, though there wasn’t much else Brett could do for her now that Zach was dead.
“It’s okay to be angry,” she said, darting her gaze between Elizabeth in the backseat and the road ahead. “For a little while, it’s okay to let yourself be mad. You have every right. But don’t let him ruin the rest of your life, okay? Don’t let him have that power over you forever.”
Elizabeth turned her face to the window. Orange light from street lamps sputtered through the glass, twisting shadows across her pale cheeks. June shifted closer to her friend, slipping her arm through Elizabeth’s elbow.
Probably Brett was saying the exact wrong thing, but she didn’t care. The last thing she wanted was for Elizabeth to live the rest of her life defined by one single, terrible moment at a high school party. She didn’t want the pain Zach had inflicted on her to be a scar that never faded. Life was expansive, days piled on top of days, and Elizabeth was young. She had plenty of time to become someone greater than the worst moment of her life.
“You don’t even have to think about him ever again if you don’t want to,” Brett said.
Elizabeth’s gaze again found hers in the mirror. “Did you find out who killed him?”
“Not yet. We’re still narrowing down suspects.”
“Well, when you finally do figure it out, thank whoever did it for me, okay?” Her voice was flat. She lowered her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
June gave Elizabeth a worried look, then she faced forward, her expression stern. When Brett caught her gaze in the mirror, June tensed her jaw, anger evident in the flush of her cheeks.
“We’re not apologizing for wrecking his stupid memorial,” she said.
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