by Hillary Avis
As much as she wanted to go inside and delve into the boxes of Paul’s old things and uncover their secrets, Taylor’s whereabouts were more important. Allison slung her purse across her body, made an about-face, and walked back the way she came, toward Golden Gardens and the entrance to the river path.
Chapter 5
The path along Claypool Creek was a simple dirt track between the willows and the creek bank, maintained mostly by the footsteps of locals, both human and animal. It followed the water in either direction until it petered out into marshlands too wet to traverse. In the winter and early spring, the creek levels sometimes rose to cover the path, but by the end of May, unless it was a particularly wet year, it was usually exposed.
Though Allison didn’t use the path much, Paul had walked their Yorkie, Tiny, along it many years ago. It was a favorite of birdwatchers and kayakers, in addition to dog walkers like Paul, and made for a more entertaining shortcut through town for kids eager to escape the prying eyes of adults.
Allison found the gap in the willows that served as the entrance to the path at the end of Riverview, across the street from Golden Gardens. It was overgrown, the new spring branches partly blocking the way, but some of the leaves scattered on the bare earth beneath, signs that the path was being used regularly. She brushed through, scattering a few leaves of her own, and emerged on the other side to the glittering waters of Claypool Creek.
It was not the rocky, meandering, burbling kind of creek, but a deep, rushing stream still swollen with snowmelt, though it had receded enough that the sticky dirt path alongside it was exposed. She looked down it in either direction but couldn’t see more than a few dozen yards, her view blocked by willow branches waving in the gentle breeze.
“Taylor?” she called hesitantly. Only the rushing of the leaves answered. As the branches around her moved, something flashed red in the mud a few yards down the path. By the time she reached the spot, the evening sun had slipped behind a cloud. She squatted, searching the ground for a piece of a bike reflector, a plastic toy, anything that might have belonged to Taylor. It didn’t take her long to find the thing that had flashed—a tiny red gem, just a piece of glass that had probably fallen from someone’s bedazzled jeans or studded sneakers recently enough that it hadn’t been pressed into the dirt by passersby. Not something Taylor would have worn, though.
She stood, disappointed, and slipped the gem in the pocket of her skirt. The wind rustled the willows again and the two trees in front of her parted briefly, perfectly framing a view of the front entrance to Golden Gardens—a view of the exact spot where she’d made a fool of herself coaxing the dog into Myra’s truck earlier in the day. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she remembered Willow’s menacing growl. Always trust a dog. Someone, perhaps the owner of the red gem, had been standing here, watching her.
She swallowed, her stomach churning as a burst of adrenaline made the back of her neck prickle. Then she shook off the idea. Nobody was interested in her boring little life. No one in town knew about the library. She was being silly, letting the revelations of the last few weeks pile up on her and make her paranoid.
Just because someone had peeked through the willows this afternoon didn’t mean they were watching her. They probably just paused for a moment while their dog—maybe a fancy little poodle with a jeweled collar—did its business. A stone was knocked loose from the collar by a stray willow branch and fell into the mud, and the scent of the poodle set Willow off. That was all.
Taylor. She was supposed to be looking for Taylor, not winding herself up over some miniscule piece of litter. If he’d taken this path, his bicycle tires would have left tracks. She retraced her steps to the entrance and studied the ground, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth when she spotted what she was looking for—a furrow of compressed grasses to one side of the path, where someone had pushed a bicycle alongside as they walked along the creek bank to the north, away from town.
She set off at a pace, her purse bouncing against her hip as she followed the bicycle track, gaining confidence with every step. The track dipped in and out of the grass, leaving occasional marks like snakeskin in the damp earth of the path. She was right—he’d been this way. It had to be Taylor’s bike.
The row of willows ended at the corner of a barbed wire fence, and a view of a hay field opened up to the right. Allison scanned ahead, looking for Taylor’s strawberry blond head among the bobbing heads of timothy grass in case he’d squeezed through the fence to play in the open field. The grass was waist high this time of year, almost ready for haying. A week or two of dry weather and someone would be out to cut it, but right now it was perfect for tunneling, hiding, lazing away a summer afternoon.
She reached the end of the field and the abrupt demarcation between field and brush where Claypool Creek joined up with Timber Creek and together as one made their way west toward the Willamette River. The dirt path ended on the other side of a stand of willows where a rocky bar jutted out between the two creeks. Stubborn dock plants pushed up between the stones. At the end of the bar, where the stones ended in a point, an orange BMX bike lay on its side.
Taylor’s bike.
Allison’s heart pounded wildly as she swiftly scanning the creeks on either side and prayed that he hadn’t fallen in. She strained for a glimpse of Taylor’s pale skin under the dark, rushing water, holding her breath and hoping she wouldn’t find him rather than the opposite. She let it out slowly when she didn’t see him and turned her attention to the field on the other side of Timber Creek. Some horse property, it looked like, with a rail fence instead of barbed wire. A narrow path led from the fence down the steep bank to the edge of the creek opposite her, where Allison noticed a rock jutted up from the water. Another rock split the water a few feet further into the creek. A third shimmered into focus an inch below the glare of the surface.
Stepping stones. He’d probably used them to cross the creek safely.
Relief in her bones, she picked her way across the rocky area until she stood beside the orange bike, snapped a picture of it with her phone and texted it to the number on the flyer. “Is this his bike?”
An answer came immediately. “Yes. Where?”
“Where Claypool meets Timber, end of the path,” Allison typed with her thumbs.
Her phone buzzed immediately with Michelle’s terse reply. “Stay there.”
Yes, ma’am. She moved back up to the end of the path, so she’d be more visible to whoever showed up. She didn’t have long to wait. It was only minutes until Kara appeared, jogging toward her, her gait light and easy. When she reached Allison, she wasn’t even breathing hard.
Oh, to be thirty again.
“You found a bike?” Kara’s dark eyes shone as they darted around, looking for it in the grass and shrubs around the path.
“His bike,” Allison corrected, motioning to the gap in the willows. “Through there.” She followed Kara and watched as she crouched down on the stones, craning her neck to check the serial number on the frame without touching the bike.
“It’s a match.” Kara raised her head and scanned the water as Allison had.
Allison tried to be patient and wait until Kara came to the same conclusion—Taylor wasn’t in the water, or at least not here—but her eagerness got the better of her. “I think he crossed the rocks.”
Kara stood up abruptly and shucked her boots and socks next to the orange bike, eyed the first rock for a moment, then sprang lightly to it, balancing gracefully on one foot, like a tightrope walker, in the middle of Timber Creek.
“Shouldn’t you—I don’t know—call someone?”
Kara laughed sharply, her attention focused on the next stone, the one barely visible under the rushing water. “Who would I call?”
“Leroy?” Leroy Gauss was the county sheriff. His deputies filled in for Kara when she was off duty and acted as backup when she needed it. His office also coordinated search and rescue efforts in the nearby state and national forestland, so he seeme
d like the obvious choice.
“Apparently he’s not interested in finding lost children.” Kara made the leap to the second rock, landing with a small splash. This rock was apparently wide enough for both feet, and she took the opportunity to look back toward Allison. “He said call him if Taylor’s not back by morning. ‘Boys will be boys. Let ’em run free.’” Kara mimicked Leroy’s gruff tone.
“He’s probably right. I’d be surprised if Taylor stays out past dark.” Allison shifted her weight to her other foot and rubbed her lower back that was beginning to ache from standing on the uneven ground.
“Probably”—Kara grunted as she hopped to the last rock and then, without taking a beat, to the opposite shore, her sleek ponytail swinging with the impact of the landing—“isn’t good enough, is it?”
“Not for Grandma Michelle, I’m sure.”
Kara scanned the damp, sandy soil beside the creek and then clambered up the bank to the fence. She leaned on it, taking in the open field that stretched in every direction and the horse barns beyond. Past them, more ranchland, farmland, forestland. She shook her head and muttered, “Where are you, kid?”
Though Allison didn’t have much of a view from where she stood creekside, she knew that if Taylor was out there, he’d only be seen if he wanted to be seen. “Michelle said he headed out this morning, right? So he’s had at least eight hours to roam. He could be anywhere. The best bet is just to wait here until he comes back for his bike.”
“There goes my evening plans.” Kara sighed dramatically and skidded back down to the creek, leaping easily back across the rocks this time. She sat down next to the bike to wash the mud from the creek bank off her feet.
“You had plans?” Nothing in Remembrance was open on Sunday night, as far as Allison knew. Maybe Kara had a date—now that’d be a juicy piece of gossip to share with Myra at work tomorrow, even juicier than finding Taylor.
Kara snorted as she tugged her socks on over her wet feet. “Yeah, plans to chill out with Pogo and a bottle of pinot grigio.” Pogo was Kara’s recently adopted Yorkshire terrier, Allison’s former foster dog, a sweet little guy with a ton of energy and attitude. The perfect Sunday night date.
“No wonder we’re friends,” Allison shot back. “That’s my idea of a party.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Kara finished lacing up her boots and rose, unhooking a key from her keyring to dangle it toward Allison. “You don’t mind walking over and feeding him? I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“You got me.” Allison chuckled and swiped the key from Kara. The truth was she never minded checking in on her former foster dogs. Most had been rescued from pretty dire circumstances. Some struggled to adjust to life as a pet and were hesitant to trust people. Some were so hard to adopt out that they were stuck with a foster family or in a shelter for months or years. And still, dogs managed to bloom once they were placed with the right people and experienced a little love and stability. Seeing them happy in their new home gave Allison a strange sense of hope for her own life.
So much was gone—so much had been taken from her. So much was wrong. But that didn’t mean some new, unimagined future wasn’t ahead of her.
Chapter 6
Pogo yipped joyfully when Allison entered, twirling in circles as he tip-tapped his front paws on the dark wood floors of Kara’s apartment. The building, which had once been a small car dealership back when people bought American cars, had been renovated into furnished one-bedroom condos, strangely out of place for a small town like Remembrance. Allison couldn’t imagine anyone local living here, but the few young transplants to town gravitated toward the clean lines and industrial details.
It was no wonder they left as quickly as they came, though. Who could live in such a monochromatic home? Everything, from the furniture to the light fixtures, was a shade of brown, gray, or black. Even the wall art and bookshelf knick-knacks were neutral and impersonal, like a hotel room. Allison could hardly tell Kara had moved in because it was so tidy and sterile. The only sign it belonged to anyone at all was the tiny, tippy-tapping terrier that was now running between her and the sink cabinet in the open kitchen, as if to say the food is under here.
Thank goodness for dogs. They could make a cardboard box feel like home.
She dispensed some kibble and perched on a bar stool to watch Pogo eat, smiling when she saw that he’d retained his funny habit of taking his food out of his bowl and then eating it on the floor. When he finished his food and lapped up some water, he stood up on his hind legs with his front paws pressing on her shins.
“You want to go out?” she asked. At the word “out,” his ears perked, and he bounded toward the door, sliding the last few feet until he came to a stop next to the coat rack. She chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
A harness and leash hung by the door. Allison unlooped it from its hook and fastened it around Pogo, then took him out to sniff around the juniper bushes and bark mulch in front of the building and do his business. When they returned and she unbuckled the harness, Pogo immediately leaped up on the sofa, circling a few times before he laid down and yawned, his chin propped on the tasteful beige throw pillow.
King of the castle. She smiled and went to hang up the leash and lock up. She paused at the entry table, wondering whether to leave the keys or return them to Kara in person. She dropped the keys in a dish by the door, accidentally knocking a file folder off the shelf onto the floor.
Pogo raised his head and gave her an inquisitive look, and Allison shrugged as she stooped to pick up the papers. “It was an accident,” she protested, mentally rolling her eyes for explaining herself to a dog. Pogo sighed and put his head back down, and she scooped the papers into a pile, doing her best to put them in the same order they’d been in before the fell on the floor.
They were work papers, it looked like. Police reports. She paused as she caught sight of the injured party listed on the first page: Michelle Robinson. It was the report from the break-in. Curiosity got the better of her and she scanned the rest of the form. The second page was titled “List of Stolen Goods.” Only two items were listed.
Large wooden crate
Paper (blank)
Office supplies, Kara had called them. Allison sat back on her heels. Why in the world would burglars steal a box of paper? And they hadn’t taken anything valuable at the other break-in, either.
The other break-in! She shuffled the papers and found the second report, scanning it quickly. When she saw the name and address of the injured party, she gasped.
Eric Blankenship, 33 2nd Ave.
Eric was the new owner of the bakery, the Ryes & Shine. The address was the apartment above it, where she and Paul had lived for their whole marriage. Allison knew for a fact that Eric hadn’t moved in. He had a place in Elkhorn and planned to drive down every day. He’d mentioned renting the apartment out at some point, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t found a tenant yet, so the apartment was empty.
Kara said the place was trashed and nothing was taken. But did she mean nothing, or nothing of value?
Allison flipped to the next page, but rather than a list of stolen goods, it was a list of damages. Broken lock, door frame, holes in the plaster, smashed toilet tank. Simple vandalism, maybe. Could even be kids messing around. Still, it gave her the creeps. Could it be a coincidence that the two break-ins were closely connected to her—her home for twenty-five years and her next-door neighbor? Could it be a coincidence that Taylor disappeared mere hours after the two break-ins?
She shivered and slid the papers back into the file folder, replacing it carefully on the shelf next to the door. It was probably just that, a coincidence. When you lived in the same small town for all forty-eight years of your life, everywhere and everything was close to you. She couldn’t think of more than a handful of places or buildings in town where she didn’t have some kind of connection or memory. And Taylor was probably already home. When she walked back to Rosemary Street, he’d call down to her f
rom a branch in the oak tree.
Kara was right. The break-ins were some out-of-town criminals looking for an easy score. They’d probably been disappointed when they found themselves in a vacant apartment and smashed things up for fun. Same as when they grabbed a box from Michelle’s house and it turned out to be office supplies. The joke was on them.
Somewhat reassured, Allison ruffled Pogo’s fur, popped a quick kiss on the top of his head, and left for home. She had more important mysteries to solve—like figuring out what was in those boxes that Elaine was so keen to get her hands on.
Chapter 7
To Allison’s surprise, tears rushed to her eyes when she left Kara’s apartment. She was happy for Pogo, of course—not sorry she’d found him a home with Kara. But leaving him made her realize that she was going home to an empty house. Willow was gone, too.
She hadn’t realized how much having a dog around assuaged her loneliness until that moment, walking home in the warm evening dark, watching the street lamps and porch lights flick on. There’d been almost no gap between Pogo and Willow, so she hadn’t had to confront what it meant to live alone. Truly alone—the library forbade any company, even an overnight guest.
Sure, she’d lived alone above the bakery when Paul moved to Golden Gardens, but somehow it always felt like his apartment, too. His chair, his spot at the table. His clothes in the closet. His doodads on the mantel. He was there even though he wasn’t there.
She crossed the highway, flitting across like a bat, unseen. It was easier to be quiet alone, without a panting dog on the end of a leash, and maybe that’s what was so scary about it. The quiet meant she had to confront her own fears without the distraction of a wet nose in her palm.