Кэти Дэйли - The Curse Of Hollister House

“A while. Maybe a month. A few weeks at least.”

“And after that day in the woods, did you ever see the man in the forest again?”

“No. Like I told you earlier, I changed my route and started sticking to the main roads after the man scared me.”

Chapter 22

Saturday

As tired as I was, sleep evaded me. After hours of tossing and turning and getting nowhere, I finally got up and went up to the attic. There was a voice in the back of my mind that seemed to be nagging at me with the idea that perhaps the secret to finding Stella’s killer, and Tracy’s as well, was in some random piece of information I had at my disposal. Could my twelve-year-old self have known something I didn’t even realize? Apparently, Naomi’s twelve-year-old self had known something that might very well identify who’d killed Stella after all these years.

“Where do I even start?” I asked Alastair.

“Meow.” He trotted across the room and pawed at the box where I’d found the journal I’d kept after Stella died.

I bent down to take a look. In addition to old books, I found photo albums, old notebooks, and even the Nancy Drew log Stella and I kept during our girl detective phase. We’d outgrown that before entering middle school, so I didn’t think there would be clues inside the log, though we had kept it well into the summer after sixth grade, and Stella had died in the fall of seventh grade, so maybe there could be.

“‘April 12th,’” I read aloud. “‘ The Case of the Missing Homework .’” I smiled. Most of our cases were pretty silly, but Stella and I’d had a lot of fun pretending to be girl detectives. I continued to read. “‘Stella is sure she did her English homework this week, which required us to do a biography with photos from our life. When she went to hand it in, the homework she is sure she put in her backpack that morning was missing. Mrs. Brubaker is threatening detention unless she redoes the paper by the end of the week.’”

I looked at Alastair. “I remember this. Stella was so mad.”

“Meow.”

“‘After examining the facts, we decided that someone had taken it from her backpack after we arrived at school but before the first bell rang.’”

“Meow.”

“Yeah, it would be an odd item for someone to steal, but it was possible because we’d leave our backpacks next to the door of our classroom and then head to the playground to hang out on the monkey bars. Still, who would steal an assignment like that? It wasn’t like Stella was missing some generic math homework that someone who didn’t do the assignment could copy and turn in as their own.” I mulled the thought in my mind a bit more. “I sort of remember that Stella found other stuff missing from her backpack. A brush. Lip gloss. I think even a half-eaten apple.”

“Meow.”

“If Stella had a stalker, that would explain a lot.” I thought about the old truck parked near the school. I thought about the man Naomi had seen in the woods twenty years ago, and the man who’d been hanging out in the field behind the school when Tracy disappeared. Was it possible they were the same person?

It was too early to call Cass, so I texted him. I figured he could call me when he got up. In the meantime, I continued on to the photo album. I was pretty sure I had photos of Stella and me in the weeks leading up to her death.

Most of the photos had been taken at my house or hers, but there were a few taken in town and even a series taken at the middle school during our first week of classes. I remembered how excited we were to finally leave our childhood behind when we’d become mature and sophisticated middle school students. We’d felt so grown-up. High school was just around the corner, and Stella and I had definite plans to rock our teenage years before moving on to college. But Stella had died, and I’d become even more introverted than I already was, so none of the dreams we’d shared during those first few weeks of seventh grade ever came true.

I paused at a photo I’d taken of Stella in her volleyball uniform. She stood with the ball resting against her hip as she prepared to attend her first practice. The smile of innocence on her face sent sheer pain through my heart. I ran a finger over her form. “I’m so very sorry.”

I was about to turn the page when I noticed a truck parked on the street that paralleled the school, which was clearly visible in the background. White truck, brown camper.

Chapter 23

Cass called shortly after I’d jumped in the shower to get ready for my shift volunteering at the Harvest Festival. He left a message on my voice mail, letting me know he was heading out to follow up on a lead in Patricia Long’s death and would call me when he returned to the office. I didn’t figure there was a lot I could do in the meantime, so I dressed in layers and headed to the park in the center of town.

“You’ve been assigned to the ring toss,” Hope informed me. “Anyone who wants to try their skill will give you a ticket they will have already purchased, and you will give them five rings.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “Here is the key to show you which prize to give them. One ring on a bottle is a small prize, two a slightly larger prize, and so on.”

“Looks self-explanatory,” I said.

“It’s one of the easier games to monitor. Just be sure that everyone gets into a single line and that only one person is given rings to toss at a time. If you have questions, you can ask one of the other volunteers. Most of the locals volunteer every year and know exactly what to do.”

“Okay, thanks.” I took the rings and the jar into which I was to deposit the tickets I collected and headed toward my booth. The place was already busy. The volunteers had all come early and most had brought family members who were wandering around, waiting for the games to start.

By the time Hope’s voice came over the loudspeaker announcing that the games had officially opened, long lines had already formed at each game. I stepped up to the railing with my rings and greeted the first person in line. I took his ticket, handed him the five rings, and then waited while he tossed them. Two of the five landed around a bottle’s neck, so I handed him the appropriate prize, gathered the rings, and greeted the next person in line.

Things continued to run like clockwork for the first half hour until Billy wandered into my line.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll need to go to the end of the line,” I said when he pushed his way to the front.

“I was in line. You just didn’t see me.”

“No,” I countered. “You were not in line. I saw you come over from the game across from us and squeeze into the front. As I said, if you want to play this game, you will need to go to the end of the line.”

“Make me.”

Oh, how I wanted to. How I wanted to leap over the barrier in front of me, take the smart mouthed tween by the shoulders, and forcefully set him to the side. Of course, I’d probably get arrested for assaulting a minor, and he’d get off scot-free.

“Come on, Billy, let’s go to another booth,” his friend said.

I sent the friend a smile of gratitude, which seemed to make Billy dig in his heels even deeper. He held out his hand. “The rings, lady.”

I wanted to say “bite me,” but instead, I simply crossed my arms over my chest. I looked at the long line behind Billy. If I just let him play, he’d move on, and then the line could move up, but there was no way I was letting this punk get the better of me. “If you don’t go to the end of the line, I’ll have to close the booth, and then no one will get to play.”

That got Billy’s peers grumbling. I waited for someone from the line—someone Billy’s age and therefore unlikely to get arrested for child abuse—to take matters into their own hands and move the obnoxious child along.