closed and her daughter’s body was sealed into the stone chamber. Almost involuntarily, her eyes shifted to the crypt next to Jenny’s, and she read the inscription on its door.
SHARON SHEFFIELD
JULY 26, 1975
TAKEN HOME BY THE LORD THE SAME DAY
For Sharon, there had been no funeral. Her tiny body had simply been taken from the hospital to Childress’s, then interred here.
On the first Sunday that Barbara had felt well enough, there had been a prayer said for her at church.
And that was all.
She’d never seen her, never once held that first little girl in her arms.
Suddenly she sensed a movement behind her, and turned to see Amelie Coulton pushing her way through the small gathering in the cemetery. Her lifeless blond hair, unwashed, hung limply around her face, and she was clad in a shapeless dress whose color had long ago faded into a mottled off-white.
But it was Amelie’s eyes that riveted Barbara’s attention, for they burned feverishly with an inner light that reached out to Barbara, seizing her.
“She ain’t dead!” Amelie said, her voice quavering. “She ain’t dead any more’n my own little baby is!”
Barbara’s heart lurched as the words struck her. What was Amelie saying? She’d
Not Jenny.
Sharon!
Was she talking about Sharon?
“Ask Clarey Lambert!” Amelie went on. “She knows! She knows it all!”
Suddenly two men appeared at Amelie’s side, taking her arms. Amelie tried to shake them off, but they held her tight, keeping her from coming any closer to Barbara.
“I ain’t lyin’,” Amelie went on, her voice breaking now. “You got to believe me, Miz Sheffield. You was nice to me — I wouldn’t lie to you!”
Barbara said nothing for a moment, her mind swimming.
“It’s all right, Barbara,” she heard someone saying. “We’ll get her out—”
“No,” Barbara said, her voice suddenly coming back to her. “Let her go. Please. She’s all right.”
The men hesitated, but finally released Amelie, who stayed where she was for a second, then came forward to put her hand gently on Barbara’s arm. “I ain’t wrong,” she said. “If’n your baby’d died, you’d know. A mama knows them things.” She seemed about to say something else, but then apparently changed her mind. Turning away, she disappeared through the crowd as quickly as she’d come.
But her words stuck in Barbara’s mind, echoing there, festering.
Could it be true?
No!
But as the graveside service finally came to an end a few minutes later, Barbara’s eyes fell on Kelly Anderson.
Kelly, who looked so much like her niece Tisha.
Kelly, who was the same age Sharon would have been had she lived.
Kelly, who was adopted.
Kelly was approaching her now, her eyes serious, her face pale beneath the simple makeup she was wearing.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sheffield,” she said. “I–I don’t know what—”
Barbara put her arms around the girl and pulled her close. “You don’t have to say anything, Kelly,” she whispered. “I’m just so glad you’re here. Sometimes, when I look at you, I can almost imagine I haven’t lost both my little girls. I can almost believe that maybe Sharon didn’t die at all, and grew up to be you.” She felt Kelly stiffen in her arms, and immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry,” she said, releasing Kelly from the embrace and dabbing at her suddenly tear-filled eyes. “I had no right to say that. I—”
But before she could go on, Kelly stopped her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Sheffield,” she said so softly that Barbara could barely make out the words. “If I ever find out who my real mother is, I wish it could turn out to be you.”
Their eyes met for a moment, neither of them speaking. Finally Kelly turned away, but as she rejoined her parents and grandfather, Barbara kept watching her.
Who is she? she thought. Where did she come from?
Suddenly, with an intensity she’d rarely felt before, she knew she had to find out.
• • •
Kelly and Michael were sitting on the dock behind the Sheffield house. Above them, on the lawn, they could hear the buzz of conversation, as people talked quietly among themselves. The reception had been going on for an hour, and people were finally beginning to drift away, but Michael was certain that some of them — his parents’ closest friends — would stay on into the evening, unwilling to leave his mother alone.
“I don’t know why they don’t just go away,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s not like they can do anything.”
“I know,” Kelly agreed. “I guess it’s just what people do at funerals.” She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, she didn’t look at Michael. “Do you think Jenny’s really dead?”
Michael stiffened, knowing instantly what she was talking about. “No. I don’t know what happened. But when Judd Duval told me how he found her, I didn’t believe him.” He shifted position, his brows knitting into a deep frown. “I just don’t
Kelly finally looked at him. “I know. I keep getting the same feeling. Last night I dreamed about Jenny. And in the dream, I saw that old man, too. Only he was trying to get Jenny, not me.”
“But—”
“We have to find out, Michael. And it’s not just about Jenny, either.” Michael cocked his head curiously. “I keep thinking about what Amelie said, too.”
Michael’s frown deepened. “She said to ask Clarey. She said that Clarey knows.”
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Kelly said, “There’s a way we can find out.”
Michael looked at her intently. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it, too.” He was silent for a moment, then: “Tonight?”
Kelly hesitated, then nodded.
22
Fred Childress picked up the large ring of keys he’d brought home with him from the mortuary that afternoon and glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes.
Midnight, Warren Phillips had told him.
Childress had known better than to argue with Phillips. He’d done that once, years ago, and though he hadn’t thought much of it at the time, the next week, when he’d gone for his shot, Phillips had refused to give it to him. Two days later, when he’d gotten up in the morning and seen himself in the mirror, he’d felt a cold wave of fear he never wanted to experience again. Overnight, he’d aged at least thirty years, and when he’d called Phillips, begging for the shot, Phillips had coolly replied that the mortician didn’t seem to understand the rules. “I’ll give you the shot,” he’d said. “But you’ll never argue with me again. Is that clear?” With the reflection of his own death mocking him from the mirror, Fred Childress had quickly agreed.
Now, at a few minutes before midnight, he got into his Cadillac and drove out to Judd Duval’s shack at the edge of the swamp.
Judd was sitting in front of the television, a can of beer in his hand, two empty ones sitting on the scarred table next to his chair.
“Are you drunk?” the mortician demanded.
