“That’s a good girl,” he said, when she handed it to him.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Nothing you have to worry about.” He looked pleased as he ran his hand along the side of her face, lingering on her smooth, young skin. “It won’t be long now.”
“What won’t?” she asked, trying not to let him see that she had to fight the urge to pull away from his touch.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and left. She heard the door lock click behind him. He came back a few minutes later and gave her a bottle of water. Then she heard faint noises from outside. She stood at the window, trying to see out. All she could make out in the thin, jagged slit of light between the board and the window frame were slices of green leaves on a tree and what looked like the mountainside in the near distance. A short time later, she thought she heard someone leave on a horse.
With the man, she assumed, gone, Delilah examined the room. The handcuffs and chains had left bruises on her wrists and ankles, but it felt good to walk about. First, she inspected the door: thick wood panels that fitted tightly. For an old house, the place looked well constructed. She planted one foot against the wall as a brace and grabbed the handle, trying to jerk it open. She pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. She scratched her fingertips and tore her nails attempting to pry the board off the window. Dozens of long screws held it tight. Next time he let her out, she decided she needed to find something to use as a tool. She wondered if a butter knife would work on the screws. Maybe she could find something to use to pick the door lock.
Despite being confined to the room, not knowing how she would ever get away, Delilah did feel better. The polished cotton dress she wore dragged on the floor when she walked, but it was clean. It looked homemade, as hers had been, and she wondered who had worn it before her.
“Jayme, it has pink and white flowers, little tulips. Is it yours?” she called out, describing the dress.
“No,” the girl downstairs answered. “It must have belonged to one of the other girls.”
“The dead ones?” Delilah gulped at the thought.
Jayme didn’t answer at first, and then just mumbled, “I guess so.”
Thinking about the two girls who’d disappeared, Delilah’s mood darkened. “I don’t think we can escape.” Her voice cracked, and she wished she had something to dry her cheeks. She didn’t know when she’d get another clean dress, and she didn’t want to dirty the one she wore. But her tears came so fast, she finally gave in and used the hem to mop her eyes. Considering all she knew, Delilah confessed, “I think we’re going to die here, like he says.”
She wished Jayme would tell her not to worry, that they’d be okay, but she heard only one sound from downstairs, a muffled weeping.
Thirty-Nine
The conference room resembled a shop that only sold blue dresses. We had them hanging all around us, carefully covered by long evidence bags. Some had white collars and sashes, small flowers, others plaid, solid shades of blue, and gingham. The CSI unit had seized everything they thought presented any possibility. On our way back to the sheriff’s department, I’d called Naomi and asked her to bring Mother, Sariah, and Lily to look through the dresses. She said she didn’t know if Mother would come, but she agreed to try.
While I waited, I thought back to Evan Barstow’s shed, the horse lead and the chains. I wondered yet again if we’d left the real evidence, the important evidence, on the ranch. I understood Max’s reasoning, but my frustration made my stomach churn and my nerves bristle. Although it had been only hours since the body was found, it felt as if everything moved in slow motion.
Needing to stay busy, I laid out photos of the girl in the field’s dress. Some focused on the once-white collar. Others zeroed in on the small flowers that formed the stripes. Those taken a bit farther away showed the fabric’s original light green color. Ivory buttons ran down the front, the thread that anchored each one cured the color of milky coffee.
“What are you looking for?” The sheriff stood over my gruesome photo gallery. “You think the answer’s in one of those?”
“I’m hoping so.”
“Clara, you’ve studied those photos,” Max said as he walked in. “They aren’t changing.”
“I know,” I said. “It just seems like there should be a clue here.”
Max’s phone dinged. “An email. Doc Wiley’s sending more photos.”
“I’ll have one of the clerks print them,” Sheriff Holmes offered, as he turned to leave. “Maybe this batch will have what you need, Detective Jefferies.”
The new images didn’t feature the dress. Instead, Doc had photographed a small gold ring in the shape of a flower he removed from the dead girl’s right hand. Once we had prints, I lined them up on the table with the others. “That looks like the rings my father gave each of us girls for our sixteenth birthdays,” I said to Max. A ball of anxiety lodged in my chest as I inspected the ring more closely. “But that can’t be. We know this isn’t Delilah.”
“How similar is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I have mine in a box in my apartment. I haven’t looked at it in years. But this certainly reminds me of it.” Holding a photo of the ring in my hands, scrutinizing how the band swirled into the flower, I wondered if we could be wrong. Was there any way that the dead girl could be Delilah? But that was ridiculous. Nothing matched. This girl was taller, her hair a different color, Doc pegged her as older, and she’d been dead for months.
Max picked up a few
