“No,” I say. “It wasn't. Remember, Carrie said it wasn't. Immediately identified that it wasn't.”
“I know,” Dean says. “What I'm saying is it couldn't be. And the police should have realized that. Look at the picture again.”
I take out my phone and flip through some of the images I have saved. One of them is the shoe.
“It's too big,” I say. “Definitely too big for a four-year-old.”
“Who did I see in the woods, Emma?” Dean asks. “Because it wasn't Violet.”
“There aren't any reports of anybody else missing,” I say. “They never found out who that shoe belonged to, but they also didn't find a body or a police report for a missing girl from the area.”
“Something happened to that girl. I know it did. I've spent my entire life thinking I led that man to Violet and caused her abduction. But that wasn't her. So, who was it?”
I look up from the picture.
“And what does she have to do with Violet?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dean and I stay up late into the night going over his statements and trying to reconcile them with what he remembers, along with the other evidence. I'm still tumbling it over in my head the next morning as we make our way down to the lake to trace Elsie Donahue's last known movements.
The contradictions between what Dean said the day he was brought in and what he remembers now are confusing, but he was also so young, and it was more than half his life ago. As much as he's wrapped himself up in that situation and what it's meant for his life, it's easy to imagine he got confused and has twisted the memories in his mind.
But that doesn't explain the shoe or where he was when he saw the girl.
We walk down to the edge of the lake and stand at the spot where Elsie was doing her solo investigation. Looking down at my feet, I see the water washing up and something tingles in the back of my mind. I don't know what it is, but seeing the water that way has something churning.
“Oh, what fresh hell is this?” Dean asks, pulling my attention away from the water.
I look over at him and see him staring down the beach. Following his gaze, I notice someone coming toward us. It only takes a few steps for me to realize it’s Ken Abbott.
“What's he doing here?” I groan.
I walk toward him. Before I can say anything, he stretches his hand out to me.
“Hello,” he says. “Ken Abbott.”
He obviously expects me to recognize him and is waiting for a reaction. I don't take his hand.
“Agent Emma Griffin,” I say. “I'm with the FBI.”
“FBI,” he nods. “Impressive. It's good to hear Elsie's disappearance is being taken seriously. What can I do to help?”
“Actually, Mr. Abbott, this investigation is being taken very seriously, which is why access to the campground is still restricted, only to authorized people associated with the investigation. I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” I tell him.
“But I have permission to be here,” he says.
“You had permission,” I counter, emphasizing the past tense. “For your investigation. That was over several days ago. And with the recent developments, trespassing here could be particularly damaging to the case.”
“I'm not trespassing,” he argues. “I'm here to help. Elsie was my best friend. We've been investigating together for years.”
“You're comfortable using the past tense now?” I ask.
“What?” he asks.
“In your statement, you said you wouldn't be thinking of her in the past tense. But you just said she was your best friend,” I say.
“That's not what I meant,” he says. “I still believe she's out there. In one form or another. Maybe I can help you connect with her. She can tell you what happened.”
I can't help but roll my eyes.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Abbott, but this is not the time for that. You had the chance to do your investigation. Now I need you to step back so I can do mine,” I say.
I turn away and start back down the beach toward where I’d been standing.
“You have no respect for what I do, do you, Emma?” he calls after me.
I stop and draw in a breath before turning around to look at him.
“It's Agent Griffin,” I correct him. “And to be completely honest with you, no. I don't. You spend your time chasing around something that isn't there. I investigate reality. What really happened to real people. I solve crimes, and I bring those responsible to face justice.”
“Just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't there, Agent Griffin," Ken says. "The same goes for whether or not you believe in it. Your ability or willingness to perceive something doesn't impact the reality of something for anyone else. I can tell you from personal experience that there is far more in this world that what people say does or should exist.”
I glance over at Xavier, where he's arranging pinecones across the ground.
"I know that. It doesn't mean there are ghosts floating around."
"And it doesn't mean there aren't. I'm not asking you to completely believe everything I do, or even believe that I believe it. But as someone who has unraveled as many mysteries and encountered as much evil as you have, I would think you would be more receptive to anything that might take even a little bit of that out of the world. Even if you don't understand it. Because honestly, can you really say that believing in a spirit world is so much more outlandish than a man who believes he can recreate his family through corpses, or the absolute devotion of oneself to a cult to the point of enslaving and murdering others, or the belief in dominating the world through a continuous chain reaction of chaos and destruction?”
The words stun me and make me uncomfortable.
“You know my cases,” I say.
“Everyone knows you from the news, Emma,” he says. “I know who you are and what you've done. I
