“You know she’d never go there. Not after everything. She had nightmares for years. I think she still does,” Terri said, and Paul turned, meeting her eyes.
“Still?” Paul considered this. His daughter didn’t like to talk about the nightmares, but they were no stranger to him either. He’d been plagued by them his whole life, and the three years after Taylor had been taken had been the worst for him.
“Still. Don’t pretend you don’t get the odd one,” his wife said, and he shrugged noncommittally. “She’s a good kid. I’m looking forward to seeing her too.”
Paul sipped his wine and sat back down before getting up just as quickly. “I’m going to check on Stevie.”
“He’s fine, Paul. He’s eleven in a few days. Stop worrying so much,” Terri said.
He couldn’t help it. He’d become an overprotective parent who’d do anything for his children. “I’ll peek in and be right back.” He saw Terri give in, and set his glass on the counter, heading down the hall. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
_______________
“I thought they’d never let us come downstairs,” Isabelle said. Her braids were brushed out and she’d washed off her make-up, looking three years younger now. Taylor had left her make-up on, being in that early-enough self-conscious state around Brent. He’d seen her a few times without, when she’d sneaked away and managed to sleep in his room at the frat house, but she wasn’t ready to go full-face with him.
“They’re really nice. I wish my parents gave half as much attention to what I did as yours do,” Brent said, getting a big smile from Isabelle. Taylor cleared her throat.
“We have a lot to do tomorrow. I got the name of the house’s previous tenant, and we’ll drive to Gilden to talk to him. Percy Miller. Then we have to check out the area of the orchard. These condos, anything else around them?” Taylor asked Isabelle.
“Honestly, I’ve never been out there. I haven’t stepped foot beyond the farmer’s field since I was a little girl,” her cousin said softly.
Brent seemed surprised. “If the Smiths were gone, what was there to worry about?” he asked, and Taylor frowned at Isabelle. Her cousin knew Brent wasn’t aware of the true story, and Isabelle didn’t give anything away.
“I know, but it’s better safe than sorry. Plus, I was never much of the outdoor type,” Isabelle said from her seat in the old chair facing the coffee table.
Taylor and Brent were seated side by side on the couch, their legs touching, and the contact sent a warmth through her body. She glanced at Brent, then focused on the task at hand.
“Okay, so Gilden Hospital, then the old orchard land. Maybe someone at the condo will have answers,” Taylor said.
“I thought you were just doing some digging because of the missing girl. How do you expect to help?” Brent asked, and Taylor moved to the box.
She pulled out the photo album and held it in her hands. It was heavy, the cover made from an old soft leather. Taylor turned, blew the dust off the top, and flipped it open.
“These have to be a hundred years old,” Brent said as he leaned in to get a better view.
Taylor ran a hand over the plastic sheet covering the black and white photos. The first page had four pictures of a forest. She lifted the sticky sheet from the corner and peeled the top photo off. There was no date on the back. She kept looking. The next page showed a creek from different angles.
“Red Creek,” Taylor whispered, giving herself goosebumps.
The following page had pictures of logging trucks and excavators, clearing out the land.
“This is when they destroyed the forest and built the orchard. Do you remember your dad telling us about the details he’d dug up on it?” Isabelle asked, her mouth falling wide open.
Taylor did. “Nineteen thirty-one. The mayor, Peter Bellows, lost his daughter. He renamed the town afterwards, as they were preparing the land here for Granny Smith’s. The disappearances started long before that, though.”
“You’re saying that kids were going missing even then? The documentary didn’t get into that,” Brent said.
“That’s because they didn’t know. The whole show was built on speculation and rumors. My dad found there were five children reported missing by the early twenties, and I suspect it was a much higher number than that.” Taylor kept flipping, now seeing photos of the orchard.
“Is that… the house?” Brent asked, pointing to one with a grand home being built on the land.
Taylor nodded, recalling seeing it as the fire crews arrived when she was a little girl.
“It’s their house.” Isabelle pointed at a photo showcasing an original “Granny Smith’s Orchard” sign. It was hanging from the house’s porch canopy: a white wooden sign, with the lettering painted in a dark color. Even though it was in gray, Taylor guessed it was red, even though Granny Smith apples were green. They grew those as well as the Red Delicious apples. Taylor had done her research years ago.
The next page had photos of the first Smiths to settle there. Conway was a little boy, wearing a wool suit. Taylor knew his face well and could pick him out of the small litter of kids standing still for the photographer. They were on the porch of the house, looking dour, probably from all the chores everyone had to do so early in the morning.
“Looks like one’s missing,” Isabelle said as her finger landed on the bottom corner of the page. She was right.
Taylor was hoping to get more out of the hidden box. What had her grandma been trying to hide by shoving this particular album into the attic space? There wasn’t much to be worried about, unless it was her association to the orchard and Smiths that she wanted to hide.
“Check the journal,” Brent said, passing the leather-bound book to Taylor. What secrets lurked between these old covers?
