Chapter 47
I grab the neon pink sweatshirt from Freida, and she attempts to yank it back when I hold it up and read the embroidered I.
“Who gave this to you?”
“It’s my mom’s. Someone at my dad’s work was selling customized sweatshirts for a Kick Breast Cancer’s Ass fundraiser and he bought her one. The I is for Ivory since they could only pick one letter for the embroidering. Everyone is supposed to wear them this month for the fundraiser.”
I for Ivory Cobb. W for Wren. S for Szabo. Pink for breast cancer awareness. What I thought was a case-cracking clue turns out to be a coincidence.
Fred had bought one for Ivory, and Marshall had probably bought one for Wren—his girlfriend at the time—and his mom Gillian. Ironically, all of them are involved in some way, and I have a sweatshirt to thank for tying the bow that holds them together.
I hand the sweatshirt back to Freida. “I have to find your mom. Any idea where she might be?”
Freida’s mouth tightens when I ask about her mother. Not in anger, but in that careful way people get when they’re choosing which truth to serve and which to hide under a napkin. “I have no idea.”
That’s not an answer. It’s a door closed firmly.
“Was there anywhere special you two would go?” If Ivory is dying, there’s a good chance she’d go somewhere sentimental.
“Not anywhere within walking distance.” Freida shakes her head and her ponytail swishes like punctuation. Period. “Maybe my dad would know.”
I remind my brother to make Freida some tea before crossing the street, my shoes scuffing along the asphalt. The houses sit in their neat suburban rows with windows gawping like unblinking eyes. Everything looks normal right up until it isn’t.
I’m halfway to Fred’s front door when something catches my peripheral vision. A light. A thin, moving blade of white slicing through the trees in Fred’s backyard. I stop walking and the light disappears. Then it reappears, weaker this time, darting in and out of view.
I cut along the side of the house through the fence gate, pushing it slowly enough not to let it creak.
The backyard is deeper than it looks from the street.
Beyond Ivory’s well-tended garden beds the yard is overgrown.
Untamed. Bushes press in on each other, and the grass is wild, swallowing my legs whole.
The light flickers again. It’s coming from the far corner near the shed, buried behind wild blackberry vines and thorny brush.
It’s a crumbling structure that used to be beige and is now a moldy black.
The roof sags in the middle like it’s tired of holding itself up.
One window is gone entirely, just a dark, jagged mouth.
The light pulses unsteadily from inside then blinks off.
Shrub limbs grab at my jeans. A thorn catches my sleeve and tears a thread loose.
The shed emerges from the thicket, its broken door hanging open just enough for a person to slip through—so I do.
The wood is soft under my palm, splintering slightly, like it’s been waiting to give up. I head in.
The scent of wood rot and gasoline infiltrate me. My reflection stares back in a cracked window, fracturing my face into pieces I barely recognize.
“Ivory?” I call out but receive no answer except for the rustle of leaves either outside the shed or somewhere within.
Along one wall shelves sag under the weight of forgotten junk. Rakes, empty paint cans, a broken lawn chair folded in on itself. Then I hear movement. I realize I’m unarmed, and if Ivory’s here, the knife she had taken makes me question how stupid I’m being.
“Ivory, I just want to help you,” I tell the darkness in case Ivory is listening.
I’m going in blind, so I hold out my phone and turn on the flashlight. The beam skims the corners of the room, and I expect it to land on Ivory hiding in shadows, knife poised and ready to strike. But what the light lands on isn’t Ivory. It’s so much worse.