“That’s the girl who talks to me.”
Everett made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whisper.
Claire grabbed Junie’s shoulders.
“You’ve seen her before?”
“In my dreams.”
“How long?”
Junie looked confused.
“A long time.”
“Since I was little.”
“You are little.”
Junie frowned.
“Since before I could talk good.”
Claire’s chest tightened.
Everett looked at her.
“What’s your daughter’s full name?”
Claire’s instincts flared.
“No.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
“You already are.”
Junie tugged Claire’s sleeve.
“Mommy, don’t be mad at Bear.”
“I’m not mad.”
She was terrified.
Everett slowly returned the photograph to his wallet.
“All right.”
Claire pulled Junie close.
“We’re leaving.”
Everett nodded.
But as Claire turned away, he asked one final question.
“Did she ever mention the river?”
Claire stopped.
Every muscle in her body went rigid.
Junie answered before she could intervene.
“She says she doesn’t like the bridge.”
Everett staggered backward.
Actually staggered.
His shoulder struck the side of his Harley.
Claire turned.
The biker who had looked capable of frightening an entire parking lot now looked like someone had driven a blade through his chest.
“She says you didn’t leave her.”
Everett’s lips parted.
Claire felt ice slide down her spine.
Junie continued.
“She says the bad man did.”
Claire dropped to her knees.
“Junie, stop.”
“But Mommy—”
“Stop.”
The child’s eyes filled with confusion.
Everett whispered, “What bad man?”
Claire rose.
“We’re done.”
She pulled Junie toward their car.
Everett didn’t follow.
He didn’t call after them.
He simply stood beside Pump Seven with both hands gripping the motorcycle seat, staring at the pavement like it had opened beneath him.
As Claire buckled Junie into the back seat, her fingers shook.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
Junie looked through the window toward Everett.
“He’s not bad.”
“I know.”
“The other man is.”
Claire froze.
“What other man?”
Junie yawned.
“The man with the silver watch.”
Claire stared at her.
“What silver watch?”
But Junie had already turned toward the window.
And across the parking lot, Everett Knox suddenly raised his head.
Because fifteen years earlier, the last man seen with his daughter before she disappeared had been wearing a silver watch.
Everett did not sleep that night.
He rode three hours east before pulling his Harley into the gravel driveway of a small farmhouse outside Lexington.
The porch light flicked on.
A woman in her late sixties opened the door wearing a blue robe.
“Everett?”
He removed his helmet.
“Sorry, Ma.”
Dolores Knox stared at him.
“You look awful.”
“I need the box.”
She knew exactly which one.
Her face changed.
“Ma.”
“You promised.”
“You promised yourself.”
“I met a little girl today.”
Dolores gripped the doorframe.
Everett walked past her.
His childhood home looked nearly unchanged.
Same dark wood furniture.
Same photographs.
Same grandfather clock ticking in the hallway.
Except one photograph had been removed years ago because Everett couldn’t bear to see it every time he visited.
Maya.
His daughter.
Six years old forever.
Dolores followed him toward the attic stairs.
“What happened?”
“The girl knew things.”
“What things?”
Everett turned.
“The bridge.”
Dolores stopped.
“She knew about the bridge.”
His mother’s face went pale.
“And the silver watch.”
Dolores sat down hard on the bottom stair.
“She said Maya talks to her.”
“Children say things.”
“She knew the birthmark.”
Dolores closed her eyes.
“Everett…”
“She knew what Maya called me.”
Dolores began to cry.
Everett’s expression hardened.
The box had not been opened in nearly twelve years.
Inside were every document, photograph, newspaper clipping, police report, and handwritten note connected to Maya Knox’s disappearance.
Everett placed it on the kitchen table at two in the morning.
Dolores made coffee neither of them drank.
He spread everything out.
The story was burned into him.
Fifteen years earlier, Everett had been twenty-nine and reckless, still trying to prove he could outrun grief, responsibility, and every mistake he had ever made.
Maya’s mother, Rachel, had left when Maya was three.