Sisters in the Wind(89)
“What’s your second favorite thing about the farm?”
“I like the fruit trees. We have five varieties of apple trees,” he said. “I can tell you how many trees we have of each variety. I write down every time we plant a tree. I made a map of the orchard and named each tree with its own number.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “It seems like it would be helpful for knowing what type of soil works best or other factors that might help the trees survive. I wrote everything in a journal when my dad got cancer.”
Bruce asked what kind of cancer my dad had.
“Colorectal,” I said.
“Is that how Beth knew the symptoms I was having?”
I nodded. It was always strange to hear Devery’s real name. Beth. Short for Elizabeth.
“It’s the third most common type of cancer for both men and women,” he said. “My grandfather had lung cancer. That type has the most deaths per year. Breast cancer has the lowest number of deaths.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound right, Bruce. Lots of women die from breast cancer.”
“I meant for men. Five hundred men die from breast cancer every year.”
“I did not know that,” I told Bruce. “Do you write down when any tree is planted on the farm or just for the apple orchard?”
“Every tree gets a number,” he said.
“Every tree on the entire hundred-sixty-acre farm?”
“Every tree gets a number,” he repeated.
“Bruce, I’d really like to see your tree journal.”
* * *
I packed my backpack with my birthday books, cash, Diego’s crucifix, and the notes handwritten by Mona Hix. My toothbrush and toothpaste were in a ziplock bag along with a bar of soap and a generic antiperspirant. In my nervousness, I accidentally dropped my phone in the sink. It was in the water for only a second, but I put it in a second ziplock bag with a packet of rice to dry out and tucked the plastic bag inside the backpack.
It made me consider what I would do if the SIM card was damaged beyond repair. It had photos of Luke and Diego. I’d also taken photos of the pages in Bruce’s tree journal that identified every tree in the hammock grove, including when it had been planted. Somewhere, I hoped, there would be documents identifying every teen from the farm who’d gone missing. If there was a connection between the time frame of each missing kid and the planting of a new tree, then Missus was memorializing each person she made disappear.
I needed to take pictures of Diego’s file. It would help me provide family medical information about Luke to his adoptive mother.
Lexi’s birthday was coming. She would turn seventeen. I talked with the other girls and offered to do Lexi’s cleaning chore by myself for her birthday.
The Friday after her birthday I told Lexi it was chore time.
“Enjoy a siesta,” I said.
“Don’t you need the entry code?” she asked.
“Isn’t it the same from when I cleaned the apartment?” I mentioned the code and learned it had been changed since I’d used it.
Armed with the new code, I entered the apartment and quickly cleaned. In order to maintain a normal pattern, I needed to go through the motions of a bath in the Jacuzzi. I used lavender Epsom salt, which I had substituted for bubble bath plenty of times before. Instead of a leisurely soak, I exited the tub with the jets still going. Epsom salt wouldn’t foam like regular bubble bath. I needed the jets—minus the bubbles overflowing—to muffle the sound of my movements. The rest of my bath time was spent taking pictures of the contents of Diego’s file. My hands shook, and I needed to redo a few of the pages that turned out blurry the first time.
As I was about to leave, I noticed that one of the iris canvases was crooked. I straightened the canvas reproduction of an oil painting by Van Gogh. The canvas wasn’t on the picture holder properly. It came off the hook and I nearly dropped it.
A strange thing happened as I hurried to position the art. I felt something padded shift inside the canvas. Whereas the other pieces were flat and protected by glass, the Van Gogh was a reproduction canvas stretched over a wood frame and then surrounded by an ornate antique brass frame.
I realized that the item inside the wood frame could be accessed by removing the backing from the brass frame. The tiny screws at the back needed a Phillips screwdriver, which Mister kept on a tool belt that he stored in a closet. It was difficult to do the simple task with my hands shaking yet again. Once the backing was removed, I grasped a leather bundle. It felt like a book inside the smooth, tanned deer hide. Before I could unwrap it, a noise from downstairs sent my heart racing.
Last time I was snooping around their apartment, Mister had nearly caught me in the act.
Pausing to listen, I inhaled deeply through my nose and closed my eyes. The techniques I’d developed to evade Steven Sterling. Scent and sound amplified. Every minute was valuable, as I considered the risk and reward of detecting another person’s imminent arrival with searching for proof of illegal activities.
The canvas frame held one more item. Duct taped to the inside was a small squeeze-top coin purse. Pinching the top at both ends revealed an oddly shaped flat brass key. There was also an identification card showing a younger-looking Missus but with a different name.
The two treasures had to be proof of … something. Taking them meant escalating my departure. I needed to leave tonight. Today. Now.