“Yes, and that’s why we need to hurry,” her mother said and began snipping at her own nearly waist length hair, cutting it to just above her shoulders. “The calendar he has upstairs said cattle auction, Burell, Nebraska, under today’s date. But we have to go—we have to leave now. Go pick out one special thing to bring with you and I’ll unlock the door.”
They were leaving. They were actually going to walk up the stairs and out the door. A shiver of excitement went through the girl. They were going to the Out There. She knew exactly what she was going to bring. Her little white blanket with the bunnies on it. It was a blanket she’d had since she was born. She wished she could bring some books and her art box, but her mother told her to choose just one thing, and she couldn’t leave without her blanket. Then her eyes landed on the plastic figure of a man dressed in green. Her mother had given it to her when she was little, said she had it for a long time. The girl almost had forgotten about it—she spent most of her time coloring and reading books these days. The girl slid the figurine into her pocket. She’d bring both of them. Her mother wouldn’t mind.
“No, no, no,” came her mother’s voice from the top of the stairs. The girl heard the rattle of the doorknob, the pounding of fists on wood. “It doesn’t work,” she said, coming down and sitting on the bottom step in defeat. “He must have added another lock. It won’t open. He’ll know we were up to something. He’s going to kill me for cutting your hair,” she said, lowering her face into her hands.
“He doesn’t have to know,” the girl said, squeezing onto the step next to her. “We’ll tell him I did it. We can pinky promise.”
“He’ll know,” she said, shaking her head. “He’ll find out I got out and took the keys and money and the razor. I’m so, so sorry,” she cried. “I promised you everything was going to be okay, and it won’t.”
They sat that way for a long time. The little girl rubbed her mother’s back with one hand and her shorn head with the other. She looked around their small room. It wasn’t so bad. She had the bed and the television and the bookshelf and the window.
“Mama,” the girl said, sitting up a little straighter and pulling on her mother’s arm. She pointed, and her mother followed her finger’s path. “We don’t have to use the door,” she said. “We can use the window.”
36
Present Day
It couldn’t be, Wylie thought. It wasn’t possible. Becky was dead. Had died years ago. She was certain of it.
But what if that wasn’t the case? What if Becky had been hidden away for all these years? What if she’d had a child with the man who took her?
A surge of guilt crashed over her. Wylie’s mind flashed back to the night of the murders when she and Becky were in her bedroom, the moonlight splashing through the window. Just a short time later, Becky was gone.
Becky wouldn’t have even been at the house if it hadn’t been for Wylie.
A little voice in her head nagged and poked at her. The horseshoe-shaped scar on the woman’s hand, a twin to her own.
Wylie blinked and gave a small shake of her head. It was impossible. Becky Allen was dead.
For years, Wylie ran from her past, from this house, from that deadly night, from the man who had stolen her entire family from her.
Not long after her parents were murdered, Wylie moved with her grandparents two hundred miles from Burden to begin a new life, to get a fresh start, to escape the reminders of all that they lost. And to get away from the man that everyone knew killed them.
Her grandparents tried to create a new life for her, but her past haunted her no matter where she went. She was always Josie Doyle—the girl whose family was murdered, whose best friend vanished without a trace. So when she was old enough and she knew she couldn’t be Josie Doyle any longer, she took the W from William, the L from Lynne, the E from Ethan, and her grandmother’s maiden name and had become Wylie Lark.
Then she began to write books about terrible crimes. Why? She never tried to analyze it too closely, but it made sense. The murder of her family and the kidnapping of her friend had never been officially solved so she would chronicle the tragedies of others.
Until now. Now she was writing her own story. Josie Doyle’s story for the entire world to read and to examine.
No. Wylie shut the folder and stood. It was crazy—Becky was dead. She was determined to push the thought from her head when she heard a faint rumbling sound coming from outside.