Nate was looking over Helen’s notes from the historical society while she paced the tiny kitchen in the trailer.
“Okay, so this Gloria Gray would be Hattie’s great-granddaughter. You think she’s the one in danger?”
Helen nodded. “I do. But the only record we could find was her birth certificate. I know that after her parents died, she and her brother were sent to live with family. So that’s a list of all the relatives Mary Ann and I could find, people they might have gone to stay with.”
“It’s a long list,” Nate said.
“I know,” Helen admitted. “But I’ve got to try.”
Nate nodded. “Okay. Get your laptop and phone. Let’s start trying to find these people, see if we can track down Gloria.”
. . .
At first it seemed hopeless, trying to find out what might have happened to Gloria Gray. Nate used Helen’s laptop (his was in the corner, streaming the feed from the wildlife cameras) and she took notes and made calls when they were lucky enough to find a phone number. She left several voice mails. Nate sent emails and Facebook messages, trying to convey how urgent it was to hear back as soon as possible without sounding crazy or desperate.
Helen was overwhelmed, feeling more and more like this was an impossible task. She thought of how it seemed as if she’d been led to find Jane and Ann—why would she hit a dead end now?
“Wait a second,” Nate said. “What’s the date of birth for Gloria’s brother, Jason?”
Helen looked down at her notes. “August22, 1968.”
“I’ve got an obituary,” he said.
“You’re kidding!”
“He died in 1987, from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident.”
“Shit,” Helen said. “He was so young.”
“He was living in Keene, New Hampshire. He’d just graduated from high school there the year before. And listen to this: ‘Jason was predeceased by his parents, Samuel Gray and Ann Whitcomb Gray. He is survived by his sister, Gloria Whitcomb. He is also survived by his uncle and aunt, Mark and Sara Whitcomb, and his cousins, Rebecca Whitcomb, Stacy Whitcomb, and Marie Whitcomb.’ ”
“Wait a second,” Helen said, turning the laptop to get a better look. “His sister is listed as GloriaWhitcomb?”
“That’s what it says,” Nate said, pointing out the line in the obituary.
Helen’s mind whirred. “They must have gone to live with their uncle Mark and Gloria changed her last name.”
“But why did she change her name and Jason didn’t?”
“Hell if I know, but let’s do a search for any Gloria Whitcombs in New Hampshire.”
Helen glanced at Nate’s laptop, streaming the live feeds of his cameras: views of their trailer, yard, and new house with a glowing green cast. She was sure she saw movement: a figure leaving the house, moving so fast it seemed to fly across the yard, into the woods, moving down toward the bog.
“Okay, got something,” Nate said.
“What is it?” she asked, moving over to stand behind him, squinting down at the screen while he read.
“Listen to this, it’s a wedding announcement from 1998 in theKeene Sentinel:‘Gloria Whitcomb, of Keene, New Hampshire, and Dustin Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont, were united in marriage on June2 at St. James Episcopal Church in Keene. The bride is the daughter of Mark and Sara Whitcomb of Keene. The groom is the son of Howard and Margaret Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont.’ ”
Dustin Kissner.
The name pinged in Helen’s brain.
“That’s Olive’s father,” Helen said.
Nate typed more, brow furrowed. “Yup. Current address is listed as 389 Westmore Road. That’s Olive’s place. So is Gloria Olive’s mother?”
“No, her name is Lori, I’m sure of it.”
