“We don’t know who or what they really are,” the paragraph at the top of the page read. “We don’t know where they are. And we have no idea what these little monsters look like now. But what we do know—what wecanknow, anyway, with the public’s help—is what the faces of evil looked like when they attacked. May we never forget that terror can wear a facade of innocence. May we always remember the reaping.”
Below that simple paragraph was a searchable database of photographs, which could be narrowed by state or by name. I tapped on the letterE.
“Essig, Erica” was near the top of the list, and when I clicked on the thumbnail, the image opened at its full size.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” Lenore asked around a mouthful of what could only have been the New York dog, based on the slaw hanging over her lip.
“I found Erica Essig.”
“Who’s that?” Gallagher asked from the backseat.
I wedged myself sideways in the front passenger seat so I could include him. “Elizabeth Essig’s youngest aunt. She was taken into custody by the US government in 1986, as the surrogate responsible for the slaughter of her own siblings, John and Laura Essig, ages twelve and ten.”
“When you say youfoundher...?” Lenore left the question hanging.
“I found a picture. It’s pretty good quality, so I suspect it was scanned.” I turned the phone around so they could both see the screen.
“Okay. Cute kid.” Lenore shrugged. “I mean, she would be if I didn’t already know she was a murderer. So, what are we supposed to take from this?”
“I think she’s my changeling.”
“What?”
“We know that as an infant, I was left in Elizabeth’s place for my mother to raise. I think Erica was left in mine.”
“Why on earth would you think that?” Gallagher asked.
I zoomed in on the chubby little-girl face, then held the phone up next to my left cheek, so they could see us together. “Erica Essig is thespitting imageof me at six years old.”
June 1995
“No, no, no, I don’t wanna drive anymore!” Elizabeth Essig stomped her little feet in the gas station parking lot, glaring into the open driver’s side door of her mother’s car at a booster seat stained by grape juice and littered with orange cracker crumbs. “I wanna go home.”
Rebecca bit back the urge to point out that in order to go home, they’d have to drive some more, because at that moment, “home” was a somewhat fluid concept. Especially for a four-year-old in the middle of her first move.
“Home is where we’re going, Beth.” Rebecca squatted in front of her daughter and set the plastic bag full of road trip snacks on the ground. “We’re going to ournewhome. Remember, I showed you pictures of the new house, and your new yellow room?”
Beth nodded, still pouting, and crossed chubby arms over the front of her T-shirt.
“But to get there, we have to get back in the car and drive for a few more hours.”
“Why is the new house so far away?” Beth demanded, and her mother’s eyes fell closed for a second as she took a deep breath, grasping for patience. “Why can’t we get a new house that’s closer? Why can’t we stay with Grandma Janice anymore? I like my pink room. I don’twanta yellow room!”
“Elizabeth, we’ve been over this. My new job is in Oklahoma. We have to move there because a ten-hour daily commute is more than I can handle.”
The four-year-old frowned.
“Your new preschool is in Oklahoma, and you’re going to make lots of good friends.”
“Can I go to a slumber party with my new friends?”
Rebecca cringed at the thought. Beth had seen a movie on TV about three little girls who’d solved the mystery of the missing teddy bear at a sleepover, and she’d become obsessed with the idea of sleeping at a friend’s house. She had no idea that the memories her mother associated with slumber parties included blood-soaked carpet and police cars.
“You can have a slumber party atourhouse,” Becca said at last. “Once school has started and you’ve made some friends.” That way she wouldn’t have to worry about some other girl’s brainwashed parents turning into homicidal maniacs in the middle of the night.
“What about Grandma Janice?”
