“Ms. Oliver?”
“Ms. Oliver told her to go back and get them. Stella didn’t want to. Ms. Oliver forced her to get them. Stella picked the flowers up, and I watched them shrivel and die by the time she walked from here to the SUV.”
“Where were they parked?”
I pointed down the road. “Over there.”
“That’s only about thirty feet.”
“Yep.”
“So she somehow killed the flowers in thirty seconds?”
“Less than that.”
“Then she climbed into the SUV and drove off into the sunset?”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
Neither of us said anything for a minute. When Dunk finally replied, he chose his words carefully. “I believe that you believe you saw her kill the flowers. How about we leave it at that for now?”
“She wasn’t wearing gloves,” I said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“Every other time I met her here, she had gloves on. Whether it was hot or cold. Not this time, though. I think Ms. Oliver wanted me to see that. I think Ms. Oliver kept her from wearing gloves so I’d see that.”
“If that’s true, how would Oliver know you would bring flowers?”
“I don’t know.”
The image of the man in the alley popped into my mind. I tried to stamp it back, but he grew more vivid, the dry, old, burned-looking flesh, the hollow eyes looking back at me.
Your little girlfriend did this.
“You said she shows up on the same day every year, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, August 8.”
Dunk’s eyes narrowed, and I could see his brain churning. “Then we’ve got one year to come up with a plan.”
“For what?”
“To follow them. We’re going to figure out where those SUVs go when they leave here.”
August 8, 1988
Twelve Years Old
Log 08/08/1988—
Subject “D” within expected parameters.
Audio/video recording.
“They let him have a phone today.”
“Seriously? How did that work?”
