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“Is there anyone else you remember being in the bakery that afternoon?” Cole asked. “Anyone who went toward the back kitchen.”
Norma was quiet for longer this time. Her needle moved through the canvas once, twice, while she thought.
“There were a few people who came and went,” she said slowly. “It was busy enough that I wasn’t tracking everyone carefully. That was the problem.” She paused. “I remember a woman coming in for a collection—she’d ordered something for Christmas. I remember one of the Hendersons stopping by.” She shook her head. “But I was at the front counter. I wasn’t watching the back entrance.”
Emily inhaled deeply through her nose. “That’s true. Anyone could’ve slipped in through the back and out again, unnoticed.”
They were silent for a minute. Neither Cole nor Emily knew what else to ask.
“Well, at least we’ve narrowed the timeline down,” Cole offered helpfully.
“True,” Emily said, clearly not satisfied.
They left soon after that, Norma walking them to the door.
“You’ll find out what happened, I know you will.” Russell was tucked under her arm.
“Thanks,” Emily replied.
Cole could hear the uncertainty in her voice.
Outside, the snow had begun falling harder, soft flakes drifting beneath a pearl-gray sky. The street looked like a Christmas card with porch railings wrapped in evergreen, wreaths hanging from nearly every door, and tire tracks disappearing beneath fresh powder.
He held the gate and they walked back toward the truck in silence. Cole had his hands in his coat pockets and his eyes on the pavement and his mind somewhere in 2009, turning the afternoon over: the alley door, the fifteen-minute window, the busy front counter, and he was so absorbed in it that he almost didn’t notice they were passing the elementary school.
Almost.
The snowball caught him square on the shoulder.
Cole stopped walking.
He turned slowly toward the playground fence, where eight children in brightly colored coats had frozen, waiting to see what would happen next. One small boy in a red hat was still in the throwing position, arm extended, the picture of incrimination.
The boy looked at Cole.
Cole looked at the boy.
Emily made a sound beside him. He glanced at her. She had her hand over her mouth, and her shoulders were shaking, and her eyes were very bright.
Cole looked back at the boy in the red hat. Then he bent down, packed a snowball.
The boy’s eyes went wide.
“Run,” Cole said pleasantly.
The playground erupted.
THIRTY-FIVE
EMILY
Monday, December 21st
The boy in the red hat ran.
So did everyone else. Seven children scattered across the playground in seven different directions, shrieking and laughing as their plan came together.
Emily stood on the pavement and watched Cole Alders, fire chief of Maple Falls, vault the playground fence in one easy motion.
