Darby woke to the still darkness of her mother’s bedroom, her legs tangled around a blanket. Her mother must have put the blanket on. Darby had no memory of doing it.

Sheila’s breath caught. Darby stood up, leaned in close to her mother and heard Sheila’s soft, ragged breathing. Darby checked her mother’s pulse. It was still strong.

But not for long. Soon, very soon, Sheila would be buried next to Big Red and then Darby would be alone – alone in this house with its lifetime of collected knickknacks and pictures, the dime-store jewelry her mother bargained down at flea markets and discount stores, all of it proudly stored in one of the few valuable items she owned – a beautiful handmade jewelry box handed down from two generations of McCormick women.

No more phone calls. No more words of encouragement. No more shared birthdays and holidays and Sunday night dinners in the city. No more conversations. No more new memories.

And how would she fight to keep the memories she had from fading? Darby thought of her father’s goose-down vest, how she had worn it after he died, lost in its warmth and fading whispers of cigar smoke and Canoe aftershave, feeling close to him. What would she wear of her mother’s to keep Sheila from fading? What had Helena Cruz held of Melanie’s to keep her daughter’s memory alive? Was Dianne Cranmore lying awake in this same darkness right now, sitting in her daughter’s room leveraged between despair and hope, wondering where Carol was, wondering if she was all right, wondering if she was coming home or wondering if she was gone?

Darby lay back against her mother’s bed, the pillow damp with sweat, and wrapped the blanket around her. For no reason at all she saw Rachel Swanson lying in her hospital bed, terrified. Now she was lying inside a morgue cooler with a Y-shaped incision stitched on her chest, the fear still sealed inside of her.

What about Carol? Was she awake now, breathing this same darkness?

Darby didn’t know many things about herself, but she knew this much: she could not, would not, stop searching for Carol. Dead or alive, she would be found.

Darby went down the hallway to the spare bedroom. She clicked on the small desk lamp, turned on the computer and reviewed the photographs.

Here was Rachel Swanson with her strong, plain face and good hair.

Here was Terry Mastrangelo, average looking, black hair. Rachel’s was brown.

Now Carol Cranmore, the youngest, her body having already produced the right amount of curves to get men to look her way. She’d be a knockout in the years to come. Darby had already ruled out physical attraction as a unifying connection. The women didn’t even look the same. Was it something about their personalities?

Darby tried to imagine him sitting behind the wheel of a van, trolling through neighborhoods, searching for women who caught his eye. Had he just happened upon them and then decided to watch them for some period of time before devising an abduction plan?

Fact: he kidnapped these women and kept them somewhere they couldn’t be found. They had no bodies, no evidence. Traveler was careful.

But he had made a mistake at Carol’s house. He had left blood behind. Rachel Swanson had escaped. He planned on doing something to her – getting rid of her seemed the only rational explanation. Rachel was sick. She wasn’t any use to him anymore.

And Rachel Swanson knew that. She had outsmarted him. She was a survivor. She had used her time to devise a plan and had escaped and Traveler had found her and killed her because he was afraid Rachel knew something that would help the police find him. What? What was she missing?

Frustrated, Darby grabbed her Walkman and listened to her taped conversation with Rachel.

‘He’s got me,’ Rachel said over the headphones. ‘He’s got me real good this time.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Yes, he is. I saw him.’

‘There’s no one in here but you and me. You’re safe.’

‘He came to me last night and put on these handcuffs.’

Darby hit STOP. Handcuff key. Rachel said she had a handcuff key. Darby hadn’t found one underneath the porch.

She pressed the PLAY button and leaned forward, listening.

‘I know what he’s looking for,’ Rachel said. ‘I took it from his office. He can’t find it because I buried it.’

‘What did you bury?’

‘I’ll show you, but you’ve got to find a way to help me out of these handcuffs. I can’t find my handcuff key. I must have dropped it.’

Darby stopped the tape again and hunted through the pictures.

Here was one of Rachel Swanson in the back of the ambulance. Her arms were covered in mud. The next three photos were close-ups of the wounds on Rachel’s chest.

Here was a close-up photo of Rachel’s hands. The fingernails were caked with dirt, the skin cut up and bleeding not from fighting but from digging.

Darby ran down to the kitchen and grabbed the cordless. Coop answered on the sixth ring.

‘Coop, it’s Darby.’

‘What’s wrong? Is it your mother?’

‘No, it’s about Rachel Swanson. I think she hid something underneath the porch.’

‘We searched that area, including the trash, and didn’t find anything.’

‘But we didn’t search the ground,’ Darby said. ‘I think she buried something.’

Chapter 51

The rectangular-shaped area underneath the porch was about half the size of a small bedroom. The ground was still muddy. Darby couldn’t see any recent evidence of digging, so she started working in the far left-hand corner where she had first spotted Rachel.

Darby did the digging. She filled the bucket and handed it to Coop. He dumped the dirt on top of the sifter set up on a large garbage can lined with plastic.

They’d been at it for well over an hour, and the only thing they had to show for their efforts was a collection of rocks and glass shards.

Kneeling underneath the porch, her pants wet and soaked with mud, Darby handed Coop another bucketful for sifting. Carol’s mother stood on the neighbor’s back porch, watching them dig, her face twisted with worry and hope.

Coop ducked his head underneath the porch. ‘Just more rocks,’ he said, handing her the empty bucket. ‘What do you think?’

It was the third time Coop had asked the question.

‘I still think she buried something in here,’ Darby said.

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong. I looked at the same pictures you did, and I agree she dug in here with her hands. But I’m beginning to think maybe she buried something only she could see.’

‘You heard the tape. She kept mentioning a handcuff key.’

‘Maybe she believed she had a handcuff key. The woman was delusional, Darb. She thought you were Terry Mastrangelo. She thought the hospital room was her prison cell.’

‘We know, for a fact, she escaped the van. I think she had a handcuff key. It’s got to be around here somewhere.’

‘Okay, let’s say you’re right. What’s a handcuff key going to buy us in terms of evidence?’

‘What do you want to do, Coop? Sit around and wait for Carol Cranmore’s body to turn up?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘I know how badly you want to find something. But there’s nothing here.’

Darby grabbed the trowel and started digging at a feverish pace. She had to remind herself to slow down. She didn’t want to damage any evidence with the trowel.

Rachel Swanson might have been delusional, but it was brought on by real trauma and not some imagined event. The woman had suffered unimaginable horrors over the course of five years. Mixed up in her fear were grains of truth. Something was buried here, Darby could feel it.

‘I think the Dunkin’ Donuts is open,’ Coop said. ‘I’m going to grab a coffee. You want one?’

‘I’m all set.’

Coop crossed the backyard, walking past the crime scene vehicle, which was still parked in its original spot from this morning.