for the funeral. That’s what was so troubling to him. Ambrose had spent days planning it. Without any heirs, he did not worry about money. His brother didn’t get the best in life, so Ambrose made damn sure he would get the best in death. The casket and headstone were as lavish as he could buy while still remaining tasteful, a quality that his mother regarded above all others.
“You can’t buy class,” she loved to say.
“You can’t buy life, either,” he thought out loud.
Kate Reese and the sheriff both attended the funeral. The sheriff had been kind enough to drive to Ambrose in person to tell him that the DNA was indeed a match. When the sheriff brought out the evidence bag with the lock of David’s hair, Ambrose squinted up at him and shook his head. The two looked at each other. Soldier and cop.
“Keep it in the evidence bag, Sheriff. We’re going to solve this crime.”
That was it. The sheriff nodded and put the evidence bag back into his pocket.
“Sheriff,” Ambrose finally said, “would you come to my brother’s funeral?”
“I would be honored to, sir.”
Ambrose did his Catholic best at the funeral. He listened to Father Tom’s mass about peace and forgiveness. He ate the Communion wafer, which tasted like a stale Styrofoam cup. He willed himself to help carry the casket—let his back and two arthritic knees be damned. He would have broken his back before he let David be put in the ground without him. Father Tom delivered a final word at the grave. Ambrose put a rose on the headstone.
But there was no peace. There were no tears.
There was only this uneasy feeling.
That this was not over.
His little brother was not at peace.
And Ambrose had to go to his old house. Right now.
He still had a car, but with his bad eyes, the state had already taken his license. Luckily, Kate Reese offered to drive him since she lived in the old neighborhood. Ambrose was grateful for the company because another feeling had started to bubble up inside him as he got closer and closer to the old house.
It was something close to terror.
Don’t open the door. It’s not a baby! Your brother was telling the truth!
Ambrose put his foot on the old porch. He rang the doorbell. As he waited, he looked down at the exact spot where he had found the baby carriage. He could still hear the sound of the baby’s cries. He could still hear the police speaking to his father.
We found no fingerprints on the tape recorder, sir. No prints on the carriage.
Then, who put it there?!
And his mother speaking to him.
Why didn’t you watch your little brother?!
Ambrose turned his sights back to the neighborhood to get the bad out of his body. For a moment, he could remember that final summer before David started getting sick. All the fathers worked on their cars in the driveways with their sons. Barry Hopkins was trying to turn that old piece-of-shit ’42 Dodge into something. The street was safe. People looked out for each other. All the men listened to the Pirates game on the radio while all the women busied themselves in the living rooms with games of bridge, white wine, and gin. The following summer after David had disappeared, people did not spend as much time in their driveways. Kids were almost never outside. And as far as the bridge games went, if they were happening, no families invited the Olsons. It hurt his mother’s feelings deeply, but Ambrose always understood that people are afraid that tragedy is contagious. Still, it would have been nice if his mother hadn’t lost her friends along with her son.
“Hello? May I help you?”
Ambrose turned around to see a young woman. She was maybe thirty years old. Pleasant and pretty. He instinctively took off his hat and felt the winter air settle on his bald scalp.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you. I used to live in this house with my family. And uh…”
Ambrose trailed off. He wanted to ask her if he could look around, but now being here, he didn’t know if he wanted to go inside. His chest tightened. Something was wrong here. Kate Reese jumped right in.
“Mr. Olson wanted to know if he could look around. I’m Kate Reese. I live right down the street,” she said, pointing down the hill.
“Of course. Please, come in, Mr. Olson. My house is your house. Or should I say your house is my