outgrown but that always seems to find its way into bed with her. He presses Ella to his nose and inhales Jordyn’s familiar scent. A combination of her shampoo and the Juicy Fruit gum that Jordyn chews incessantly.
He digs more deeply into the book bag and pulls out a pair of socks and underwear, a hairbrush, a toothbrush sealed inside a plastic baggie. His hand lands on a social studies textbook. It’s heavier than he expects and it tumbles from his fingers and hits the ground hard, thrusting a folded sheet of paper from its pages. Thomas reaches for the paper. It is difficult to pick up but after several tries he is able to snag it with his thick, arthritic fingers. The paper is onion-skin thin and the color of weak tea.
Thomas pushes aside a stack of books sitting on the foot of Jordyn’s bed and sits down to get a better look. Carefully he unfolds the paper and immediately recognizes Jordyn’s narrow feathery print. Pitch is written neatly across the top and below it is a remarkably detailed map of what looks like the train yard.
Below a diamond-shaped compass in the upper right-hand corner is the boarded-up depot, the crisscross hatch marks of the railroad tracks and a half-dozen rectangular-shaped boxcars.
Thomas wants to believe that the map is a geography assignment for Jordyn’s social studies class but the fact that his granddaughter and two friends snuck into the train yard the night before leads him to believe it’s no simple school assignment. Two girls, one with braids, the other with her hair in a high ponytail, are hiding behind one of the boxcars, mischievous grins slashed across their round faces. Jordyn and Violet. A third girl, smaller than the other two, is standing all alone in the middle of the tracks, her mouth opened in a round, black scream.
He examines the drawing more closely and among the wispy pencil strokes meant to represent the winter wheat next to the train yard is a shadowy spot, more of a smudge, really. Thomas takes the paper to the window and holds it up to the light. Yes. There among the grasses is a vague, faceless shape of a person that inexplicably fills him with trepidation.
Again he thinks of the bloodstain he just scrubbed from Jordyn’s jacket. Thomas folds the paper in half and then folds it again, and again until it’s the size of a thick postage stamp. He slides it into his pocket and steps into the hallway. “Jordyn,” he calls out gruffly. “We need to get going. Now.”
Case #92-10945
Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry
Nov. 9, 2017
Violet and I have been eating lunch every day for the last few weeks. She’s quiet, like me, but we talk to each other. I even told her that I liked Gabe and I held my breath waiting for her to say that he was too cute or too popular for me, but she didn’t. She just nodded like it made sense.
We don’t even have to talk all the time. Sometimes we just sit there and eat, not saying anything, and it doesn’t feel weird. Violet always gets hot lunch and I bring cold lunch from home. I think that maybe Violet gets free lunch. I think this because for the last three days the lunch lady only gave her a peanut butter sandwich, apple slices and a carton of milk. My sister says that’s what kids get who are behind on paying their lunch bill.
My mom always packs me a sandwich, a clementine, a bag of chips and some kind of dessert. Today she put in a monster cookie. I broke it in half and tried to give Violet some but she said no thanks. I put it on her tray, anyway.
The other night my mom dropped Violet and me off at the high school basketball game. I was excited because I hardly ever go to the basketball games. Gabe was already there and waved us over so we could sit next to him and his friends. Jordyn was sitting behind us and I could feel her glaring at me from three rows up.
During the game, Gabe asked me for my cell phone number and I had to tell him that I didn’t have one. Violet jumped in and gave Gabe her cell phone number and said that we could text each other using her phone whenever I wanted. No one has ever done something that nice for me