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Authors: Cheryl Bradshaw
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they were older. How much older?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who opened the attic window?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“It was hot. We were sweaty from playing the game.”
“What game?”
“Hide-and-seek.”
Addison glanced around the room, noting the size. It was equivalent to a classroom in an elementary school. And sparse. With the exception of the coat closet, only a few boxes of toys remained. None big enough to hide inside. “There aren’t a lot of places to hide in here.”
“It used to be filled with stuff. Mama took it all out.”
“When you were playing, who took Grace’s doll and threw it onto the roof?”
Vivian’s face scrunched up, and she uttered two words that would change everything. “What doll?”
CHAPTER 18
Was it possible Vivian was lying about the doll? No. She couldn’t be. Looking at her now, the child appeared flummoxed by Addison’s question. And yet, there had been a doll, a doll that was the core everything. Every clue, every suspicion, every conclusion.
If the doll had nothing to do with their deaths, what did? Or who?
“Vivian,” Addison began, “the police found a doll on the roof the night you died.”
“Well, I didn’t put it there.”
“I believe you, but someone did. The police decided you and Grace fell from the attic window after trying to retrieve the doll from the roof.”
“What does retrieve mean?”
“It means trying to get something.”
“Grace wouldn’t ever go on the roof. She wouldn’t even climb trees with me.”
“Who else knew this about her?” Addison asked.
“I don’t know. Just me, I guess.”
“Are you saying your parents didn’t know? Or your brother?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Did you play with dolls? Did Grace?”
“Nah. Mama bought them for us, but we liked other things, like Mr. Potato Head. Did your mom buy you a Mr. Potato Head?”
Addison didn’t hear the question. Her mind was elsewhere, processing what Vivian had told her so far. A doll was found on the roof, except Vivian had no recollection of it. Grace was afraid of heights. Neither of the girls liked dolls, so it was unlikely either of them would have cared enough to go after it.
“Vivian, do you have any idea how you died?”
“I see pictures in my head sometimes. They’re really fuzzy, like when we used to drive in the car real fast on the freeway and I looked out the window at all the trees.”
If Addison was going to get to the truth, she needed to jog Vivian’s memory. “I’m going to try something, and I don’t want you to be afraid, okay?”
Vivian nodded. “Okay.”
Addison walked to the attic window, brushing one curtain panel to the side with a hand. She felt a sharp pain and looked down. Her finger was bleeding, having been cut on a sliver of wood next to a bent, rusty nail jutting out from the corner of the windowsill.
“What are you doing? Don’t open the curtains. Someone might see!”
“It’s okay. I have to do this, Vivian. Trust me.”
Addison closed her eyes and pressed both hands onto the window ledge. When her eyes opened, the room had changed. The attic was no longer bleak and depleted in contents. It was filled to the brim with furniture and boxes, all sorts of play toys and unwanted items. Music boomed through the house, the tune a familiar one—something her own mother played when she was a child. “Jive Talkin’” by the Bee Gees. The sound permeated every orifice, drowning out everything else in its wake.
A pig-tailed girl in a yellow dress faced the corner, counting. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”
The girl turned, hands on hips, sizing up the room like a predator stalking its prey. The girl was Grace or Vivian, but Addison couldn’t determine which.
The girl said, “Ready or not, here I come.”
She tore through the room, yanking lids off boxes, opening dresser drawers, glancing behind a piano, an old wooden bed frame, a mirror. Seconds later she clapped her hands.
“I don’t know.”
“Who opened the attic window?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“It was hot. We were sweaty from playing the game.”
“What game?”
“Hide-and-seek.”
Addison glanced around the room, noting the size. It was equivalent to a classroom in an elementary school. And sparse. With the exception of the coat closet, only a few boxes of toys remained. None big enough to hide inside. “There aren’t a lot of places to hide in here.”
“It used to be filled with stuff. Mama took it all out.”
“When you were playing, who took Grace’s doll and threw it onto the roof?”
Vivian’s face scrunched up, and she uttered two words that would change everything. “What doll?”
CHAPTER 18
Was it possible Vivian was lying about the doll? No. She couldn’t be. Looking at her now, the child appeared flummoxed by Addison’s question. And yet, there had been a doll, a doll that was the core everything. Every clue, every suspicion, every conclusion.
If the doll had nothing to do with their deaths, what did? Or who?
“Vivian,” Addison began, “the police found a doll on the roof the night you died.”
“Well, I didn’t put it there.”
“I believe you, but someone did. The police decided you and Grace fell from the attic window after trying to retrieve the doll from the roof.”
“What does retrieve mean?”
“It means trying to get something.”
“Grace wouldn’t ever go on the roof. She wouldn’t even climb trees with me.”
“Who else knew this about her?” Addison asked.
“I don’t know. Just me, I guess.”
“Are you saying your parents didn’t know? Or your brother?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Did you play with dolls? Did Grace?”
“Nah. Mama bought them for us, but we liked other things, like Mr. Potato Head. Did your mom buy you a Mr. Potato Head?”
Addison didn’t hear the question. Her mind was elsewhere, processing what Vivian had told her so far. A doll was found on the roof, except Vivian had no recollection of it. Grace was afraid of heights. Neither of the girls liked dolls, so it was unlikely either of them would have cared enough to go after it.
“Vivian, do you have any idea how you died?”
“I see pictures in my head sometimes. They’re really fuzzy, like when we used to drive in the car real fast on the freeway and I looked out the window at all the trees.”
If Addison was going to get to the truth, she needed to jog Vivian’s memory. “I’m going to try something, and I don’t want you to be afraid, okay?”
Vivian nodded. “Okay.”
Addison walked to the attic window, brushing one curtain panel to the side with a hand. She felt a sharp pain and looked down. Her finger was bleeding, having been cut on a sliver of wood next to a bent, rusty nail jutting out from the corner of the windowsill.
“What are you doing? Don’t open the curtains. Someone might see!”
“It’s okay. I have to do this, Vivian. Trust me.”
Addison closed her eyes and pressed both hands onto the window ledge. When her eyes opened, the room had changed. The attic was no longer bleak and depleted in contents. It was filled to the brim with furniture and boxes, all sorts of play toys and unwanted items. Music boomed through the house, the tune a familiar one—something her own mother played when she was a child. “Jive Talkin’” by the Bee Gees. The sound permeated every orifice, drowning out everything else in its wake.
A pig-tailed girl in a yellow dress faced the corner, counting. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”
The girl turned, hands on hips, sizing up the room like a predator stalking its prey. The girl was Grace or Vivian, but Addison couldn’t determine which.
The girl said, “Ready or not, here I come.”
She tore through the room, yanking lids off boxes, opening dresser drawers, glancing behind a piano, an old wooden bed frame, a mirror. Seconds later she clapped her hands.
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