The Winter People(43)

“Would you like a drink?” Candace asked. “Or something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ve got cookies.”

“No, thanks.”

Candace stood up. “I’ll just go get us some cookies. Maybe some tea. Do you want tea?”

“No, really, I’m good. I don’t need anything.”

“I’ll be right back, then.”

Ruthie sat perched on the edge of the couch, listening to Candace’s footsteps echo off down the hallway. She waited a minute, then stood up to look around. She went first to the Christmas tree and discovered, on closer inspection, that it was not so perfect after all. It had shed a lot of its needles, and was dry as a bone. Many of the ornaments were broken and had been put back together with tape and rubber bands. And the tree itself, Ruthie noticed now, was off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. The star that had been at the top was stuck in a branch below, like a bird fallen from its nest.

Seeing the tree up close gave Ruthie an uneasy feeling. Then she looked down at the toy kitchen and saw that there, in a tiny pot on the stove, was a real orange, shriveled and covered with mold.

She went over to the puppet theater and looked behind it to see a tangled pile of broken puppets: a king missing his crown, a headless frog, and a naked princess whose face had been colored with blue Magic Marker and who had a pencil jammed into her stomach like a yellow spear.

Ruthie turned and left the living room, heading back down the hall, away from the front door and toward where she guessed the kitchen must be. She heard the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. All along the walls of the hallway were picture hooks, but no pictures.

At last, she reached the kitchen, where Candace stood in front of a large gas range. The countertops were granite, the cabinets some dark wood polished to a shine. But something was wrong. There was nothing on the counters—no loaf of bread or bowl of fruit, no coffeemaker or toaster. The cabinets that Candace had left open were nearly empty—some crackers, a can of tuna, a box of Crystal Light.

“I know there are cookies here somewhere. Fig Newtons. They’re Luke’s favorite.”

“Luke?”

“My son,” she said, running a hand through her messy hair.

Ruthie thought of the puppet with the pencil through its belly and wasn’t sure she wanted to meet the kid who was responsible.

“He’s with his father,” Candace said, still playing with her hair, wrapping a strand around her index finger and giving it a tug. “We’re divorced, you see, and Randall has full custody now. He’s … Well, never mind about that. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

They sat at the large wooden table. It was covered with a film of dust.

“You said your parents were friends with Tom and Bridget?”

“Yeah.” Ruthie fiddled with the clasp on her bag, reached in to touch the wallets. “So you know them, right?” Ruthie’s heart started to beat faster. “Maybe you can help me? I know it’s crazy, but my mom, she kind of … vanished.”

“Vanished?” Candace bobbed forward.

Ruthie nodded vigorously. “Yeah. And while we were looking through her stuff to try to figure it out, we found these.” She pulled out the wallets, handed them over.

Candace took the wallets and opened them up with shaking hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s been so long. Tom was—or is—my brother. He and his wife, they disappeared sixteen years ago. Along with their daughter.”

“Daughter?” Ruthie’s throat tightened.

“Wait here. Just a minute.”

Candace hurried from the room, the soles of her running shoes squeaking on the tile floor.

Ruthie’s sense of unease grew. A voice in the back of her mind hissed out a warning: Leave this place. Run.

She was standing up, hesitating, when Candace came back with a photo in a gold frame. “This is them,” she said, thrusting the framed picture at Ruthie.

Ruthie looked down at the now familiar face of Thomas, identical to his driver’s-license photo. The air felt thin and strange. The room seemed to get smaller and darker. Ruthie took an extra gulp of air as she stared down at the photo.

Beside Thomas was a woman with tortoiseshell cat’s-eye glasses and curly hair.

The woman from Fitzgerald’s.

What do you choose, Dove?

Between the couple, a toddler with dark hair and eyes who had her hand clamped around her mother’s. She wore a burgundy velvet dress and matching headband. On her wrist was a tiny gold bracelet. Her hair was neat and combed, her cheeks were pink, and she wore a smile that said she was the happiest kid on the planet.

Ruthie couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve gotta go,” she whispered, stepping away on shaky legs and running from the kitchen, back down the hall with its empty picture hooks, to the huge paneled wooden front door.

“Wait,” Candace shouted after her. “You can’t go yet!”

But Ruthie was out the door, jogging to the truck. She hopped in and slammed the door. “Punch it,” she said, gasping for breath.

“What happened? Did she know something?” Buzz asked.

“The lady’s nuts. She can’t help us.”

She watched in the rearview mirror as Candace came down the driveway, chased after them on foot, flailing her arms, yelling, “There’s something you need to know!”