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“Mama,” the girl said, sitting up a little straighter and pulling on her mother’s arm. She pointed, and her mother followed her finger’s path. “We don’t have to use the door,” she said. “We can use the window.”
36
Present Day
It couldn’t be, Wylie thought. It wasn’t possible. Becky was dead. Had died years ago. She was certain of it.
But what if that wasn’t the case? What if Becky had been hidden away for all these years? What if she’d had a child with the man who took her?
A surge of guilt crashed over her. Wylie’s mind flashed back to the night of the murders when she and Becky were in her bedroom, the moonlight splashing through the window. Just a short time later, Becky was gone.
Becky wouldn’t have even been at the house if it hadn’t been for Wylie.
A little voice in her head nagged and poked at her. The horseshoe-shaped scar on the woman’s hand, a twin to her own.
Wylie blinked and gave a small shake of her head. It was impossible. Becky Allen was dead.
For years, Wylie ran from her past, from this house, from that deadly night, from the man who had stolen her entire family from her.
Not long after her parents were murdered, Wylie moved with her grandparents two hundred miles from Burden to begin a new life, to get a fresh start, to escape the reminders of all that they lost. And to get away from the man that everyone knew killed them.
Her grandparents tried to create a new life for her, but her past haunted her no matter where she went. She was always Josie Doyle—the girl whose family was murdered, whose best friend vanished without a trace. So when she was old enough and she knew she couldn’t be Josie Doyle any longer, she took theWfrom William, theLfrom Lynne, theEfrom Ethan, and her grandmother’s maiden name and had become Wylie Lark.
Then she began to write books about terrible crimes. Why? She never tried to analyze it too closely, but it made sense. The murder of her family and the kidnapping of her friend had never been officially solved so she would chronicle the tragedies of others.
Until now. Now she was writing her own story. Josie Doyle’s story for the entire world to read and to examine.
No. Wylie shut the folder and stood. It was crazy—Becky was dead. She was determined to push the thought from her head when she heard a faint rumbling sound coming from outside.
“What is it?” the woman asked fearfully.
The little girl ran to the front window and pulled back the curtain. “I can see a light,” she exclaimed. “It’s way up on the road.”
“Come here,” her mother ordered. “Get away from there.” Guiltily, the girl returned to her mother’s side.
“I think it’s the snowplow,” Wylie said with relief.
They paused to listen to the grumble of an engine and the unmistakable scrape of snow being pushed aside. Seeing the alarmed expression on the woman’s face, Wylie spoke. “This is a good thing. It means the storm is winding down. They’ll get the power going soon and we’ll have electricity and heat.” The woman didn’t look convinced.
The engine suddenly went silent. “Is it gone?” the girl asked. “Are they all done?”
“Maybe, but they’ll be back to clear the other side of the road,” Wylie explained.
The girl left her mother’s side and returned to the window. “How come I still see a light?” she asked. Wylie joined her and the woman even eased from her spot on the couch to see. “Maybe he’s stuck,” the girl offered.
“More likely he saw your overturned truck and stopped,” Wylie said. “I’m going to go check it out, talk to him.”
“Please don’t,” the woman said. “Stay here.”
“I’ll be gone for only a minute. Don’t worry. He’ll have a radio on the plow. He can help us,” Wylie said.
Ignoring the woman’s protests, Wylie grabbed her coat from the back of the sofa and a flashlight and moved to the mudroom. She shoved her feet into her boots and tucked her hair beneath a stocking cap. She had to catch the snowplow driver before he left. In the very least he could radio for help, let the authorities know they needed medical attention.
Wylie threw open the door and came face-to-face with a man dressed in winter gear. Startled, she dropped the flashlight and it fell to the ground with a clatter and rolled away. They both bent over to retrieve it.
Wylie got to the flashlight first. “Oh, God, you scared me,” she laughed nervously. “I was just coming out to try and catch you.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said as they both stood upright.
