“That’s Lola,” Margaret said. “The dead girl.”

Sheryl Ann sifted through the stack. “What’s this?” she asked, holding up bookkeeper vouchers, records of debts paid. “Payments from Paramount and Warner Brothers Studios to someone named Marie Antoinette.”

Margaret dug through the file folder she’d found wedged behind the H. “There’s a film reel here too,” she noted, digging into the bottom of the container.

“Does it make any sense that Charlotte died for…this?” Sheryl Ann asked. “What is this? Some bills, bookkeeper vouchers, some photos, and a film reel?”

From above them, at the top of the mountain behind the sign, they heard a car slowly driving over gravel.

“We should get going,” Margaret whispered. The steep canyon wall blocked her view of the car. They heard footsteps and Margaret stuffed everything back in the folder, and the two women began cautiously walking down the mountain.

Some rocks dislodged above them and rolled by. Margaret looked over her shoulder to see the silhouette of a large man determinedly moving down the hill.

“Sheryl Ann!” she cried.

“I see!”

It was difficult to go much faster, given the steep precipice and the dim light; Margaret stumbled on a bush. She recovered, reclaimed the folder, and continued her controlled rush down the mountain. When she found the semblance of a trail they’d used on their way up, she paused and looked back and saw Sheryl Ann fighting off the man. With his free hand, he pulled out a gun, aimed it at Margaret, and fired.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Anaheim, California

April 1962

“Hop in front,” Charlie said as he and Violet scurried to the canoe. He had originally planned for them to swim and couldn’t believe their luck.

He looked back at Fort Wilderness. Lawford and Davis continued to sing, the crowd was still cheering, no one seemed to have any idea they had left.

“Okay,” Violet said as she stepped into the boat. “Thank you.”

He looked at her, hoping she was still the same good-natured kid he’d met some Christmases ago given that she’d been through God only knew what since running away from home. Margaret was going to be so happy, so relieved, so grateful, he thought. He slid the vessel off the banks and into the water, stepped in, knelt, found an oar, and began paddling.

“How do we get out?” she asked. They were cloaked in the night as Charlie guided them through the imitation Missouri, but he gently whispered, “Shh,” as he clutched the oar. She nodded. She got it.