“She died when I was young, but I remember her some, yes. She taught me to play checkers. No one could beat that old lady. I mean no one.”

Helen believed that.

“Lived to be ninety-nine years old,” he said. “Almost a century. Imagine that.”

“That’s wonderful,” Helen said. “This might sound odd, but I’m wondering about a piece of jewelry your grandmother might have owned. A necklace with a circle, triangle, and square.”

He nodded. “I know the one you mean.”

Helen’s heart jumped. She’d been right.

“Do you have it? Is it still in your family? I’d love to have a look at it.”

He shook his head. “We sold it. A little over a year ago. Lady came in here, just like you, asking all sorts of questions about it. She offered cash. Three hundred bucks. A lot of money to pay for an ugly old necklace, if you ask me,” he said.

“Three hundred bucks?” the girl behind the counter asked. “Really?”

The man nodded.

“Well, maybe it was really old and valuable, like a relic or something. Something that belongs in a museum,” the girl suggested. “Maybe it was really worth way more than that and that lady took you for a ride.”

“I don’t think so,” the man said. “And to be honest with you, Louise and I, we were happy to get rid of it. Louise used to say that necklace was cursed.”

“Why would she say that?” the girl asked.

“Because it once belonged to Hattie Breckenridge.”

“No kidding?” the girl said. “The witch? The one that got hung out by the bog?”

Marty nodded, ran a hand over one of the straps of his overalls.

Helen winced as she remembered the photograph: the smiling crowd gathered at the base of the tree while Hattie swung up above them. The witch was dead.

She looked at Marty, thought, Your grandmother did that. She was there. Her smile was the biggest, the most satisfied. Helen felt her own throat tighten, as if there were an invisible noose around her neck.

“Do you know the name of the woman you sold the necklace to?” Helen asked, forcing the words through the knot in her throat.

“Of course I do,” Marty said. “Small town like this, I knew just who she was. It was that Lori Kissner girl. The one who took off and left her husband and daughter.”

“Oh, I know who you mean,” the girl said. “Her daughter’s a real freak. I feel bad for her, what with her mother running around with all different men and the whole town knowing it—but Olive’s a freak.”

“Olive?” Helen echoed, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Yeah.” The girl shrugged her shoulders. “The kids at school all call her Odd Oliver.”

CHAPTER 38

Olive

SEPTEMBER 13, 2015