“But why did she change her name and Jason didn’t?”

“Hell if I know, but let’s do a search for any Gloria Whitcombs in New Hampshire.”

Helen glanced at Nate’s laptop, streaming the live feeds of his cameras: views of their trailer, yard, and new house with a glowing green cast. She was sure she saw movement: a figure leaving the house, moving so fast it seemed to fly across the yard, into the woods, moving down toward the bog.

“Okay, got something,” Nate said.

“What is it?” she asked, moving over to stand behind him, squinting down at the screen while he read.

“Listen to this, it’s a wedding announcement from 1998 in the Keene Sentinel: ‘Gloria Whitcomb, of Keene, New Hampshire, and Dustin Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont, were united in marriage on June 2 at St. James Episcopal Church in Keene. The bride is the daughter of Mark and Sara Whitcomb of Keene. The groom is the son of Howard and Margaret Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont.’ ”

Dustin Kissner.

The name pinged in Helen’s brain.

“That’s Olive’s father,” Helen said.

Nate typed more, brow furrowed. “Yup. Current address is listed as 389 Westmore Road. That’s Olive’s place. So is Gloria Olive’s mother?”

“No, her name is Lori, I’m sure of it.”

“Could Lori be short for Gloria?”

“Oh god, I guess you’re right. But…she disappeared last year,” Helen said quietly.

“Disappeared?” Nate asked.

“Rumor has it she ran off with a man, but Riley was telling me that Olive thinks maybe something else happened. Riley seemed a little worried, too. She seemed to think that maybe her leaving had something to do with Dustin. That he’d scared her.”

“What? Like he threatened her in some way?”

“Nate,” she said, “what if he…what if Olive’s dad did something to Gloria? Hurt her. Or worse. And what if Olive found out?”

“Helen, you don’t know—”

“Maybe it’s not Gloria I’m supposed to find and save,” she said. “Maybe it’s Olive.”

CHAPTER 44

Olive

SEPTEMBER 13, 2015

Her father was standing in the kitchen, wearing his town work shirt with his name stitched over the chest pocket. DUSTIN.

Dusty, his friends called him.

But his friends didn’t come around anymore. Not since Mama left. Not since they started their endless renovations. The knocking down of the walls, the piles of dust, the drywall and tape and compound and holes in the ceiling and floors.

“What are you doing with the gun, Olive?”

It was his serious, no-bullshit I’m the dad here voice. He called her Olive only when he was scared or angry or both.

She pulled the diary out of her back pocket, dropped it on the worn kitchen table.

“I found this in the shed,” she said.

He glanced down at it but kept his eyes on her, on the gun that was pointed at him.