As Cricket paces around me, I feel frustration build. Foolishly, I thought something would jump out immediately, but each shot seems equally innocuous, even the one of her in what appears to be the mysterious rabbit-fur jacket, her hair loose and tousled, her eyes narrowed cynically. The date stamp is from May of this year, almost a month before she disappeared. There’s no way of knowing who took the photo, though, if it was the same guy who gave her the camera and coat, or any of it. Maybe she stole them both. Maybe this is all a dead end, and the pictures mean nothing to anyone, even Shannan while she was still alive to care.

With Will tied up all day, I decide to drive to Comptche to talk to Tally. It will probably be a waste of time. She doesn’t have a crystal ball, obviously, and might not have more insight than I do into the pictures. But right now, I just need to be moving somewhere, following a lead, even if it’s pointless.

Cricket and I arrive after two and find her in her garden tying back vines, readying them for winter. Her face is pink and wind-chapped above the collar of her green fleece jacket.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” I say candidly as she approaches me and takes off her thick work gloves. “Do you know why I’m here?”

She squints, smiling. “I must not have scared you off last time. I wondered.”

There are two wide wicker chairs on her porch, and we sit side by side while she looks through the pictures.

“Does anything jump out at you?” I ask after a moment. “Is that the coat from your dream?”

“I believe so.” She leans forward. “That poor girl. It makes me hurt to think of what she lived through.”

“I know. I feel the same. But if we can figure out who did this to her, it might lead us to Cameron. My instincts still tell me the girls are linked.”

Nodding, Tally says, “Mine, too, or maybe that’s just hope.” She shuffles through the pictures again, more slowly. “Now that I see the coat, I’m wondering if it’s just something really personal to Shannan, something she loved, and that’s why it came through to me? I can’t be sure.”

“It’s all right. I’ll keep thinking. Maybe something will click.”

—

Before I leave, she asks if I want to follow her out to the barn to check on one of the newborns.

Cricket trots ahead of us, through the yard and then the enclosure pasture, tall grass threaded with asters and deep-blue campanula, the last flowers of the season. The barn is old but solid. Pushing open the big door, Tally sends pigeons wheeling high in the rafters. Slanted light comes through cracks in the weathered siding, piercing down through the hayloft in molten shafts.