THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

My feet were cut up from the gravel.

I didn’t feel it.

Ten minutes.

Maybe twelve.

Then Scout stopped.

And sat.

In front of a shed.

An old picking shed at the far end of the orchard.

Gray boards.

Tar-paper roof.

One dusty window.

I’d lived in Wrenfield for eleven years.

I’d never known it was there.

My heart started slamming.

Because nothing about that shed made sense.

The boards were rotting.

But the padlock hanging on it was new.

Shiny brass.

The orange price sticker still stuck to the bottom.

In the mud beside the door were tire tracks.

Fresh.

Deep.

And there was a smell.

Faint.

Coffee.

And something else.

Something that made my throat close.

Strawberry shampoo.

I stepped closer.

And I heard it.

Humming.

Soft.

Behind the boards.

A little made-up tune.

Four notes up.

Two notes down.

Ruby’s painting song.

She’d hummed it every time she held a brush since she was four.