Chapter 21
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Vivienne stood by the window, the cold glass pressing against her forehead. The rain continued to batter the suburban street, washing away the tire tracks of the mysterious black SUV. Richard placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his eyes scanning the empty yard where the little girl had stood.
"Vivienne," Richard said softly. "You look pale. Tell me exactly what you saw."
"There was a girl," Vivienne whispered, her voice trembling. "She was standing right by that old oak tree across the street. She was young, maybe six years old. And she was wearing a silver locket. It was identical to mine."
Richard’s grip on her shoulder tightened. "Identical? Are you absolutely certain?"
"I am," she replied, turning to face him. "But it wasn't just the locket. She looked right at me. She smiled, and she said, 'She's waiting, Vivienne.' Then the wind blew, and she was simply gone. Like a ghost."
Detective Laura Bennett stepped into the room, overhearing the end of their conversation. "I had officers sweep the perimeter twice. There is no little girl out there. The neighbors haven't seen any children playing in this weather."
"She was there, Detective," Vivienne insisted.
Samuel, who had been quietly observing the old photograph, walked over to the window. "If Theodore sent that car, and Grace left willingly, then this entire scene was staged for us to find. The letter, the photograph, the empty house. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs."
"And the oak tree is the next crumb," Richard concluded.
Without another word, Vivienne turned and walked past the detective, heading straight for the staircase.
"Where are you going?" Laura called out.
"To look at that tree," Vivienne answered, her footsteps echoing down the wooden stairs.
Richard and Samuel followed her out into the pouring rain. The storm had intensified, soaking their clothes instantly. Vivienne marched across the wet asphalt, her eyes fixed on the massive oak tree that stood on the edge of the cul-de-sac. Its thick branches swayed violently in the wind.
She reached the base of the trunk and dropped to her knees in the mud, searching the tangled roots.
"Help me look," Vivienne ordered, wiping the rain from her eyes. "If that girl was a messenger, she left something behind."
Richard knelt beside her, digging his bare hands into the cold, wet earth. Beneath a thick, protruding root, his fingers brushed against something hard and metallic. He pulled it free and wiped away the mud, revealing a small, tarnished brass tin.
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"You were right," Richard said, handing it to Vivienne.
She opened the tin with trembling hands. Inside was a single, rusted key and a matchbook bearing the faded logo of St. Agnes Children's Home.
