October 17, 2005.
Morgan read the date again.
She was seven years old then.
The same age she had been in the photograph from the cabin.
The golden leaf felt impossibly crisp between her fingers, as though it had fallen from a tree moments ago rather than appeared inside a room with no trees at all.
Morgan slipped it carefully into her pocket.
Mrs. Bell had finally given her answers at the Gathering.
Apparently, she hadn’t given her nearly enough.
Morgan left the historical room and headed for the orchard.
Mrs. Bell was back at the orchard when Morgan arrived. Morgan found her behind the barn stacking empty baskets.
She placed the golden leaf on top of them.
Mrs. Bell stopped.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
“October seventeenth,” Morgan said.
Mrs. Bell didn't touch it.
“2005.”
“I can see that.”
“I was seven.”
“I know.”
Morgan waited.
Mrs. Bell picked up another basket.
Morgan took it from her hands.
“No.”
“Morgan.”
“You told me I had been to that cabin. Now something is telling me I was there the same day Thomas Mercer disappeared twenty-seven years earlier.”
Mrs. Bell looked toward the orchard.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I can't.”
“You mean you won't.”
“No.” Mrs. Bell looked at her. “I mean I can't.”
Morgan's anger faltered.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't remember all of it.”
The answer was so unexpected Morgan said nothing.
Mrs. Bell sat on the edge of the wooden platform beside the barn.
“October seventeenth was always difficult for your grandmother.”
“Because of Thomas?”
“At first.”
Morgan sat beside her.
Mrs. Bell looked toward the western hill.
“After Thomas disappeared, Evelyn refused to go into those woods again.”
“But she took me to the cabin.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You were there.”
Mrs. Bell shook her head.
“I remember Evelyn coming to my house that morning. I remember you wearing that ridiculous purple jacket you refused to take off even though it was too warm for it.”
Morgan glanced toward her.
“You remember my jacket?”
“I remember arguing with your grandmother about it.”
That sounded more believable than almost anything Mrs. Bell had told her so far.
“What happened next?”
“We went to the orchard.”
“And?”
Mrs. Bell's brow furrowed.
“And then it was evening.”
Morgan stared at her.
“That's it?”
“There are hours missing.”
“For you too?”
“Yes.”
Morgan thought about the historical record.
YOU USED TO REMEMBER.
“What do you remember after?”
Mrs. Bell's expression changed.
“Your grandmother was crying.”
Morgan waited.
“She was carrying you out of the woods.”
A chill moved through Morgan.
“Was I hurt?”
“I don't think so.”
“You don't think so?”
“You were awake. You were talking. I remember that.”
“What was I saying?”
Mrs. Bell looked at her.
“You kept asking where Thomas went.”
Morgan stopped breathing for a moment.
“I didn't know Thomas.”
“No.”
“He disappeared before I was born.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would I be asking about him?”
“That is one of the questions your grandmother never answered.”
Morgan looked toward the woods.
“Did anything else happen?”
Mrs. Bell hesitated.
“There was one thing.”
Morgan waited.
“Your jacket.”
“The purple one?”
Mrs. Bell nodded.
“Evelyn burned it.”
Morgan frowned.
“Why?”
“She wouldn't say.”
“Where?”
“Behind your house.”
Morgan stared at her.
“You watched her?”
“Yes.”
“Did she normally destroy my clothes in the backyard?”
Despite everything, Mrs. Bell almost smiled.
“No.”
“So what was wrong with it?”
“I don't know. But she wouldn't touch it with her bare hands.”
Morgan looked again toward the woods.
A purple jacket.
A cabin she couldn't remember.
A day Mrs. Bell couldn't remember.
And a seven-year-old asking about a man who had disappeared in 1978.
Morgan stood.
“I need to go home.”
Her grandmother's bedroom was exactly as Morgan had left it.
Half-sorted boxes covered the floor. Clothes still hung inside the closet.
Morgan had deliberately avoided doing much in here. Sorting kitchen cabinets was one thing. Deciding what to do with her grandmother's clothes was another.
She opened the closet.
Coats.
Dresses.
Cardigans.
A cedar box sat on the upper shelf.
Morgan dragged over a chair.
Inside were photographs, old letters, a pair of gloves, and several pieces of jewelry wrapped in tissue paper.
Nothing purple.
She searched the dresser.
Then the nightstand.
Nothing.
Morgan sat on the edge of the bed.
What exactly had she expected?
Her grandmother had burned the jacket twenty-one years ago.
Morgan rubbed her eyes.
“This is ridiculous.”
Something scraped inside the closet.
Morgan looked up.
Silence.
She stood.
The closet door remained open.
Nothing had moved.
Then she smelled something.
Faint smoke.
And something warm and sweet beneath it.
Morgan stepped closer.
A sleeve protruded between two of her grandmother's coats.
Purple.
Morgan froze.
“No.”
She pulled the coats apart.
A child's jacket hung between them.
Faded purple fabric.
Small enough for a seven-year-old.
Morgan recognized the scuffed cuff immediately. She had done that herself after falling from her bicycle.
The same jacket from the cabin photograph.
Morgan reached toward it.
Then remembered Mrs. Bell.
She wouldn't touch it with her bare hands.
Morgan stopped.
She went downstairs, grabbed a pair of rubber cleaning gloves, and returned.
The jacket was still there.
She lifted it carefully from the hanger.
It smelled faintly of smoke.
The fabric was warm beneath her gloved hands.
Morgan laid it across the bed.
One pocket bulged.
She hesitated before reaching inside.
Her fingers closed around something small.
A key.
Morgan pulled it free.
Brass.
Old.
Nearly identical to the one she'd found beneath the apple tree.
Except this key didn't have her name scratched into it.
It had two letters.
T.M.
Morgan immediately reached into her pocket for her own key.
She placed them side by side.
Same size.
Same shape.
Different teeth.
A pair.
Morgan looked back at the jacket.
Something was stitched into the lining.
She turned it over.
A section near the collar had been repaired by hand with dark thread.
Morgan carefully pulled the fabric apart.
Something crackled inside.
Paper.
She worked it free.
A folded note.
The handwriting belonged to her grandmother.
Morgan unfolded it.
There were only three lines.
Morgan,
If you remember the cabin, I failed.
Whatever you do, do not unlock the red door.
Morgan read it twice.
Then a third time.
The closet door creaked behind her.
Morgan turned.
Nothing.
She looked back at the jacket.
A dark stain was spreading slowly across the purple fabric.
Not blood.
Something black and glossy.
Morgan stepped away.
The stain widened until it formed the rough shape of a handprint.
Five long fingers.
A palm.
Then, beneath it, letters began appearing across the fabric.
YOU ALREADY DID.
