Why didn't anyone remember Kiara?
Morgan stood on Main Street with both bracelets clenched in her hand.
The memory had disappeared almost as quickly as it came, leaving fragments behind.
Kiara’s hand in hers.
A yellow jacket.
The woods.
Thomas.
Morgan looked at the man behind the kettle cart.
“What was her last name?”
“Whose?”
“Kiara’s.”
He frowned.
“The little girl you said I used to come here with.”
“I don’t know.”
“You remembered her name.”
“No. You did.”
Morgan stopped.
“What?”
“You told me her name back then.”
Of course.
“Did you know her family?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“Did she live in Bellweather?”
“I assumed so.”
Morgan looked down at the bracelets.
Everyone in Bellweather knew everyone.
They remembered Evelyn Bennett’s granddaughter after eleven years.
They remembered what Morgan wore as a child.
They remembered who sat where, who ordered what, who belonged to which family.
But apparently no one remembered enough about Kiara to give Morgan a last name.
Morgan shoved the bracelets into her pocket.
DC could wait.
She was going back to the house.
Morgan began with photographs.
Her grandmother had kept hundreds of them.
Albums filled two shelves in the living room. More were stacked in boxes beneath the staircase.
Morgan pulled everything dated between 2003 and 2006.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
School events.
The orchard.
Summer cookouts.
Morgan appeared everywhere.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with cousins.
Sometimes with children whose names she no longer remembered.
But no Kiara.
Morgan checked again.
Nothing.
She found the purple jacket in three photographs.
In one, Morgan stood beside her grandmother at the orchard.
In another, she held a pumpkin almost as large as her torso.
The third had been taken in the kitchen.
Morgan sat at the table grinning at the camera with a piece of cornbread in one hand.
An empty chair sat beside her.
Morgan stared at it.
Something about the picture felt wrong.
She brought it closer.
Two plates sat on the table.
One in front of Morgan.
One in front of the empty chair.
Both held cornbread.
Two glasses of milk.
Two napkins.
Morgan turned the photograph over.
Her grandmother’s handwriting covered the back.
October 16, 2005
Beneath the date:
Morgan complained that Kiara got the bigger piece.
Morgan sat down hard.
There it was.
Proof.
Not a supernatural message.
Not a memory.
Her grandmother had written Kiara’s name herself.
Morgan grabbed her phone and called Mrs. Bell.
This time, she answered.
“Morgan?”
“Who is Kiara?”
Silence.
Morgan closed her eyes.
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“You hesitated.”
“Because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“October 2005. I had a friend named Kiara.”
Nothing.
“I found a photograph Grandma labeled. She wrote that Kiara was here.”
Mrs. Bell’s breathing changed.
“Read it to me.”
Morgan did.
Another silence.
“Mrs. Bell?”
“I don’t remember her.”
Morgan looked at the empty chair in the photograph.
“You remembered my jacket.”
“Yes.”
“You remembered Grandma carrying me out of the woods.”
“Yes.”
“You remembered me asking about Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t remember the other seven-year-old who apparently spent time at this house?”
“No.”
Morgan rubbed her forehead.
“Do you understand how impossible that sounds?”
“Yes.”
The answer stopped her.
Mrs. Bell continued.
“And that’s what frightens me.”
Morgan looked again at the photograph.
“Come over.”
“I can’t right now.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“What?”
“If I find it, I’ll tell you.”
Morgan almost objected.
Then Mrs. Bell added:
“Don’t go into the woods.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Mrs. Bell hung up.
Morgan set the phone down.
The photograph remained in front of her.
Two plates.
Two glasses.
One child.
The kitchen seemed like the logical place to search next.
If Kiara had spent time here, maybe something remained.
Morgan opened drawers.
Nothing.
She searched the pantry.
Nothing.
Then she noticed the narrow cabinet above the refrigerator.
Her grandmother had always kept things there that she didn’t use often.
Morgan pulled over a chair.
Inside were old baking pans, serving dishes, and a dented metal tin.
She recognized the tin immediately.
Her grandmother’s recipe box.
Morgan brought it to the table.
Most of the cards were exactly as she remembered.
Cookies.
Cakes.
Biscuits.
Her grandmother’s cornbread.
Morgan smiled faintly.
The card was stained with butter and years of use.
She flipped it over.
Something had been written on the back.
October 16, 2005
Morgan’s smile disappeared.
Beneath the date:
Kiara asked for the recipe. Told her she could have it when she was older.
Morgan stared.
Another piece of evidence.
She kept searching.
A second card had been tucked behind the first.
Same handwriting.
No recipe.
Just a note.
Evelyn,
If you’re reading this tomorrow, count the children before you leave the orchard.
Morgan’s pulse quickened.
There was no signature.
She turned it over.
Nothing.
The kitchen suddenly smelled warm.
Fresh bread.
Butter.
Honey.
Morgan looked toward the oven.
It was off.
She stood.
The smell grew stronger.
Not threatening.
Familiar.
For a moment, Morgan could almost hear her grandmother moving around the kitchen.
A cabinet closing.
A spoon striking the side of a bowl.
Children laughing.
Morgan closed her eyes.
The memory came quietly.
She was seven.
She sat at the kitchen table.
Kiara sat beside her in the yellow jacket.
“You got the bigger one.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Kiara compared their pieces of cornbread.
“Yours is taller.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s bigger.”
“It literally does.”
Morgan reached for Kiara’s plate.
“Fine. Trade me.”
Kiara pulled it away.
“No.”
“Then stop complaining.”
Her grandmother laughed from the counter.
“You two have been arguing since breakfast.”
Kiara grinned.
“She’s bossy.”
“So are you.”
Morgan looked offended.
“I am not.”
Her grandmother turned around.
“You absolutely are.”
Kiara laughed.
Morgan kicked her gently beneath the table.
Then the back door opened.
Mrs. Bell entered.
She looked frightened.
Evelyn stopped smiling.
“What?”
Mrs. Bell glanced at the girls.
“Can we talk?”
Grandma wiped her hands on a towel.
“Outside.”
The women stepped onto the porch.
Morgan immediately got up.
Kiara grabbed another piece of cornbread.
“You’re going to get caught.”
“So are you.”
“I’m eating.”
“You’re stealing.”
“Your grandma said I could have more.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Kiara shrugged and followed Morgan toward the door.
They crouched beneath the kitchen window.
Mrs. Bell’s voice came through the screen.
“…happening again.”
Grandma answered too quietly for Morgan to hear.
Then Mrs. Bell:
“Evelyn, there were thirteen.”
Morgan looked at Kiara.
Kiara had stopped eating.
Grandma spoke.
“Count again.”
“I did.”
A pause.
“Who?”
Mrs. Bell said something Morgan couldn’t hear.
Kiara dropped the cornbread.
Morgan looked at her.
“What?”
Kiara’s face had gone pale.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
Morgan frowned.
“You said you were staying.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Kiara stood.
“Because she found me.”
Morgan opened her eyes.
She was standing beside the kitchen table.
Her heart pounded.
The room was silent.
“Who found you?”
Nothing answered.
Morgan looked down.
A piece of cornbread sat on the table.
Fresh.
Steam curled from its broken edge.
Morgan stepped backward.
“No.”
Beside it lay something small.
A folded piece of yellow paper.
Morgan approached slowly.
The paper looked old.
She unfolded it.
Childish handwriting covered the page.
MORGAN
IF I FORGET YOU
YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER ME
Morgan swallowed.
Beneath the words was a drawing.
Two little girls holding hands.
One wore purple.
One wore yellow.
Behind them stood a tree.
Thirteen red circles hung from its branches.
Morgan turned the page over.
One final sentence had been written on the back.
DON’T LET HER COUNT ME AGAIN.
