“I’m sorry to drop by without calling—” Patricia began.

“You’re always welcome,” Slick said, pulling her in off the doorstep. “I’m brainstorming my Halloween party and maybe you can unstick my logjam. You’re so good at these things!”

“You’re having a Halloween party?” Patricia asked, following Slick back to her kitchen.

She held her purse close to her body, feeling the folder and photograph burning through its canvas sides.

“I’m against Halloween in all its forms because of the Satanism,” Slick said, pulling open her stainless-steel refrigerator and taking out the half-and-half. “So this year, on All Hallows’ Eve, I will be holding a Reformation Party. I know it’s last minute, but it’s never too late to praise the Lord.”

She poured coffee, added her half-and-half, and handed Patricia a black-and-gold Bob Jones University mug.

“A what party?” Patricia asked.

But Slick had already burst through the swinging door that led to the back addition. Patricia followed, mug in one hand, purse in the other. Slick sat on one of the sofas in what she called the “conversation area,” and Patricia sat across from her and looked for a place to set her mug. The coffee table between them was covered in photocopies, clipped-out magazine articles, three-ring binders, and pencils. The end table next to her was crowded with a collection of snuffboxes, several marble eggs, and a bowl of potpourri. Along with the dried flower petals, leaves, and wood shavings, Slick had added a few golf balls and tees to pay tribute to Leland’s passion for the sport. Patricia decided to just hold her mug in her lap.

“You catch more flies with sugar than vinegar,” Slick said. “So on Sunday I’ll throw a party that will make everyone forget about Halloween: my Reformation Party. I’m going to present the idea to St. Joseph’s tomorrow. See, we’ll take the children to the Fellowship Hall—and of course Blue and Korey will be welcome—and we’ll make sure there are activities for the teenagers. They’re the ones most at risk, after all, but instead of monster costumes they dress up like heroes of the Reformation.”

“The who?” Patricia asked.

“You know,” Slick said. “Martin Luther, John Calvin. We’ll have medieval line dancing and German food, and I thought it would be fun to have themed snacks. What do you think? It’s a Diet of Worms cake.”

Slick handed Patricia a picture she’d cut out of a magazine.

“A worm cake?” Patricia asked.

“A Diet of Worms cake,” Slick corrected. “When the Holy Roman Empire declared Martin Luther a fugitive for nailing his ninety-five theses to the church door? The Diet of Worms?”

“Oh,” Patricia said.

“You decorate it with gummy worms,” Slick said. “Isn’t that hilarious? You have to make these things entertaining and educational.” She plucked the clipping out of Patricia’s hand and studied it. “I don’t think it’s sacrilegious, do you? Maybe not enough people know who John Calvin is? We’re also going to try reverse trick-or-treating.”

“Slick,” Patricia said. “I hate to change the subject, but I need help.”

“What’s the matter?” Slick asked, putting down the clipping and scooting to the edge of her seat, eyes fastened on Patricia. “Is it about Blue?”

“You’re a spiritual person?” Patricia asked.

“I’m a Christian,” Slick said. “There’s a difference.”

“But you believe there’s more to this world than what we can see?” Patricia asked.

Slick’s smile got a little thin.

“I’m worried about where all this is going,” she said.

“What do you think about James Harris?” Patricia asked.

“Oh,” Slick said, and she sounded genuinely disappointed. “We’ve been here before, Patricia.”

“Something’s happened,” Patricia said.

“Let’s not go back there again,” Slick said. “All that’s behind us now.”

“I don’t want to do this again, either,” Patricia said. “But I’ve seen something, and I need your opinion.”

She reached into her purse.

“No!” Slick said. Patricia froze. “Think about what you’re doing. You made yourself very sick last time. You gave us all a scare.”

“Help me, Slick,” Patricia said. “I genuinely don’t know what to think. Tell me I’m crazy and I’ll never mention it again. I promise.”

“Just leave whatever it is in your purse,” Slick said. “Or give it to me and I’ll put it through Leland’s shredder. You and Carter are doing so well. Everyone’s so happy. It’s been three years. If anything bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now.”

A feeling of futility washed over Patricia. Slick was right. The past three years had been forward progress, not a circle. If she showed Slick the photo she’d be right back where she started. Three years of her life reduced to running in place. The thought made her so exhausted she wanted to lie down and take a nap.

“Don’t do it, Patricia,” Slick said, softly. “Stay here with me in reality. Things are so much better now than they were. Everyone’s happy. We’re all okay. The children are safe.”

Inside her purse, Patricia’s fingers brushed the edge of Mrs. Greene’s folder, worn soft by handling.

“I tried,” Patricia said. “I really did try for three years, Slick. But the children aren’t safe.”

She pulled her hand out of her purse with the folder.

“Don’t,” Slick moaned.

“It’s too late,” Patricia said. “We’ve run out of time. Just look at this and tell me if I’m crazy.”

She laid the folder on top of Slick’s papers and placed the photograph on it. Slick picked up the photo and Patricia saw her fingers tighten and her face get still. Then she laid it back, facedown.

“It’s a cousin,” she said. “Or his brother.”

“You know it’s him,” Patricia said. “Look at the back. 1928. He still looks the same.”

Slick drew in one shuddering breath, then blew it out.

“It’s a coincidence,” she said.

“Miss Mary had that photograph,” Patricia said. “That’s her father. James Harris came through Kershaw when she was a little girl. He called himself Hoyt Pickens and he got them involved in a financial scheme that made them a lot of money, and then bankrupted the whole town. And he stole their children. When people turned on him he blamed a black man and they killed him, and he disappeared. I think it was so long ago, and Kershaw’s so far upstate, he didn’t imagine he’d be recognized if he came back.”

“No, Patricia,” Slick said, pressing her lips together, shaking her head. “Don’t do this.”

“Mrs. Greene put these together,” Patricia said, opening the green folder.

“Mrs. Greene is strong in her faith,” Slick said. “But she doesn’t have the education we have. Her background is different. Her culture is different.”

Patricia laid out four printed letters from the Town of Mt. Pleasant.

“They found Francine’s car in the Kmart parking lot back in 1993,” she said. “Remember Francine? She did for James Harris when he moved here. I saw her go into his house, and apparently no one ever saw her again. They found her car abandoned in the Kmart parking lot a few days later. They sent her letters telling her to come pick it up from the towing company, but they just sat in her mailbox. That’s where Mrs. Greene found them.”

“Stealing the mail is a federal crime,” Slick said.

“They had to break into her house to feed her cat,” Patricia said. “Her sister wound up declaring her dead and selling the house. They put the money in escrow. They say she has to be gone for five years before that money gets paid.”

“Maybe she was carjacked,” Slick suggested.

Patricia pulled out the sheaf of newspaper clippings and laid them out like playing cards, the way Mrs. Greene had done. “These are the children. You remember Orville Reed? He and his cousin Sean died right after Francine disappeared. Sean was killed and Orville stepped in front of a truck and killed himself.”

“We did this before,” Slick said. “There was that other little girl—”

“Destiny Taylor.”

“And Jim’s van, and all the rest,” Slick gave her a sympathetic look. “Taking care of Miss Mary put you under a terrible strain.”

“It didn’t stop,” Patricia said. “After Destiny Taylor came Chivas Ford, out in Six Mile. He was nine years old when he died in May 1994.”

“Children die for all kinds of reasons,” Slick said.

“Then came this one,” Patricia said, tapping a police blotter clipping. “One year after that, in 1995. A little girl named Latasha Burns in North Charleston cut her own neck with a butcher knife. How would a nine-year-old do that if there weren’t something terrible she was trying to get away from?”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Slick said. “Is every child who passes in some terrible way Jim’s fault? Why stop at North Charleston? Why not go all the way to Summerville or Columbia?”

“Everyone started leaving Six Mile because of the Gracious Cay development getting built,” Patricia said. “Maybe it wasn’t easy to find children who wouldn’t be missed anymore.”