Why did it seem like Benton knew exactly what the ‘items’ I was referring to were? I mean he couldn’t, could he? He was easily born a full decade after those photos were taken.

  A part of me just wants to throw the damn photos in the trash and forget all about them, but I know that wouldn’t shake the questions from my mind.

  Who are these girls? Why does nobody around here remember them? And why were their photos left hidden here?

  Despite their beaming faces, I can’t escape the suspicion that something bad happened to these women. And what’s more, after our phone call just now, I can’t shake the feeling that Benton Shepherd somehow knows more about this house than he’s telling me.

  20

  RUBY

  “Can I ask you something?” Justin turns in his seat to face me.

  “Shoot,” I reply, glancing from the road to him and then back.

  “What did the brake pedal ever do to you?”

  I roll my eyes and ignore him, tunnel vision on the red light ahead of me, waiting for green.

  “No, seriously,” he continues. “You seem to hate that thing, kicking at it every time you need to come to a stop. My whole life, I’ve never felt a seat belt have to work this hard.”

  I sigh. “And let me guess, you’re a perfect driver?”

  Justin shrugs. “I’m all right. I mean, enough to know that a brake pedal doesn’t work like a light switch…”

  If this guy wasn’t both achingly handsome and endlessly helpful, I’d likely kick him out of the car right about now, but since I was the one to ask Justin to keep me company while I make the drive out to Arlington Mills, I have no choice but to take his driving critique in the half-serious manner in which it’s meant.

  “I’ll try not to be so heavy footed with the brakes,” I say sarcastically, then sigh. “I’m just a little nervous.”

  After my call with Benton yesterday, I was afraid I’d hit a dead end in my search to find out the identities of the smiling girls, until I realized that thanks to Felicity and Quinten, I already had the previous owners’ names. And an online search for Stan and Anita Desmond had brought up an address in Arlington Mills, about a three-hour drive from Lonerock. Without thinking it through long enough to hold myself back, I’d called Justin and asked if he could find Xavier a sitter so he could join me on a road trip. In typical Justin fashion, he’d said yes without even asking me where we’d be going or what we’d be doing.

  In truth, there are two reasons I asked Justin to accompany me today. The first, because I enjoy his company and this is a chance for us to spend some time alone together, and the second because a little voice in the back of my head is telling me that if I’m right, and that something may have happened to these girls all those years ago, then I should probably have some backup when I drop in on these people unexpectedly.

  The best-case scenario is that this couple are happy to be reunited with the photos and can tell me who the girls are.

  “So you think this couple will have the answers?” Justin asks.

  “Well, if they don’t then I think I need to consider bringing it to the police,” I say. “I mean, the Desmonds were the only ones who owned the house before me, which means if they have no explanation for the photos or how they got there, then somebody else put them there.”

  Justin seems to think on this. “Why would somebody do that?”

  I have no good answer to that, and as the road stretches out endlessly before me, my hands grip the steering wheel tightly. With every mile that passes, my anxiety grows. What if they refuse to speak to me? What if they’ve never seen these photos before? There’s no good evidence to suggest that anything bad happened to these girls, but my gut is telling me that something is very wrong about this whole thing.

  “Ruby.” I hear Justin’s concerned voice beside me as I signal to exit the freeway, an hour now from our destination. “I think you’ve worked yourself up about this. It’s probably nothing. I mean, if you ask me, those girls look as happy as can be.”

  I sigh, trying to calm my nerves. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

  “You know what else I think?” Justin’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. “I think it’s a week before Christmas, your kids are out of town with their dad, and your mind is just finding a way to distract you from the hurt that causes you.”

  “Don’t analyze me,” I say. “Or I might have to do the same to you.”

  I can’t imagine it’s all that easy for Justin at this time of year either, as a single father of an eight-year-old who doesn’t even remember his own mother. It puts it in perspective for me, at least, the fact that my children still have their father and get to spend this time with him. Even if that leaves me alone for the holidays.

  Justin laughs. “I’m not going to deny that it’s a difficult time of year for me, but I’m not the one turning into Inspector Clouseau over here just to escape my feelings.”

  He may have a point, but I’ll be damned if I’ll admit it.

  Before long my phone tells us we’re just minutes from the Desmonds’ home and as I drive through the tree-lined streets of this quiet Arlington Mills neighborhood, all I see are exquisite houses with manicured lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges. Each home is unique in its architecture and design. It’s the kind of place you don’t get to live in without a very healthy bank account and it’s quite a step up from my little outdated home on Forest Grove, where Stan and Anita moved from.

  “I get the feeling that Christmas here is more of a competition than a celebration,” Justin remarks, looking out at the excessive number of lights and decorations around the place.

  When we arrive at the address I step out of my car and take a moment to stretch out my legs as I look up at the beautiful house in front of me. The white exterior is offset by dark shutters and a perfectly manicured lawn showcases three wooden reindeer statues. There’s a small deck out front and a wicker couch with patchwork cushions on it. The whole place is the perfect mixture of modern and rustic and it’s hard to believe that a couple who used to live in the time trap that I call home now own a place like this.

  Justin puts a confident arm around my shoulder. “What are we waiting for?”

  We walk up the stone path toward the front door and before I get a chance to linger, Justin rings the doorbell twice and winks at me. We wait patiently, my stomach churning a mixture of anticipation and nerves. Moments later the door swings open, revealing the friendly face and warm smile of a woman who I’d guess is in her sixties.

  “Hello, can I help you?” she asks.

  I’m suddenly wishing I’d practiced what I might say when I got to the door, but it’s too late for that now. “Hi, are you Anita?”

  “Yes.”

  I smile. “My name is Ruby Blake, and this is my friend Justin.” I indicate to him. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced like this but I’m the person who bought your last house, in Lonerock. And I wondered if you have a moment to talk with me?”

  She seems a little surprised, but her smile widens. “Well sure, come on in.”

  21

  RUBY

  I know that our intentions here are good but I’m a little concerned that Anita is trusting enough that she’d welcome two strangers into her house so easily.

  As she ushers us in, she calls up the stairs. “Stan! We have guests.”

  She walks us through to the kitchen and on every inch of wall we pass are family photos hanging proudly, glass frames buffed to within an inch of their lives and not a speck of dust on them. Anita offers us a seat and refreshments, and I feel relief at her warm greeting. Despite my initial nerves, I know I made the right decision to come here. I look to the doorway and see a man with a thick gray mustache and reading glasses hanging from his neck.

  “Stan, this is Ruby, the new owner of the house in Lonerock, and this is her friend, Justin,” Anita says as she lays out a plate of cookies on the table.

  “Hi.” I get up and shake his hand before Justin does the same.

  “How interesting.” Stan moves slowly to sit down across from us, a hint of a hunch in his gait. “What brings you here?”

  I see no point in wasting any time so I pull the three photos out of my bag and lay them down on the table. “I found some old photos that I think you might have left at the house.”

  Stan pulls his glasses up to his eyes and Anita comes to look over his shoulder as he picks up the photos. They both look through them and I can see immediately that there’s not a hint of recognition in their eyes.

  “No, not ours,” Stan says. “Unless you know who these people are, Anita?”

  Anita shakes her head. “No. I’ve never seen these girls or these pictures before.”

  My heart drops and my disappointment must be obvious because Anita looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. “Did you drive all the way out here just to find the owner of these photos?”

  I nod and sigh. “I have no idea how they ended up in my house. They were there when I moved in. I’ve been finding them hidden behind tiles and under flooring as I’ve been renovating the place.”

  “That’s quite an undertaking.” Stan puffs out his cheeks and blows. “The place hasn’t been touched since we first did it up in eighty-five.”

  “No matter how many times I told Stan here that we needed to redecorate, we never did, so it was outdated even by the time we moved out.” Anita laughs.

  I smile. “It had definitely gathered some dust in the few years you’d been gone, that’s for sure.”

  Stan and Anita share a glance before turning back to me, the same expression of confusion on both their faces.

  “It’s been more than just a few years since we moved from Lonerock,” Anita says. “We’ve been living in Arlington Mills for the past sixteen years.”

  Something pulls tight in my chest.

  “I… that’s not what Benton said when he sold me the house. He said you just moved a few years back.”

  Stan shakes his head and tsks. “Benton Shepherd. We’re not his biggest fans. When we moved from Lonerock, we kept hold of that house for a few years. Our first grandchild had just been born and we wanted to be closer to family out here but weren’t yet settled on the idea of selling. Then, when we made up our minds about ten years ago and first approached Benton about selling the house in Lonerock, there were some issues that had to be taken care of before it could be put on the market. At first he told us it would take six months or so, but he kept stringing us along, with various other issues arising which always meant it had to be put off.”

  “For nearly ten years?” I ask in disbelief.

  “I can’t really say I understand how these things work, but yes,” Anita confirms. “First it was that there were issues with the property’s deeds, then he convinced us to wait for market conditions to improve, to get the best price. Then it was various other things that he said needed sorting before selling the house. Anyway, January this year, he finally called and told us the house was on the market and then by August we had the news of its sale. So all’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

  None of this sounds right to me. There are no issues that take ten years to prepare a house for sale. Benton not only strung this nice couple along for years on end for reasons that likely only benefited him, but he also lied to me about how long the house was empty for.

  Stan is still turning the photos around in his hands and looking carefully at them, his glasses exaggerating his curious eyes behind them. “You know, what I find most interesting about these photos are the dresses.”

  Anita rolls her eyes at this. “Maybe you’re forgetting the eighties, Stan, but these were the exact kind of thing I used to wear back then, too.”

  Stan places the photos back down on the table. “Yes. That was the style then, but these photos weren’t taken in the eighties.”

  “What… what do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean,” Stan points at the photos, “look at the back of them.”

  I quickly snatch them up, sure that if somebody had written a date on them I would have seen it because I must have looked at these photos a hundred times by now. And, looking at the backs of them again now, I see that I’m not wrong. There’s nothing there.

  I look up at Stan, confused. “There’s nothing written there.”

  “Look closer,” he says, and points to a serial number printed on the back of the film.

  It’s a jumble of numbers and letters, but there’s no date there.

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  Stan’s eyes are lit up, clearly excited to explain to us something only he knows here. “See, some Polaroid photos have a unique serial number on the back which contains information. It might not look like much, but it actually represents the camera model, production batch, and the date that the photo was taken. And if you look right here,” he taps the back of one of the photos, “at the last two digits, the year is right there.”

  I stare down at the last two digits on the photos, and my heart begins to drum in my chest. I have to squint to be sure I’m not reading these wrong, because the numbers that stare back at me paint a very different picture in my head than everything I thought I already knew about these photos.

  Stan is right. They weren’t taken in the eighties. Not even close. These photos were all taken within the last seven years.

  22

  RUBY

  Shepherd’s Real Estate office is situated in a brand-new commercial business park on the east side of Lonerock. It’s a step up from what I gather was Benton’s last place of business, judging by the worn sign on the small office building that sits empty next to the drug store in town. I guess he’s moving up in life.

  I pull into the parking lot and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Having used up his babysitter miles, Justin is home with Xavier today, unable to join me on this particular mission.

  Since leaving Arlington Mills yesterday, I’ve had some time to think and I’ve come to a few conclusions. Namely, Benton Shepherd is not only a crook but he’s also the only person who has had access to the house since Stan and Anita moved out years ago and therefore must know something about these photos.

  I find a spot near the entrance and turn off the engine before stepping out of my car. Cold rain beats down on the asphalt and bounces off the roofs of the vehicles. I have to hold my hood up against the rain as I make the short dash toward the entrance. The exterior of the office is modern with large windows that I’m sure on a nicer day lets in plenty of natural light. I can see a couple inside, chatting to a woman behind a desk. A sign above the door proudly displays Shepherd’s name, and I push open the glass door to enter.

  Dripping on the carpeted floor, I wait my turn to approach the reception desk. The walls are full of photos of properties for sale, and the soft scent of fresh coffee floats through the air. When the couple in front of me leave, the young woman behind the desk greets me with a polite smile. I introduce myself, only to be told that Benton is out but shouldn’t be too long. I’m offered a seat and a coffee while I wait, and gladly accept both.

  I sit down next to the window and try to think through how to best approach Benton with what I know. There’s one fact that he can’t escape; he told me the last occupants of my house had moved out only a few years ago. I now know from Stan and Anita that it was actually closer to sixteen years ago. This doesn’t necessarily change how I feel about the house but not being truthful about the length of time it had stood there abandoned was clearly a misleading tactic to make the house seem less undesirable.

  As for the photos, maybe he has a good explanation for them. Maybe they’re friends of his, or girls he dated in the past.

  But like Stan Desmond said yesterday, the old-style dresses in the relatively new photos is the thing that stands out as weird. And it’s this, along with the fact the photos were hidden around the house, that gives me the creeps.

  “Here’s the man himself,” the woman behind the desk singsongs before I spot the red Mustang parked outside and the door opens.

  Benton walks in, shaking the rain off his shoulders. He doesn’t see me at first and approaches the desk with a lowered brow. “Atkins the Asshole pulled out of the Clayton sale at the last minute today. Didn’t I tell you he was a⁠—”

  The woman coughs loudly, interrupting him and gesturing my way. “Mr. Shepherd, Ruby Blake is here to see you.”

  Benton’s head whips my way and I watch the frown on his face morph seamlessly into that salesman smile I remember. “Ruby, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

  I don’t return the warmth. “I was hoping we could talk. Alone.”

  “Sure thing. Jane, can you hold my calls for five minutes?” He doesn’t wait for her reply before ushering me toward his office at the back of the room.

  Inside, he closes the door behind us and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  He sits down across from me and beams, white teeth glistening. Men like Benton have spent years practicing this winning smile, effortlessly sealing the deal with clients who can’t resist his charisma and good looks. But I won’t be letting his charm distract me today. This man is a liar.

  “So.” He leans back in his chair, casually. “What’s up?”

  “Benton, I’m not going to waste either of our time.” I get straight to it, pulling out the three photos. “Who are these girls and why were their photos hidden around my house?”

  Benton’s curious eyes go straight to the photos on the desk. He picks them up and I study his face like a hawk, looking for any spark of recognition.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he finally says. “It’s Sandra, Jessie and Erica.”

  “You know them?” Relief washes through me.

  He cracks a crooked smile. “Never seen them before in my life. Just going by what’s written on the photos. You say you found these at the house?”

  My heart sinks and I nod, not taking my eyes from his.