Maybe everything had an ordinary explanation.
Children absorbed details unnoticed by adults.
She went upstairs.
Adeline sat on the floor changing her princess dress for pajamas.
The tiara lay beside her.
“Where are your drawings?”
The girl looked up.
“What drawings?”
“The motorcycle ones.”
Adeline pointed toward a storage box beneath the bed.
Kendra pulled it out.
Crayons.
School papers.
A paper crown.
A broken toy horse.
Then drawings.
Dozens.
Most normal.
Family.
Trees.
Princesses.
Their house.
Grandma.
Near the bottom she found one showing several stick figures beside black motorcycles.
Kendra smiled despite herself.
Nothing supernatural.
Children drew motorcycles.
Then she noticed the scarf.
One figure, drawn taller than the rest, wore a bright-blue shape around her neck.
Kendra's smile disappeared.
She turned another page.
A woman.
Brown hair.
Blue scarf.
A curved mark beneath one ear.
The drawing was crude.
Could be anything.
She held it up.
“Who is this?”
Adeline answered immediately.
“Claire.”
Kendra sat on the bed.
“When did you draw this?”
“I don’t know.”
“This year?”
“Yes.”
“Before today?”
Adeline looked annoyed.
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see a picture of Claire?”
“No.”
“Did somebody tell you about her?”
“No.”
“Did Grandma?”
“No.”
“School?”
“Mommy.”
The child crossed her arms.
“She talks to me.”
Kendra felt frustrated fear rise again.
“People who died don’t come into your room.”
Adeline looked hurt.
“You don’t know.”
The words silenced Kendra.
Not because they were profound.
Because they were true.
She did not know what was happening.
That night, after Adeline fell asleep, Kendra searched online.
She had enough information.
Motorcycle club.
Accident.
Claire.
Kentucky.
Six years earlier.
The results appeared faster than she expected.
A local newspaper archive.
LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN MOTORCYCLE COLLISION ON STATE ROUTE.
The photograph loaded slowly.
Kendra stopped breathing.
Brown hair.
Smiling face.
Blue scarf.
A small crescent-shaped birthmark was barely visible below her left ear.
Kendra zoomed in.
Maybe she was imagining it.
The article described a thirty-three-year-old woman killed when a motorcycle left the road during heavy rain.
Her husband survived with serious injuries.
Her older brother, president of the motorcycle club traveling with them, had been ahead with several riders.
No other vehicle had been involved.
Kendra read every word.
Then another article.
Funeral.
Charity ride.
Memorial fund.
A photograph showed the bikers.
Several looked younger but unmistakable.
Men Adeline had named that afternoon.
Kendra closed the laptop.
Opened it again.
Read once more.
Claire had died six years and eleven days earlier.
Kendra stared at the date.
Something felt familiar.
She checked the calendar.
Then opened a drawer where she kept family documents.
Adeline’s birth certificate.
Date of birth:
Six years and ten days earlier.
The day after Claire died.
Kendra sat at the kitchen table until after midnight.