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more at home on earth than when he’d answered her.
Yes, I’m fine.
    “Faye had just turned sixteen when she was murdered,” Miss Davies went on. “That was on August 27, 1946. The summer after the war.”
    The scene spontaneously materialized in Graves’ mind, a stage set of brilliant summer days, placid lakes, bright flags flying in the small villages of upstate New York, a few young men still in uniform, all America buoyant and full of celebration, relishing the last lingering pleasure of its recent military triumph. He heard the lilting refrain of “Sentimental Journey,” saw crowded troop ships returning from Europe and the Pacific, soldiers running down wide gangplanks into the arms of relatives, friends, lovers.
    “Things were so relaxed that summer,” Miss Davies said. “My brother Edward was home from college. He often went sailing. I remember my father sitting quietly, at the end of the pier. So peaceful. My mother had nothing to do but sit for her portrait.” Something caught in her mind. “Actually, it was the portrait artist who found Faye’s body. Andre Grossman. He found it about two miles from here. A place called Manitou Cave.”
    Graves instantly envisioned it as a dank and murky place, with dripping walls and a soggy earthen floor. Bats hung from the ceiling in ceaselessly agitated clusters, their leathery wings flapping in the dark air. In one of its cold, unlighted hollows he saw a slender girl lying facedown, naked. Leaves and dirt were flung over her, crusted in her mouth and open eyes. The dried-out bones of long-devoured animals lay scattered in the soil around her, all that was left of some much earlier prey.
    Miss Davies’ pale face tightened. “It was terrible, what Mr. Grossman saw. I don’t think he ever quite got over it.” She shuddered, as if touched by a sudden chill. “There are pictures, of course. You can get the … details. I’d rather not go into them.”
    Graves recognized that the moment of truth had arrived. “I suppose it’s time for me to ask what you actually
do
want me to go into, Miss Davies.”
    “The past,” she answered without hesitation. “That summer fifty years ago.” She drew a piece of paper from the pocket of her trousers, white with blue lines, clearly torn from a spiral notebook. “A few weeks ago I received a letter from Faye’s mother. It was quite nostalgic. She recalled how Faye and I had been so close, how wonderful that last summer had been. The way we used to sneak off to Indian Rock. That was our secret place. Faye’s and mine. We went there to be alone. Anyway, Mrs. Harrison’s letter brought back memories. It was good to hear from her again. Nothing really disturbed me until I got to the end of the letter, the last few lines.” She lifted the paper toward Graves. “You can read them for yourself.”
    Graves took it, went directly to its last paragraph, and read it silently:
    I’ve never understood it, Allison. What happened to Faye? I think and think, but I can’t find an answer. I see her face the way she
was. I ask the same question over and over. Why, Faye? I’ve prayed for an answer, but no answer has come. That’s my punishment. I know it is. To be tormented by the mystery of my daughter’s death.
    Graves offered the letter to Miss Davies; she didn’t take it.
    “I’d like you to hold on to it awhile, Mr. Graves. As a reminder of how tormented Mrs. Harrison is. As you’ve no doubt guessed, Faye’s murder was never solved. At least not formally.”
    Graves folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “What do you mean, not formally?”
    “Well, a man was accused of the murder. A local man. His name was Jake Mosley. It’s always been quite obvious that Mosley killed Faye. But clearly, Mrs. Harrison doesn’t believe Jake did it. Because of that—what she wrote, particularly in that last line—about not knowing who killed Faye, I decided to contact you.”
    Graves said nothing.
    “Mrs. Harrison is quite old