When I come to, Sam is patting my forehead with a wet towel. It takes me a moment to collect myself. But when I finally get it together, I realize I’m lying on top of the harvest table. The reality of what I just witnessed in the drawings kicks in. I begin to weep uncontrollably.
“He’s got them, Sam,” I say, the words like swallowed glass in my throat. “I feel it in my gut. He’s got them.”
“Who has them, Rebecca?”
“The Skinner.”
“We don’t know that,” Sam says.
“They are nowhere to be found. Where else can they be?”
The pressure in my belly building. No sharp pains, but pains nonetheless. Like a dull bruising on the inside.
“Listen, Rebecca,” Sam says. “I’m going to make a check on the whole place, including the art barn. We haven’t even thought to make a check out there.”
I sli
