Devil Smoke by C. J. Lyons

like it might alter her settings or take a picture, and followed her past the sign onto the trail.
    The sunlight filtered through the trees in a cascade of pale gold ribbons that shifted with the wind. The forest was thick with pines, hemlocks, oaks, and maples, and the terrain on either side of the trail varied from moss-covered limestone ledges to spongy carpets of decaying leaves and pine needles. The scent was heavenly, waking Tommy up as if he’d been trapped within a long winter’s slumber. In a way, he had been.
    He pushed thoughts of his own problems aside as he focused on Sarah’s photos, guiding them like landmarks on a tourist’s map. Often they’d have to backtrack as Sarah’s original path rambled back and forth away from the well-trodden main trail into the scrub and brush, searching out hidden gems of rock formations, plant life, and compositions of light and shadow.
    “What’s that?” He stopped to peer at the next photo. It was a close-up of a small, delicate flower—a pink lady’s slipper. Beside it, on a bed of moss, was a bright metal object: a small, silver ballerina performing a pirouette. Except the leg holding her upright, the straight leg, had been broken off.
    Tommy jerked upright, scanning his surroundings, feeling as if someone was watching him. That same sucker-punch feeling that came with being the butt of a sick joke.
    No one was watching. No one was even near except Sarah, who was bent over examining a cluster of teaberry plants.
    He sucked in his breath, bracing himself, and dared to glance back at the camera screen. It was still there. The charm, as broken as a promise, taunting him with impossible possibilities. He squinted, enlarging the image. How could this be happening?
    “Sarah, look at this. Where did you take this?” His words snapped through the air between them, but she didn’t seem to understand his urgent need for answers.
    Slowly she rose and took the camera from him. “Oh, I quite like that composition.”
    He tapped the screen, pointing to the broken dancer. “Where is it? The charm?”
    “How should I know? Around here somewhere. Why?”
    “My wife. She had a charm bracelet. When Nellie was born I gave her a ballerina charm exactly like that one.” He crouched low to the ground, searching for the flower or any glint of metal.
    She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Maybe he had. “Tommy, there are millions of charms like that one.”
    “Not with the leg broken off. Nellie was playing with the bracelet and broke it just a few days before Charlotte went missing.”
    “There’s no way—”
    “Just help me find it. Please.”
    Without another word, she joined him in the hunt. It was backbreaking work, scouring the detritus beneath the trees. They went to the location of the next set of photos—an easily recognizable rock formation a few yards away—and Sarah worked her way back along one side of the trail while Tommy took the other.
    Then he spotted it. A pillow of moss tucked in below a rotting log. The flower with its dark pink “slipper” dangling down between two shiny green leaves. And beside it, the charm.
    He sank onto his knees, the damp from the ground seeping into his bones.
    Sarah came up behind him, taking pictures, the sound of the camera drowning out the rest of the world. Or maybe that was his shock, pushing everything else aside.
    “Maybe you should leave it there,” she said. “In case it really is hers?”
    She was right. If this was evidence, he should leave it for the police. But he also knew there was no way in hell Burroughs would ever come out here. For what? A charm that was no doubt sold in thousands of stores across the country? Even the broken leg wouldn’t convince Burroughs—he’d say that this charm design probably just had a weak, defective spot. If one broke, they probably all did.
    He used a leathery maple leaf to coax the charm free from the moss. Up close, there was still nothing to indicate that it was