“Sam and I are definitely not engaged.”
“In fact, we’re not here to offer happy news,” Natasha said. “It’s probably for the best that you’re both sitting down.”
Instantly, seriousness descended.
Lord, cover us with grace. Painfully, Genevieve cleared her throat. “We’re here to talk about the anonymous letters I’ve received.”
Mom sat back in her chair, her chin tucking against her neck in a way that indicated that they’d hurt her feelings. “We told you that was nothing, sweetie. A hoax—”
“We know about your first marriage,” Natasha said bluntly.
Silence unwound through the kitchen like a ball of yarn. Mom’s face drained of color.
Dad’s eyebrows lowered behind the lenses of his glasses.
Genevieve held her tongue, giving them time to process.
“How did you learn about the marriage?” Dad finally asked.
“If either of you had any secrets,” Genevieve answered, “we guessed that they originated before you moved to Misty River. Mom grew up in Athens and since it’s relatively close, I drove to the courthouse there and pulled her records.”
“Without talking to me?” Mom asked.
“After you claimed to know nothing about the first letter,” Natasha said, “Gen and I decided to learn everything we could before broaching this subject with you again. Here we are, broaching this subject with you again.”
“But...” The lines around Mom’s mouth deepened. “Genevieve came home almost three months ago. How long have you been researching us?”
“That whole time.” Natasha’s features broadcast honesty and compassion. “We know a lot. For example, we know that you two dated in college, because we saw a photo from a fraternity function in the Mercer University yearbook.”
Dad and Mom exchanged a long look Genevieve couldn’t interpret.
“After Dad graduated, he went into the navy and you finished school.” Genevieve picked up the tale. “In 1982, you married Russell Atwell, and about a year later, he was murdered by a serial killer.”
In response to their daughters’ blindside, her parents’ posture had gone rigid. Beneath that, Genevieve sensed a sharp sort of alertness in them, as if they were scrambling mentally to concoct defensive strategies.
“We studied issues of theCamden Chroniclethat ran the week of Russell’s death and saw a navy recruiting ad that listed you by name,” Natasha told Dad. “So we know that you were in town the weekend Russell died. And we suspect you were inside the house the night of the murder.”
“Why?” Dad asked quietly.
“Because Russell’s body was arranged exactly the way you used to arrange your action figures when you cleaned your room,” Natasha said. “Which made that crime scene different from the Shoal Creek Killer’s other crime scenes.”
Neither parent spoke. In the unnatural silence, Genevieve listened to her own apprehensive breathing.
“What is it you think happened?” Dad asked. He was far too smart to reveal his hand before they revealed theirs.
“We think you planned a stop in Camden to visit Mom or Russell or both,” Natasha replied. “After finding Russell dead, you turned him over and straightened his arms and legs.”
Pain seared his expression. “How come you don’t suspect me of killing him?”
“Because we know you,” Natasha said firmly.
“And love you,” Genevieve added.
He pulled off his glasses and set them aside, then planted his elbows on the table and clasped his head in his hands.
Mom wrapped a protective hand around his shoulder.
“Tell us what happened,” Natasha pleaded, her attention on their dad. “Please. We need to know so we can do whatever’s needed to help.”
