Russell had died. Russell Atwell haddiedin ... 1983, when he’d been twenty-three, approximately a year after his wedding to Genevieve’s mother.
Silence gathered in and around her. She could hear the ticking of a wall clock.
What?Why? What could have ended his life at such a young age? Nothing here specified his cause of death. A death certificate would, though. She checked behind the will and found nothing. This file didn’t contain a death certificate.
As best she could understand, Russell had died intestate. That is, without a will. The probate court had been petitioned. His spouse, Caroline Atwell, had requested that his estate go to Russell’s family. The judge had assented to that request.
Genevieve pressed the pad of her thumb against the file’s edge.
Had Mom never mentioned Russell because their marriage had been so brief? Or maybe because it had been too painful to talk about him? Mom must have been devastated by the loss of her young husband so early in their marriage.
Caroline and Judson had married in a small ceremony less than three years after Russell’s death. Genevieve had looked through their photo album many times. Dad had worn a suit and tie. Mom had worn a fancy pale blue dress. There’d been no cadre of bridesmaids or groomsmen.
When Genevieve had commented on the simplicity of their wedding, Mom had said that they’d wanted to keep it intimate, that the love they shared had been more than enough for both of them.
That her mom would focus on the emotion of the event—definitely within character. That she’d choose a small wedding—out of character. That she’d choose to marry in her groom’s hometown instead of her own hometown—out of character.
Now, looking at Mom and Dad’s wedding through this new lens, those out-of-character decisions made sense. Mom and Dad had kept their wedding low-key because Mom had probably already done the big, white, hometown wedding once before, with her first husband.
Genevieve snapped more photos and revisited the information desk.
“Find what you were looking for?” the woman asked.
“To some extent, yes. I expected to find birth and death certificates in the files, but I didn’t see any.”
“In our county, the health department keeps all the birth and death records.”
“Is the health department nearby?”
“It’s just five minutes down the road.”
Almost before the male health department clerk had finished handing her Russell’s death certificate, Genevieve had already started reading it.
At the top it listed information she already knew: Russell’s name, birth date, death date. Lower, it also listed his cause of death.
Blunt force trauma to the head.
Genevieve whispered prayers that had no beginnings or endings, only middles.
He’d died at an address in the town of Camden, Georgia. “I’ve never heard of Camden,” she told the clerk.
“It’s a small town located in the southeastern corner of Clarke County.”
She read the certificate over and over again, trying to process each detail, then took a photo of it. Returning the document to the clerk, she asked, “Is Russell listed as the father on any of the birth certificates in the system?” While he ran a search, she held herself immobile, bracing for his answer.
“No,” he replied. “He’s not.”
She released a quivering breath.
Back in her car, she sat in the driver’s seat, mind rioting. A lot of things could cause blunt force trauma to the head. Right? Car accidents. Falling off a horse. It’s just that the wordsblunt force traumawere so sinister that, when she’d read them, her mind had leapt straight to murder.
She typedRussell Michael Atwell’s deathinto Google on her phone.
Numerous search results came up. The first one read,Local Man Potential Fourth Victim of Shoal Creek Killer.
“Perish,” Genevieve breathed. She clicked the link.
Russell had been found dead at his home, apparently murdered by a serial killer. A grainy black-and-white image of Russell clad in a tux was embedded in the article. He wore his blond hair in a preppy, side-parted style. With his firm jawline, straight nose, and chiseled brow, he struck her as young, handsome, athletic.
