Thus, she’d circled back to Birdie Jean’s scrapbook.
Golden warmth burnished the air inside the cottage. Outside, gray clouds hung low on this second-to-last night of October. Wind buffeted the structure, occasionally tossing raindrops against the windows. The fire she’d lit this afternoon to brighten the final hours of her workday still crackled.
She’d uploaded the photos she’d taken at Birdie Jean’s to her computer. After adjusting her laptop on her crossed legs, she increased the size of the first photo until it filled the whole screen.
Meticulously, she combed through the front page of the newspaper published the day after Russell’s murder, then evaluated the following day’s front page. In this case, the article about Russell continued on one of the paper’s latter pages, so she brought up the picture she’d taken of the article’s conclusion. A few ads bordered it. One for a dry cleaner. One for a repairman. A recruitment ad read,Navy. It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure! At the Community Center tonight from 7:00–9:00 p.m., Seaman DerekO’Leary and Petty Officer Third Class Judson Woodward...
What?
Her dad? She gave a huff of surprise at the unexpectedly wonderful discovery.
...will be available to share their experiences,the notice continued,answer your questions, and discuss whether the United States Navy is right for you. Now is the time to invest in your future!
What were the chances of coming across a piece of memorabilia like this from the year her dad had spent as a recruiter before law school? She could screenshot this and email it to him and mom. Or it might be fun to print it out and have it framed for him.
She skimmed the ad again. Her own father’s name right next to an article detailing the facts of Russell Atwell’s murder...
The happiness of her find began to slip. Then slip further. Until it evaporated into unease.
She’d wonderedWhat were the chances? in a lighthearted way a moment ago. But now she had to ask herself that same question much more seriously.
Literally. Whatwerethe chances of this? That her mother’s two husbands—one of whom had been kept secret from her and Natasha—had both been captured in print in the same issue of theCamden Chronicle?
The chances were astronomical. Such a tremendous coincidence that she had to doubt whether it was a coincidence at all.
Think, Genevieve.
Dad spoke positively about his stint as a recruiter. He’d liked it, in part, because he’d had some flexibility in choosing the locations of his recruiting stops. When possible, he’d used that flexibility to visit towns where his friends and family members lived.
In light of that, the convergence of her mom, dad, and Russell in the same small town the same weekend would make sense if...
Dad had known Russell prior to that weekend.
Or—her senses lurched unpleasantly—if Dad had known Mom prior to that weekend.
She whipped off her robe and began to pace. Dad had been three years older than Mom and Russell, but they’d all attended the same university, so it wasn’t too difficult to imagine that Russell and Dad had met there. Perhaps they’d played intramural sports together? Lived near each other? Belonged to the same fraternity? She could picture her dad stopping in Camden to catch up with an old college friend.
It was much harder to picture Dad catching up with an old college friend who was female and happily married.
Her slippers whapped against the area rug, then the wood floor. Area rug. Wood floor. Anxiously, she fussed with her rolling ring.
It would also make sense for the three of them to have been in Camden the same weekend if Dad had met Mom that weekend through Russell.
Area rug, wood floor. Area rug, wood floor.
Her parents had told her they’d met more than a year after Russell’s death. She wanted to believe that, even knowing they’d lied by omission about Mom’s first marriage.
They were the ones who’d told her that the sun was a star. That there wasn’t a monster in her closet. That washing her hands would help her avoid the germs that cause sickness. That Reese Ashton was not dating material. That kindness and politeness matter. That they loved her. That God was real.
All those things had proved to be true. Her parents had poured the foundation upon which she’d built her life. They were the people she trusted most in the world.
Perhaps their proximity in Camden that weekend in 1983 really was a coincidence?
Yes.No.
Worry solidified in her midsection.
If she could take just one Oxy, it would crush the worry. She closed her eyes against a wave of longing for the relaxed, creative, confident buzz Oxy had given her.
