“Yeah, well, I’m hopeful Silas finds something we didn’t have the ability to find before.”
“Me too.”
Morro Bay came into view, the harbor sitting calm, boats bobbing in the soft shine of morning. A gull swooped low and cruised alongside us for a few seconds before changing paths and veering toward the water.
Though Anne and Audrey’s stories had been separated by decades, I got the feeling they shared a similar spine, perhaps a shared secret even.
We turned onto a quiet residential street, and Whitlock slowed down as he scanned the house numbers. The Fontaine home sat near the end of the block. It was a small one-story wood home with blue shutters and a garden that looked like it hadn’t been tended to for some time.
Whitlock parked in the driveway and turned toward me. “Before we go inside, I’ll tell you what I remember about Anne’s parents. I recall Violet being a sweet, kindhearted woman, easy to talk to, and the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve.”
“Good to know. And Eugene?”
“Eugene is … well, much different. He sometimes answers questions or responds to things without a lot of tact. That’s the way I remember him, anyway. He could have changed, I suppose, but I imagine he hasn’t. Oh, and one more thing,” he said, lifting a finger. “Eugene is Anne’s stepfather.”
“Who’s her biological father?”
“A man who died when Anne was a child, though I don’t remember the specifics.”
We walked up the path toward the house, and Whitlock knocked on the door. A moment later, it opened.
A stout woman with soft silver hair that was curled at the ends blinked at us and smiled. She wore a pale pink cardigan over a white T-shirt and jeans, and as the morning chill kicked up, she pulled the cardigan tighter around her waist.
“Goodness gracious, it’s been too long,” she said to Whitlock, moving a hand to her hip. “You haven’t changed one bit. It’s as if you’re aging in reverse.”
Whitlock smiled. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
She laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. “Come in. Please. Both of you.”
We followed her into the house, a cozy little place that smelled of newspapers and old books. In the living room, a wall dedicated to Anne was filled with photos of her from birth all the way up to when she went missing.
It wasn’t long before Eugene entered from the kitchen. He was tall and thin and had a weathered face that suggested he’d been through a lot in life. He wore a loose white shirt with red suspenders that did a poor job of holding up his pants.
“What brings you two here?” he asked.
His tone, while not hostile, was one of worry.
Whitlock clasped his hands together. “Eugene, it’s a pleasure to see you after so much time has passed. Allow me to introduce Georgiana Germaine, a private investigator working with the department on one of our cases.”
“You reopen Anne’s case or something? Is that why you’re here?”
“In a way. That’s what we want to talk to you about.”
Eugene crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you now what I told you then. Anne didn’t run away, as one of the other detectives you worked with back then suggested. Someone took her, and we’ve made peace with the fact that she’s not coming back.”
Violet reached for Eugene’s arm. “We don’t even know what they’re here to talk to us about yet, honey. We should hear them out first, don’t you think?”
Eugene nodded. “Let’s all take a seat. I’ve just brewed up a pot of coffee, if anyone is interested.”
We passed on the coffee and sat down.
“We’re here because we’re working on a case that may be linked to Anne’s disappearance,” I said.
Violet gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “After all this time? Has another young woman gone missing?”
“Not missing,” Whitlock said. “She was murdered.”
Eugene and Violet exchanged concerned glances.
