I should text her. Tell her I’m almost done. That I’ll meet her at Bob & Barbara’s in an hour.
My phone sits on the table beside the pad see ew container. I could text right now. She’s probably three drinks deep, charming strangers, making friends with the bartender. She’ll have convinced someone to let her read their tarot by now.
But if I text her, she’ll know something’s wrong. She always knows. And I don’t have the energy to explain why my jaw still aches, why I’m organizing evidence that will help a killer walkfree, why one more year is starting to sound like a threat instead of a promise.
So I leave my phone where it is.
I pull out my earbuds and cue up my favorite true crime podcast. Background noise while I work.
Alex and I binge these together. Fall asleep on the couch while some host describes arterial spray patterns. She always falls asleep first, and I always wake her before the credits roll. Her head on my shoulder. Her hair everywhere. The way she mumbles “five more minutes” like I’m her alarm clock.
I love true crime podcasts. I love them more with her.
“And that’s when the cops found his body rotting in the trunk of his car. Forgotten in a Pittsburgh garage.” The words pump into my brain as I organize the documents.
I pause to listen because the story is wild.
“John Bradshaw’s murder was never solved. And his ties to Earl were never confirmed.”
I shake my head. Poor Madison Bradshaw. She fell for a guy and ended up dead.
“He was never found, right?” the other host interjects.
“Nope, but when the police raided his house? They found the evidence they needed to tie him to Madison’s murder.”
My hands slow on the documents.
Evidence. They found the evidence.
“Of course, by then the trail was cold. The body was never recovered. Without a body, the prosecution had a harder time. Earl’s lawyer argued reasonable doubt. The jury couldn’t convict.”
I stare at the witness statement in my hand.
No body. Reasonable doubt.
That’s what I’m doing. Right now. Creating the reasonable doubt.
“The family still doesn’t have closure,” the host continues. “Madison’s mother died never knowing what happened to her daughter. The evidence was there—financial records, witness testimony, a timeline that put Earl at the scene. But the lawyer did his job. Found the holes. Created doubt.”
The lawyer did his job.
My hands shake.
“And somewhere out there,” the host says, voice dropping, “someone knows exactly what happened to Madison Bradshaw. Someone helped make sure that evidence would never be enough.”
I set down the witness statement before I drop it.
Somewhere in these boxes I’m organizing, there might be evidence that could convict Patterson. Evidence that could give twenty-three families closure. Twenty-three mothers who deserve to know what happened to their children.
But I’m not looking for that evidence.
I’m looking for ways to bury it.
Ways to make a jury doubt.
Ways to make sure these families never get answers.
That’s my job. Finding the holes. Creating reasonable doubt.
