Leaning back, I shot him a knowing look.
“But…they love me,” he said uncertainly.
“They loved my high school boyfriend, too. Then they found him kissing me on the couch. Do you want me to tell you how long it took for the burns to heal?”
He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “Maybe we’ll tell them in twenty years.”
“Do you honestly think they’d let it go then?”
“No, but maybe I’ll be too old for them to torture me.”
I rang the doorbell,equally excited and dreading the conversation I was about to have. The story led me down a road I hadn’t been in months, and a sense of rightness filled me. But having this conversation would not be easy.
An older woman answered the door, smiling gently at me. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Walker?”
“Yes, I’m Sydney.”
“My name is Blake Collins. I’m looking into your daughter’s case?—”
“Yes,” she nodded, pushing the door open. “My daughter warned me you would be coming by. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping inside, it was like any other house I’d been in before. There were pictures on the mantel and pillows on the couch. The sweet smell of pie baking filled the air. You would never know, walking in here, that this household had been devastated by such a brutal murder.
“You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, taking a seat on the couch, motioning for me to sit also. “My daughter tells me you’re new to town, and that you used to work for the FBI.”
I could feel the excitement coming off her in waves. How long had it been since anyone had looked into her daughter’s case?
“Yes, I’ve only been here a short time, but when I spoke with your daughter, I felt I needed to help if I could.”
“Well, I appreciate it very much.”
The woman stood suddenly, brushing her hair from her face as she headed for the kitchen. “Can I get you some coffee or water?”
“Coffee would be great.”
I took the few moments she was gone to grab my notebook and get comfortable. Sydney was old enough to be my mother, with graying hair and soft wrinkles lining her eyes, but she was still a beautiful woman. I could only imagine how quickly the death of her daughter aged her.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, thinking about my own child who was on the way, and what I would do if I was ever in her situation. The thought of anyone hurting my baby sent anger churning in my gut.
“Here you go.”
I took the cup, but didn’t think I could drink it right now.
“Thank you.”
“This reminds me of twenty-five years ago,” she laughed humorlessly. “There were so many days I sat across from the police, answering their questions and hoping for news.”
“I’m sure it feels like it just happened yesterday.”
“In some ways,” she said, her eyes sliding to the mantel where a picture of her daughters sat. “In other ways, it feels like I’ve been living with this pain for fifty years.”
“Then let’s start with what you remember most. Whatever comes to you first.”
