I finally feel back to normal. Hormones settled, depression gone. Sure, the aching pit in my stomach refuses to go away, but at least I’m not bursting into tears every five seconds anymore. If this Trenton trip goes well, maybe Little Spencer and I can record a follow-up episode to the Darlie one. Who knows. Maybe I’m two hours and thirty-eight minutes away from solving the mystery.
And yes, I recognize that I might’ve just thrown ten hours of my life out the window. I’m riding a train all the way to New Jersey, and all I have is an address. Still no phone number. Still no email or any other way to contact the homeowners. I even called Mercer County this week and begged the lady on the phone to pass along a messageto the residents of 1229 Sycamore Lane. “Just tell them to call me,” I begged, to which she said, “Uh, yeah, we don’t do that.”
That left me with two options: mail a letter, which could lead to days of waiting or no response at all. Or hop a train, knock on the door, and see what happens.
Worst case, I get my schoolwork done on the train.
Best case, Dolly and Raymond actually live in that house, and I get some answers.
As we pull into the station, I tuck my laptop back in its case and slide it into my bag. Outside at the taxi stand, I slide into the back seat of a cab and then watch the exciting city of Trenton flash past the window. 1229 Sycamore Lane is located in Trenton’s Hillside neighborhood, which my research says is quite affluent. That bodes well, since Raymond Loughlin comes from money.
The taxi stops in front of a large Tudor-style house with a spacious front lawn and three-car garage. I’m happy to see a car in the driveway. I hope that means somebody’s home; otherwise, I’m about to make camp on the porch like a stalker.
This was…a really bad idea, I realize.
I’ve done some ridiculous things for the sake of research, like flirt with a Kyle to convince him to dig through old, dusty boxes. But a day trip to a different state to visit a house whose residents might not even be connected to the story?
That’s extreme, even for me.
And yet the lengths I’ve gone to, as extreme as they may be, remind me of Wyatt saying how much he loves my nerdy pursuits. How my hobby isn’t dumb but passionate.
Still, I do feel sort of dumb as I stand awkwardly on the porch and ring the doorbell. My pulse speeds up when I hear footsteps beyond the door. Then it swings open, and a woman answers. Anelderlywoman. I’m not great with guessing ages, but she looks like she could be in her late sixties. Also bodes well. Darlie died fifty years ago, and her sister was nineteen at the time, so that would make Dolly sixty-nine now.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a polite smile.
“Um…maybe? Are you by any chance Dolly Gallagher? Loughlin, I mean. Dolly Gallagher Loughlin.”
Her smile falters, joined by a quick flicker of suspicion. But she doesn’t slam the door. If anything, she sounds curious as she says, “I am indeed. And you are?”
“Blake.” I offer an embarrassed smile. “Blake Logan. I’m a student at Briar University in Massachusetts. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. About your sister,” I clarify.
Now her eyes narrow.
God, this is so awkward. “You know what? I’m so sorry,” I tell her, my cheeks hotter than Hades. “I just realized how crazy this is and how incredibly intrusive. I shouldn’t have shown up at your door like this, but I couldn’t find a phone number or email. This would have been so much better over email.”
I guess my nervous babbling eases her concerns that I might be here to kill her, because she laughs softly and opens the door wider. “Why don’t you come in, sweetheart? Do you want a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.” I glance toward the curb and give the taxi driver a thumbs-up. He’s been waiting for my signal to head off.
Inside, I remove my shoes at her request and follow her down a wide corridor toward a large kitchen with sky-blue cabinets and a cedar table by a window that overlooks a beautifully manicured backyard. This house isn’t as fancy as the Loughlins’ cliffside Tahoe property, but it’s still pretty damn nice.
“That’s a gorgeous yard,” I tell her.
“Thank you! Ray and I do all the landscaping ourselves.”
“Ray? You mean Raymond? So he’s still alive?”
“Alive and kicking,” Dolly confirms. She walks to the kettle on the stove. “I was just fixing myself a cup of tea when you rang. Would you like one or do you prefer water?”
“Tea is great, thanks.”
She returns to the table with two steaming mugs. “It’s peppermint. I hope that’s all right.”
“Perfect,” I say, gratefully reaching for the tea. “I really am sorry for just showing up here. Sometimes I find a topic I’m interested in, and before I know it, I’m obsessed. My family owns a house in Lake Tahoe, right across the lake from the Loughlin property.”
“Lord, I haven’t been back there in decades,” she muses. “Though I hear my sister is still creating quite the stir.”
I’m startled by the humor gleaming in her brown eyes. “So you know about the Darlie legend?”
