"I know you love them," Amy said, her voice softening. "But love shouldn't come with conditions. Parents are supposed to support their kids, not tear them down."
Kelly nodded mutely, unwilling to open her mouth for fear of what might come out. Maybe a sob. Maybe decades of bottled frustration. Neither option seemed appropriate at the moment.
The truth was, Kelly couldn't remember the last time her parents had praised her for anything.
Her podcast about cold cases? "Not a real job."
Her apartment in New York? "Throwing money away on rent."
Her college achievements? "If only you'd applied yourself more.”
They seemed to delight in criticizing her life choices, from her hairstyle to her career to her boyfriends.
"It won’t be so bad this time," Kelly said, without much conviction. "It's Celia's wedding. Everyone will be focused on her."
Her friends didn’t believe that for a second, and neither did she. But damn, she almost sounded like it might be true. Perhaps if she wished hard enough…
And I find a four-leaf clover, and a unicorn flies through the air on a rainbow.
"We should probably get going," Amy said, glancing at her watch. "The movie starts in forty minutes, and you know how Dina is about missing the previews."
"They're the best part!" Dina protested, already gathering her purse and jacket.
Kelly remained seated, shaking her head when they asked again if she wanted to join. They’d been pestering her all week about it, but all she wanted was some quiet time to herself.
"I've got some work to catch up on. You guys go ahead."
"We'll bring you back some Junior Mints," Amy promised. “And SnoCaps. We’ll bring those, too.”
Sugar and chocolate could never be wrong.
"Text if you change your mind," Dina added. "We can always catch the later showing."
Kelly smiled and nodded, but they all knew she wouldn't. Kelly was determined to get some work done.
The front door closed behind her roommates with a soft click, leaving her alone in the suddenly quiet apartment. Without Amy's laughter and Dina's gentle teasing, the space felt emptier, the silence highlighting the intrusive thoughts she had been trying to avoid.
But could never get away from.
Kelly sat at the kitchen island for several minutes after the door closed, listening to the apartment settle into silence. She traced the rim of her empty mug with one finger, the conversation about her family still echoing in her mind. Her roommates weren't wrong about her parents, but understanding a problem and fixing it were two very different things.
With a sigh, she pushed away from the counter and headed down the hallway to her bedroom, which doubled as her home office and recording studio. She had work to do. Real work, not the hobby her father dismissed with such casual cruelty.
A single desk lamp cast a pool of warm light across her recording equipment, a professional-grade microphone on a swing arm, headphones hanging from a hook, and the sleek laptop she used for editing. The walls were covered with corkboards that not only muffled sounds but were also filled with notes, timelines, and photographs connected by colored string. To an outsider, it might have appeared to be the work of someone unhinged. To Kelly, it was organized chaos, each pin and string a deliberate connection in cases that had gone cold.
Her podcast, “Buried Cases,” had a modest but dedicated following. She received dozens of emails weekly from listeners suggesting cases or offering information. Sometimes, rarely, those tips led somewhere useful. Usually, they were well-intentioned but ultimately unhelpful. Kelly didn't mind. Each message represented someone else who cared about justice delayed.
She settled into her desk chair, the familiar creak of its springs a comforting sound in the quiet room. For a moment, she considered opening her laptop and beginning work on her next episode script. Instead, her hand moved involuntarily to the bottom desk drawer, hesitating just briefly before pulling it open.
She knew better, but now that her trip home was coming up, it was all she could think about.
The folder inside was worn at the edges, its once-crisp manila surface softened by years of handling. Unlike her other case files, which were neatly labeled and color-coded, this one bore no external markings. It didn't need any. Kelly knew exactly what it contained.
She lifted it carefully, as though it might crumble in her hands, and placed it on her desk. The weight of it seemed disproportionate to its physical size, heavy with memories and unanswered questions that had haunted her for more than a decade.
For a moment, she just stared at the closed folder, gathering her courage. Then, with a deep breath, she opened it.
Inside were the artifacts of a life cut short. Newspaper clippings, yellowed with age. Notes scribbled in Kelly's own handwriting, added over the years as she’d revisited the case. Photographs, some official, others personal. A map of Bergen, Illinois, with locations marked in red. A list of names that Kelly had memorized long ago.
