I pulledup to the Airbnb in St. Augustine; the sun’s glow reflecting off the old Spanish architecture gave the city a kind of burnished, antique look. I could feel it—the urgency, like an electric current coursing through my veins as I grabbed my bags from the back seat and made a beeline for the front door.
"Here to visit someone?" The host, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, asked as he handed me the keys.
"Nope. Here for work, not pleasure," I replied curtly, my mind racing ahead to the tasks at hand. I didn't bother with pleasantries; there wasn't time. I took the stairs two at a time, found the door to the house, and let myself in. The place was quaint, a painting of coastal serenity that I barely registered. My bags hit the floor with a thud, their contents forgotten as my phone began to vibrate in my pocket.
"Thomas," I answered without looking at the caller ID.
"Eva Rae, it's Diane Matthews." Her voice was laced with distress, tugging at my instincts.
“I just got here,” I said. “Checking in as we speak.”
"Good. We need to talk."
"Tell me where and when," I said, moving toward the window, already scanning the street below for any signs of trouble.
"O'Steen's on Anastasia Boulevard. Can you make it now?"
"Give me ten minutes." I ended the call and tucked the phone away, my brain firing on all cylinders.
I left the house as swiftly as I had entered it, the sense of purpose driving me forward. The air was humid against my skin as I made my way to my car. Every tick of the clock was a reminder of what was at stake—a family torn apart by tragedy and accusation.
As I started the engine, the threads of the case began to weave together in my head, forming a tapestry of questions and possibilities. What new evidence could possibly point to Will? And why now?
The drive was short, yet every red light felt like an eternity, every slow-moving car in front of me an obstacle to my mission. When I finally parked outside O'Steen's, my heart was pounding—not with fear, but with the adrenaline of a huntress on the scent of truth.
I pushed open the door to O'Steen’s. The room was dimly lit, laughter and chatter underscored by the soft strumming of a guitar from the corner stage, where some guy was entertaining the guests between fish dip and conch fritters. I took it all in with a swift glance—patrons huddled over their meals, a tender moment at the bar—but my gaze sliced through the ambiance, homing in on my sole interest.
There she was, Diane Matthews, sitting at a corner table as if she owned the shadows that danced around her. Time had dared not to lay a finger on her; her dark hair cascaded with the same shine as those years ago, defying the very notion of aging. She sat there, an embodiment of grace under the dim lights, her poise untouched by the gravity of our meeting.
"Ms. Matthews," I started, approaching her with purpose. Her head tilted up, those deep blue eyes locking onto mine—a silent conversation before words could even escape.
"Eva Rae," she said, her voice a soothing melody amidst the hum of conversations. "It's been too long."
"Far too long," I agreed, the warmth in her tone thawing the usual frostiness of my demeanor. We embraced briefly, a shared history folded into that simple act.
"Sit, please." Diane gestured to the chair opposite her, her movements fluid, her elegance unwavering even in something as mundane as an invitation to sit.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," she said, folding her hands on the table, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Of course, Diane," I replied, matching her intensity.
Diane's eyes sparkled as she leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I've followed your career, Eva Rae. FBI agent. Profiler on many important cases. Books written. It's impressive."
"Thank you, Diane," I managed, the praise unfamiliar yet not unwelcome. I was often too hard on myself when thinking of what I had accomplished and where I had failed.
"Your mother… she may not wear her heart on her sleeve, but she's proud. I know it."
My smile faltered, a tightness gripping my chest. A flash of memory—my mother's indifferent gaze across a dinner table, reports of my accomplishments met with a nod, nothing more. Pride? That was an alien concept in my family.
"Maybe," I said, words clipped, betraying nothing of the internal chill that the mention of my mother always stirred. She was better than she used to be, and that was at least something.
I sipped water, cool and detached as my thoughts. The contrast struck me—Diane's warmth against the frost of myown maternal bond. Support was something I learned to find elsewhere, to build from scratch like a case with no leads.
Diane's hands trembled as she clasped her sweet tea.
"Angela's death… they said it was an accident."
Her voice hitched on the words, a mother's grief etched into every syllable. "Now, out of nowhere, they're pinning the murder on Will. I simply don’t understand it."
