As the afternoon wore on, the sun sank lower in the western sky, setting the horizon aflame. Before dinner, we retreated to our respective rooms. Diane needed time to compile her notes,and I needed time to reflect on the day’s conversation, breathing in the poignant solitude that often came with dusk.
Judy joined me before dinner, and we watched the sunset together.
“How are things going with Diane?” she asked as she gazed out toward the beach.
“Quite well. She's an interesting young woman.”
Judy smiled, her delicate features illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light. “I'm glad to hear it.”
“You know, she reminds me a little bit of Rosie.”
“Rosie? Really?”
“Not so much in the physical appearance, but in her spirit, her mannerisms. Not to mention her passion for writing.”
Judy smiled at the memory. Rosie had been a whirlwind, filling our lives with energy and her love for words.
“Maybe it’s only fitting that Diane is here then,” Judy mused out loud. “Perhaps fate has a way of circling back and reminding us of what we once cherished.”
“And maybe reminding us of what we can still cherish,” I said as the sun went down.
Since we’d taken a break from the hard-hitting questions to talk about our personal lives, Diane and I continued our conversation after dinner. Normally, I would have called it a night, but considering Diane was only with me for two more days, and there was still so much to tell, I had to push the story along.
Kitty Hawk, NC
June 1963
Day two of the trial began with a sunrise as murky as the evidence against Rosie. The courthouse was packed again withspectators, some there to support her, others simply devouring the spectacle. The jury sat at attention, each face betraying a different interpretation of the evidence. The gavel crashed down, marking the start of the proceedings.
The prosecutor paced in front of the jury box, his stride methodical and predatory, keeping the room on the edge of their seats. Every now and then he would stop abruptly, pivot sharply on his heel and thrust a damning piece of evidence toward the jury.
That was the moment I realized just how difficult the road ahead would be for Andrew in his defense of Rosie. But despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, Andrew never wavered. He was not a man of impressive stature like Mr. Gentry, nor did he have an icy stare that could pierce your very soul. Instead, his eyes were warm and kind, his body language relaxed yet assertive. He had an air about him that made you feel at ease, as if everything would be all right.
In my search for evidence to aid Rosie’s defense, I began by delving deeper into Peter’s past. Having only met him a few times, I didn’t know him that well. But there was one detail that stuck out in my memory. He had mentioned having a beachside cottage in nearby Nags Head, so I decided to start there.
I made the short drive from Kitty Hawk to Nags Head with the windows down, losing myself in my thoughts. The coastal winds rumbled around me, whipping my hair into a frizz. As I arrived at the cottage, a quaint little structure painted blue and white, I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Perhaps it was the eerie quietness that hung around the place or the way the salty air seemed heavier, but something gave me pause.
Getting out of the car, I shook the feeling off and began my investigation.
“You looking for something, Miss?” a voice called out as I stepped onto the porch.
I turned to see an elderly man with a weathered face and keen eyes, staring at me from the driveway. His posture was relaxed, yet his gaze was intense, as if he knew something I didn't.
“I’m trying to find out more about the man who lived here,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Peter Sullivan. Did you know him?”
The old man's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the name, his face weathering into a deep frown. “Yeah, I knew him…or at least I knew of him. He wasn’t much for conversation. Mostly kept to himself.”
I nodded, hiding my disappointment. “Did he ever have any visitors? Anyone you can remember?”
“Now that you mention it, there was this one woman. She'd come by every now and then, mostly on the weekends.”
I stepped off the porch, producing a picture of Rosie and showing it to the man. “Was it her?”
He shook his head immediately. “No, that’s the young lady accused of killing Peter. She came by only once or twice. The girl I’m thinking of was different. She was a redhead. Always wore sunglasses and had this look about her, like she was ashamed to be seen.”
A redhead? I hadn't seen anything about a redhead in the case files. Could this be the woman Peter was seeing behind Rosie’s back? “Do you remember her name?”
He hesitated, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Can't say that I do,” he admitted, his brow creasing in concentration. “Peter didn't introduce us, and she wasn't one for chit-chat.”
