That seemed so long ago, back when our lives were simpler. The memory stirred a deep longing within me, a yearning for that sense of security and peace. Yet, I knew those days were locked in the past. Our lives had changed irrevocably since then. As much as I hated to admit it, if Andrew and I couldn’t clear Rosie’s name, our lives would never be the same again.
I sat quietly, going over the details of the case in my head. There was so much that didn’t add up—the discrepancies between Peter’s reported time of death and the time Rosie was seen leaving the theater, the shaky motive, and the bloodstained shirt, placed conspicuously in Rosie’s laundry.
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the police report that Andrew had given me. With the glow of the theater marquee lights illuminating the car, I began to skim through the notes once again.
My eyes traced the familiar lines of the narrative, each word as familiar as the lines from my favorite book. But this time, as I read through the report, something caught my eye. A minor detail, almost insignificant, that the authorities seemed to have overlooked in their initial investigation. The report mentioned a road closure on Roanoke Island that night due to flooding. Curiously, it was the road Rosie would have taken to get home from the theater.
A glimmer of hope flickered in my heart as I quickly pulled out the worn map that was crumpled in the side pocket of the passenger seat. I traced Rosie’s possible routes home that night, finding only one that would have gotten her off the island.
It was almost midnight when I knocked on Andrew’s motel room door. He answered, hair tousled and eyes blinking sleepily in the harsh light that spilled from the parking lot. I held out the police report and the map, the initial panic having settled into a steady determination.
“I think I found something,” I muttered, brushing past him into the room. The bed was unmade, clothes thrown haphazardly across the room. His briefcase was still open, case files scattered around it. The room smelled of stale coffee and leftovers. “I think we’ve been looking at this all wrong.” I unfolded the map on the unoccupied part of the bed, pointing toRoanoke Island. “According to the police report, Betty Arnwine reported seeing Rosie leave the theater at precisely 9:10.”
Andrew nodded along.
“And the medical examiner has the time of death at 9:30, right?”
“Thereabouts.”
I stared at the map, calculating again the distance and time it would have taken Rosie to get from the theater to her home. “She didn’t do it,” I said, looking up at Andrew. “It’s impossible.”
Andrew got up and took a closer look. “How do you figure?”
“It’s simple, don’t you see?”
“Simple to you, perhaps.”
“It’s a little over twenty miles from Manteo to Rosie’s house, right?”
“Yeah, so? That gives her just enough time. I drove it myself, remember?”
“Yes, but you did it in the daylight, and on a dry day with no traffic. That night, there was an awful storm. The roads were treacherous, and power was out to half of Roanoke Island. The rain was pouring so hard that there were reports of flooding all along the sound. It’s right there in the police report.” He took another look while I continued. “If Peter was killed when they say he was, Rosie would’ve had roughly twenty minutes to make the drive and commit the crime. Which means she would have to be going over sixty miles an hour, non-stop.”
“Okay, so maybe she drove really fast,” said Andrew, playing devil’s advocate.
“Maybe, but the road she would normally have taken off the island was shut down due to flooding, which means the detour she took would have added at least another half-hour to her trip. Plus, visibility was poor, and the roads were slick. It’s not just improbable. It’s impossible.”
Andrew considered the evidence, the wheels clearly turning in his head. “This detour…is it anywhere in the police report?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s all there, in black and white.”
“Holy shit! If you’re right…then the timeline…it’s all wrong.”
“Exactly,” I pointed out, my finger tracing the path she would have taken to get from Manteo to Kitty Hawk. “No way Rosie could have killed Peter when they say she did.”
Andrew stood silent for a moment, processing the flurry of information. His gaze shifted from the map to the police report and back again before he finally slumped into his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, looking both frustrated and relieved. “Do you know what this means?”
“It means Rosie is innocent,” I said, trying to keep the satisfaction out of my voice.
“Not only that, but it also means we still have a killer on the loose,” Andrew said gravely. “And an innocent woman being held for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“So, what do we do next?”
“We take this evidence to the judge, first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And what about the real killer?” I asked, a trace of worry creeping into my voice. “Don’t we have to find who did this?”
“We’ve done our part,” he said, a look of determination hardening in his eyes. “Now, it’s up to the sheriff to bring the real killer to justice.”
