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Outside the courtroom, I watched Aldrich bounce down those steps, and I waited for the shot that would wipe the smug smile off his face.
It didn't come.
Not then. Not ever.
Aldrich left town that day. A free man.
They let him leave.
Amy was dead, and her killer lived, and no one--not even those men I loved and trusted, who'd spoken so passionately about justice--ever did a damned thing about it.
* * *
TWENTY
I rolled from bed and padded downstairs, moving quietly so I wouldn't wake Jack or Evelyn. I knew what I wanted, and I was sure Evelyn wouldn't mind me helping myself.
In the kitchen, I opened the pantry and scanned the contents. Nothing. Now what? I didn't feel right pawing through all her kitchen cupboards. There was tea and decaf coffee, but what I craved was cocoa.
That's what my dad always made me when I slipped downstairs at night. Though I'd claimed insomnia, the truth was, I often came down just for the hot chocolate...and the time with my father.
Dad never went to bed before one. After the eleven o'clock news, my mother retired, and Dad would head into the kitchen, retrieve his briefcase from the back hall and spread his case files across the table. Then he'd work.
As a
child, I always harbored the suspicion that he wasn't really working, but was just taking advantage of some quiet time after my mother went to bed. I know now that his cases had kept him awake. He'd spend the next hour or two running through leads, twisting and turning them in his brain, struggling to fit the pieces together.
When I'd interrupt, he'd just smile, get up, fix the hot chocolate and we'd count how many mini-marshmallows I could cram in. Seventeen was my personal best.
If the case he was working on was child-friendly, he'd tell me about it and not only ask my advice, but act as if he took it seriously, jot down notes, promise to follow up and let me know what happened. He always did; solved or shelved, he'd tell me how it worked out.
I stood in the draft of the open fridge, staring at the milk container.
"Letting out all the cold air."
I jumped, the door slipping from my hand. Jack stood behind it.
"Have you ever had warm milk?" I asked.
"What?"
"I was looking for hot chocolate mix, but Evelyn doesn't seem to have any, so I thought maybe I'd try warm milk. They say it helps you sleep. Doesn't sound too appetizing, though."
"It's not." He skirted around me, opened a cupboard and took out two containers, one labeled cocoa, the other sugar. "Hot chocolate."
I looked from one container to the other. "Requires cooking skills, doesn't it? Maybe I'll just stick with--"
"Sit down." He grabbed the milk from the fridge.
"No, really, I wasn't asking--"
"I know. Hand me that saucepan."
I reached for a big copper pot hanging over the counter.
"No, the sauce--The little one."
Jack moved to the stove and leaned down to turn it on. As I handed him the pot he turned sharp, nearly colliding with me.
