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The lights from the dash sharpened the angles of the beautiful face. “I’m your mentor, aren’t I?”
His lip curled into a childish pout, childish but he’d felt alone these last few weeks and couldn’t stop himself. “Yes. You’re in charge. I’ll never question you again!”
“Good.”
Tears choked his throat. Ford was damned grateful to have his mentor back, that he didn’t dare push his good fortune. “What do I do?”
Dark eyes narrowed with approval. “You know where she lives.”
“Yes. I followed her all those nights just like you told me.”
“Go to her house and wait for her. When she arrives home, do as we discussed.”
Excitement simmered in his veins. He’d felt lost these last days without his mentor. “I’ll go there now.”
“Try not to be obvious.”
“And I take her to the house we looked at?” He pictured the rancher in the 12 South neighborhood. It had been vacant for weeks.
“Be very quiet. She can’t make a sound.”
“She won’t.”
“Half the fun is killing amidst many unsuspecting people.”
“I’ll get her now.”
“Don’t be too anxious.”
He drummed his fingers, already halfway to her house in his mind. “I won’t.”
“Remember how we rehearsed it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? We can run through it again. Everything has to be perfect.”
“I’ve imagined it a thousand times in my head.”
“Good. I’ll see you there.” His mentor slid out of the car. Ford put his truck in gear and slowly and carefully drove across town. He arrived just after three in the Germantown neighborhood. He’d have to wait for her. Normally she didn’t get home until six.
He considered where he should wait. Even he knew not to park a van in front of her house. As he considered his options, he saw a flicker of movement in the front window. Excitement surged as his anxiety rose. She was already home. This was not what he was expecting.
He considered his options. Wait. Call his mentor. Grab her now.
He needed to show some initiative. Show his mentor he was a man to be respected. If he grabbed her now, then he could spend hours with her before his mentor arrived. Private time. Away from prying eyes.
He moved his vehicle down the street and parked in a retail parking lot. He reached for a general repairman’s ball cap on his front seat and got out. A few hours alone with her. Yeah. That would be real nice.
Jenna could no longer ignore the urge to see her family’s old home, the spot where her life had been shattered and forever changed. Several times, she’d almost gotten in her Jeep and made the twenty-mile drive but each time, she’d lost her courage. Now, with the greater Nashville area knowing she was back in town, it seemed foolish to fear driving by the old place.
She had found the address a couple of years ago when she’d been closing up her aunt’s apartment. There’d been a very old letter from her mother to her aunt and printed on the top left corner of each envelope had been her old home address.
The letter had been simple and to the point. Aunt Lois, sorry to hear about Uncle Henry’s death. Know that you’re in our thoughts and prayers.
Love, Carol.
Jenna had been uninspired by the letter that had offered little in the way of her old family. If only her mother had taken just a moment to write something about her daughters or her husband. A few scrawled words . . .
But there’d been nothing but the address.
Now, following the GPS directions she turned into the tree-lined neighborhood located in an upscale community outside of Franklin.
The neighborhood was older and filled with brick homes and large oak trees with large, wide canopies of leaves. Curb and gutter trimmed the streets and lined green rolling lawns.
A long way from the small apartment she’d shared with her aunt.
The directions ended in a cul-de-sac and she parked at an angle from the home. She shut off the engine of her car and got out. Slowly, she moved to the edge of the yard and stared at the big home made of brick with large windows flanked by hunter-green shutters. A crepe myrtle drooped full and heavy with pink blossoms beside a graveled driveway lined with square stones.
The house, she’d learned, had turned over ownership several times in the last twenty-five years. It was in a prime location and she supposed buyers were willing to overlook its history. To look at the house it would be easy to assume she’d come from money, but her aunt had said the house was mortgaged, and that by the time the house had finally sold a year after the murders, there’d been no money.
She drew in a breath as she stared at the house. A memory flashed. She was running across the lawn. Laughing. She’d been wearing a blue dress and she’d been holding a balloon. Another girl, older, her sister, had chased her. She was also laughing. She closed her eyes, hoping to draw more from the moment but it faded like smoke in the wind.
Jenna looked up at the second-floor window. Her memory shifted and she was back in time. A woman stood in the window. Her mother. She was weeping.
“Why were you crying, Mom?” Jenna’s own throat now tightened with emotions that threatened to pry the armor from her heart. She didn’t want to feel this. She didn’t want to remember. Hers was a good life, and she didn’t need the past poisoning what she had.
On reflex, she shifted to cop mode. “Then why’re you here? If this was such a happy place and life was perfect, then why’re you here? Why’re you remembering the image of your mother crying?”
Why did perfect feel broken?
Jenna didn’t have an answer.
A dark Lexus pulled up behind Jenna and after a moment, Susan Martinez got out. She walked with purpose up to Jenna. “Thank you for agreeing to the meeting.”
She slid her hands into her pockets not sure what to say. “Sure.”
Susan held up keys. “Want to see the inside of the house?”
“How did you get those keys?”
“The house is for sale.”
“There’s no sign.”
“In this neighborhood, there often aren’t signs. No one likes to see turnover.”
“Who gave you the keys?”
“From my realtor friend. He said the owner wouldn’t be home for a few hours. We’ll have the place all to ourselves.”
She cleared her throat. “Why is he selling?”
“Money trouble from what I hear. He’s been in the house for twelve years but for whatever reason ran into problems. Who knows? Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
She followed Susan up the brick sidewalk, concentrating on the click of the reporter’s heels instead of the thump, thump of her own heart. Susan inserted the key into a lockbox by the front door and then removed the house key. A flip of the wrist and the door opened.
For a moment, Jenna hovered on the front porch, bracing as if past ghosts rushed through like an arctic wind.
“You okay?” Susan asked.
She hesitated as she searched for her voice. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Emotions can be overwhelming.”
Memories of laughter elbowed to the front of her mind first as she moved to a large, bull-nosed banister that led to the second-floor landing. She’d remembered running down those stairs, excited and happy. It had been her first day of school. She’d been wearing new shoes and had a bow in her hair.
Jenna moved toward the darkened hallway as Susan flipped on the light. She glanced to her left into a parlor that felt similar to her parents’ front room. A picture on the wall, a landscape, also triggered a moment of déjà vu. “It doesn’t look like it’s changed much.”
“I was never in the house while I was covering the case. The cops had it closed up for almost a year and by the time it reopened, life had moved on to the next story.”
The next story. The Thompsons had been forgotten.
“What do you remember?” Susa
n asked.
“Very little.” A glance toward the kitchen at the end of the hall quickened her heart rate. That was where the police had found her slain family. Father at the back door, likely first shot. Mother by the stove and Sara just inside the kitchen from this hall. Police theorized he’d killed her parents and waited for Sara.
She grazed her fingertips along the polished dark wood of the banister. She drew in a breath knowing smell was a key trigger but her memories, huddled in the shadows, would not be coaxed out. “My room was the third on the right, upstairs. It was next to my sister’s.”
“Let’s go look.”
Jenna glanced up the stairs, feeling the interloper and intruder. But this was the chance she’d driven so far to grab. Slowly, she moved up the stairs, hoping each step took her closer to memories that could not be articulated. She peered in the first bedroom. Four-poster bed, neatly made with a blue comforter as smooth as still waters, a gilded mirror above the headboard, and a dresser with brushes neatly cleaned and lined up in a row. She moved down the hallway to the next room. A teen girl’s room decorated with posters of rock stars and dominated by a bed made up in purple and covered with dozens of different pillows. Bead strands hung over the windows. In a different decade it could have been Sara’s room.
She drew in a breath and stepped toward the room that had been hers. Her mouth grew dry and her hands clammy. She pushed open the door to find the room of a little girl. Pinks and whites dressed a brass daybed. Dolls lined up on the bed’s pillow, sheer curtains covered the windows that looked out over the front lawn, and a large teddy bear sat slumped in a corner.
“It’s not decorated like it was, but the room layouts are the same.”
“Stands to reason, largest to smallest.”
She touched the soft coverlet. “Yes.”
“Do you remember that night at all?”
“Not much. I fell asleep and when I awoke, Ronnie’s dirty hand was on my mouth.” “Shh, be very, very quiet. There are bad guys outside that want to kill you.” She touched her lips with her fingertips. “My next memory is the closet.”
