“So you think I’m doing the wrong thing by leaving?” I guess.
She shrugs. “Your life isn’t the same as mine. What went on between me, Richard, and Sugar has nothing to do with you. I just realized I needed to come home and put some bad memories to rest. I’m happy they were still willing to take me back.”
“So you and Richard…”
“Are testing the waters.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we only have one life, Summer, and he and I wasted too many years being afraid. We aren’t going to let that happen again. Will we make a go? I have no idea. We aren’t the same people as we were thirty years ago—but that doesn’t mean we aren’t better matched now than then.”
I flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I try not to focus on the fact her life has come together when mine continues to fall apart. I’m happy for her. I just need to get my act together. I listen to her fingers click against the keyboard. I roll over and say, “Does it ever get easier? Love and relationships?”
She looks at me over the laptop screen. “I wish it did, honey. But at some point, you have to push aside your fears and follow your heart.”
19
The next day, my mother and I make one last trip inland for her book. I’m thankful that for once, this meeting is not with a victim or in someone’s home. My mother has managed to convince a former detective from Donald Gaskins’ case to meet us for lunch. Seafood and murder. At this point, the combination sounds completely normal to me.
I expect an old man, but the guy waiting for us at Captain Jack’s appears only a bit older than my mother. He’s already at the table buttering hush-puppies and reading a paper.
“Mr. Marrs, I’m Julia. This is my daughter and assistant, Summer.”
“Sit, please, and call me Judson.” He gestures to the empty seats at the table. “Try these hushpuppies. Best in the area.”
I stare at the fried ball of dough questionably, but I’m starving. I slather butter all over the bread and take a bite. “Holy crap, that’s good.”
“Summer!” my mother admonishes.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Try one, they’re awesome.”
My mother ignores me. “So Judson, you worked on the Gaskins case in 1973?”
“Through ’76,” he confirms. “I was a rookie and found myself in the middle of the biggest serial killer case the state had ever seen. When I got on the case, though, he was already in jail, waiting for trial. Right before he was arrested, Gaskins had started taking on a lot of paid jobs.”
“You mean he was a hired killer?” she asks, scribbling in her notepad.
“Yep. Took his nasty habit and started making money off of it.”
“Wow,” I say, before shoving another hush puppy in my mouth.
Mr. Marrs smiles at me. “While he was in jail we arrested an associate of his, Walter Neely. He was the one that finally caved and told us everything. I was in the room when he confessed.”
My mother looks at her notes. “Walter Neely assisted him in some of his crimes, correct?”
“Yep, he helped him hide three bodies. He took us directly to Gaskins’ personal cemetery. We found eight bodies out there that night. Most horrific sight I’d ever seen—bones everywhere.”
At that, I push the basket of bread away.
My mother isn’t deterred by bones and bodies. “Was that all you used to connect them to Gaskins? Neely’s testimony?”
Judson pours a packet of sweetener into his tea and stirs it loudly. “That was a big part but there were some other identifying factors.”
“Can you share?” It’s slight, but I notice my mother’s interest pick up. She already knew these other facts. She’s hoping Judson can tell her something new.
“There’s a small fact that was never released—even in court. It was random on the victims, but we had seen it more than once. Predominately on women. It seemed Gaskins had a signature of sorts, yet it was inconsistent.”
“What was it?”
