Page 22 of In the Dead of Night

“A good man.”

“You look like him.”

One side of his mouth curved. “I get that a lot.”

She thought of the notes she’d found in the attic. “Nick, I think the notes may have been his.”

“Why would his notes be here? He did most of his writing in the bungalow.”

“My parents and your father were friends. Good friends. Maybe he left them here.”

“Tell me about the notes.”

“I only had a minute or so to look at them before the lights went out.” Even now, the memory of that moment made her shudder. “It appeared as if someone had written down the names and circumstances regarding the disappearances of several women.”

“Do you recall any of the names?”

The question sparked a memory. “Jenna…something. Sherman. No…Sherwood.”

Nick pulled a small spiral pad from his shirt pocket and jotted the name down. “I can run that name through the Missing and Unidentified Persons Unit database and see if anything pops.”

Hope coursed through Sara at the thought of information that wasn’t based on hearsay or loosely pieced-together theory. “Was your father working on a book at the time of his death?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I was twelve. I was always intrigued by his work, but Mom never talked about him after that night.”

“Maybe we could talk to her.”

“I think you should stay away from Laurel,” he cut in.

Remembering her confrontation with his mother, Sara touched the sore spot on her cheek. “She might be able to shed some light on this.”

“Being able and being willing are two different things.”

“Maybe if you talked to her.”

He grimaced, as if the idea left a sour taste in his mouth. “She was never the same after Dad died. She’s never talked about it, even when I asked. But I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thank you. I know that won’t be easy for you.”

“Or her.”

Sara picked up her cup to sip, but the coffee had gone bitter on her tongue. “I went to the library when I was in town earlier.”

He shot her a dark look as if knowing she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

Sara didn’t care. “The Cape Darkwood Press ran a lot of stories on…the crime after it happened.”

“Sensational stories sell newspapers.”

“There was a photo in one of the stories of my mother and your father sitting at an outdoor café. To the biased eye, it might have looked like an intimate moment between lovers.” She took a deep breath. “The reporter played up that angle. On the table between them, there was a manuscript.”

His gaze sharpened on hers. “Based on that photo, you’re telling me you think there is, indeed, a missing manuscript?”

“I think it’s a possibility we should look into.” Realizing what she’d said, Sara amended her statement. “I should look into.”

“Even if you find the manuscript, what do you expect to accomplish?”

“The caller mentioned a manuscript. Maybe it’s tied to the killings.” But she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. More than anything, Sara wanted to vindicate her father of murder and suicide, her mother of infidelity. “I just want to know what happened that night. I want to know why it happened.”