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As we end the call and I type the Pinterest website into my browser, I suddenly remember it’s one of my colleague’s last days at work today.
“Shit,” I mutter. I wanted to say goodbye to her and she told me to come by around four. I push my chair back and make a mental note to get back to Pinterest as soon as possible. I’m beginning to feel all kinds of nervous about this endeavour. What if I screw Sean’s party up? What if he hates it? Oh, God, the things a mother must go through in her life. No wonder most of the mothers I know drink copious amounts of wine as often as they can.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say to Marion as I enter her office. She’s my favourite person here, so I’m really going to miss her.
She smiles as she loads another file into the box she’s packing. Marion has been reporting on news and crime at the paper for fifteen years; she has a lot of files to pack. “I give it six months tops until they move you off events and start giving you juicier stories.” She picks up the next folder in her pile. “Like this one,” she says.
As she holds it up, pieces of paper flutter out of the folder and onto the floor. I bend to retrieve them and freeze when I read the headline on the article. Looking up at Marion, I say, “Did you work on Jolene Hardy’s case?”
She nods and opens the file. “Yes. That was an interesting case, that’s for sure. One I was never happy with.”
I stand and pass her the pieces of paper from the floor. “Why?”
She shifts her weight onto one leg. “I interviewed her and I honestly believed everything she told me. But as much as I believed her, all the evidence stacked up against her. It was hard to put my faith in a woman who was supposedly a cold-blooded murderer when there wasn’t much evidence in her favour. Except for the old man who was her neighbour at the time. He swore she was home at the time the murder took place. It corroborated her testimony. But the prosecution slaughtered him on the stand.” She pauses. “I still wonder about her, though. Something didn’t feel right.”
I’m rooted to the spot and my skin prickles with apprehension. “What felt wrong about it?”
She pulls a face. “They painted her as this cold, calculating woman, but I didn’t pick up on the calculating part of her personality when I spoke with her. Sure, she can be cold, but I think that’s only when she feels threatened. Once we moved past her mistrust of me, she was anything but cold. She struck me as a very unhappy woman who felt trapped in a marriage with a man she struggled to believe loved her. Her childhood was full of bullying, abuse and a lack of parental love, so I don’t think she ever learnt how to love. But she was desperate for it underneath that bitchy coat she wore to protect herself from hurt. Her husband was amazing throughout the trial, always by her side, supporting her however she needed it. And yet, she couldn’t see the love he had for her. I think a calculating person would be more in tune with what other people are thinking. Smarter, you know?”
My legs are weak and my head is spinning.
Marion touches my arm. “Callie, are you okay? Do you need to sit down? You’re so pale all of a sudden.”
I nod and take the seat she offers me. “Have you got any water?”
She leaves me for a couple of minutes to find water. When she returns, I’m feeling a little better. “Thank you,” I say as she passes me the glass.
Sitting opposite me, she says, “What happened there?”
I take a gulp of water. “I know her husband.”
“Do you know her?”
I shake my head. “No. I only met him just over a year ago. My best friend works for him.” I omit that I’m in love with the man.
“I feel sorry
for him. Either way, he’s been screwed over.”
I lean forward. “What does your gut tell you about the murder?”
She exhales a long breath after thinking for a good minute or so. “Honestly, I’m inclined to think she’s innocent. I researched it for months but came up short. And I know her husband hired a detective, and he found nothing that helped. But I still have this doubt at the back of my head.”
Oh, God.
This is bad.
Very, very bad.
I bite my lip. “Would you consider leaving your file with me so I could keep looking into it?”
She frowns. “I won’t leave the original documents here, but you could photocopy them now before I go.”
“Thank you.”
As I exit her office with the file to photocopy, she calls out, “I’m available anytime you want to go over something. Two heads and all.”
At this point, I’m not even sure I want to go over the file, but my gut is screaming at me to at least get a copy of it so I can read through it.
