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ng you. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, Morgan was shown into an inner office—a ten-by-twelve paneled room with the same color scheme and modest decoration as the reception area, only homier, thanks to a window ledge filled with thriving plants. A big old walnut desk dominated the floor space, its surface piled high with paperwork, file folders, and a steel nameplate that read barbara stevens, counselor. Behind the desk sat an attractive, middle-aged African-American woman in a lemon-yellow turtleneck sweater and toast-colored slacks, whose entire demeanor emanated warmth and comfort.
As Ms. Stevens rose and extended her hand, Morgan had a flash of recall: this same woman—younger, with a more trendy hairstyle, but with the same soothing presence—walking up to the front of the chapel and squeezing a traumatized ten-year-old’s arm.
Yes, Barbara Stevens had been at the funeral. Morgan remembered.
That twinge of sorrow that never quite went away darted through her.
“Morgan…” Barbara was greeting her, sentiment warming her gaze. “I would have known you even if you’d come in unannounced. You look so much like your mother.”
“I hear that quite a bit.” Morgan met the older woman’s handshake. “But no matter how often I do, I take it as a compliment.”
“You should. Lara was a beautiful and special person, inside and out. She was also the most psychologically intuitive woman I’ve ever met.” A painful pause. “I read about the wrongful conviction that was just discovered by the D.A. It’s appalling. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.” As she heard the glowing description of her mother, Morgan’s twinge was replaced by pride. It was amazing how many lives Lara had touched—through her work in social services, fund-raising for charitable causes, and most of all, through starting up and running the women’s abuse center. She’d become an emotional lifeline to dozens of women. Morgan had been peripherally aware of it as a child. But now, as an adult, she truly understood it. Lara had offered these women not only security but a foundation for a renewed sense of self-worth.
Barbara Stevens had been an integral connection to that.
“Are you all right?” she asked Morgan gently.
“Yes. And, with regard to what you said, my mother thought just as highly of you. I’ve discovered that more and more over the past weeks. I found her last working journals, and I’ve been reading through them. Your name is mentioned constantly.”
Barbara acknowledged that with a soft smile, indicating the armchair across from her desk. “Please. Have a seat. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.” As if to verify her words, the drip coffeemaker on the end table gave a few sputters of finality.
“I’ll grab a cup. Thanks.” Morgan scooted over and helped herself, then sat down and crossed her legs. “I appreciate your time.”
“I’m glad you called. Given what’s happened, I’m sure you need to talk.”
“Yes.” Morgan felt a wave of relief that Barbara understood her need to feel closer to her mother. But where to begin?
“Your parents were killed on Christmas Eve,” Barbara said with quiet insight. “The holidays must be very difficult for you, even on a regular basis, much less this year.”
“They are. The odd thing is that this year was particularly bad, even before I knew about the wrongful conviction. I felt so unsettled, and I had an eerie sense of foreboding. And now—I have this strong need to feel connected to my parents. I’ve been going through their things every night, searching for clues, for closure. It’s like I need to personally solve this case, or at least have a major hand in doing so. I know it’s not logical. But it’s real.”
“I don’t doubt it. Plus, you mentioned finding your mother’s last journals. That must be both a comfort and a torment.”
“It is. I keep poring over them. Sharing her inner thoughts is tearing me up inside. But I can’t seem to stop.”
“And you have questions.”
Morgan leaned forward. “Did you see her a lot those last weeks before she died? Personally or professionally?”
Barbara didn’t dance around the point. “You want to know if she did or said anything that could point you toward the real killer. Believe me, I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times this week. I’ve relived our visits and our conversations over and over in my mind, racked my brain for a clue. The truth is, there wasn’t one. Mostly, we discussed the women we were counseling or offering sanctuary to. As far as personal news, I remember her telling me you’d won a spelling bee at school that week, and how proud she and your father were.”
A soft chuckle escaped Barbara’s lips. “Lara said that Jack had literally raced out of Supreme Court during a recess so he could be at the school to see the principal give you your certificate. She said he hadn’t left work that quickly since the day she went into labor.”
Morgan swallowed. “Anything else about my father’s career—general or specific?”
“She expressed concern for his safety. But that wasn’t unusual or surprising. You father prosecuted some dangerous criminals.”
“I know.” Morgan jumped on that. “During those last weeks or months, did my mother bring up any specific names? Of the criminals themselves or any of their associates? Did she mention my father receiving any threats? Phone calls? Even an unpleasant altercation?”
Barbara gave a rueful shake of her head. “I wish I had something solid to offer you. But the truth is, Lara and I were so absorbed in figuring out ways to help the women who came to us, there was little or no time for small talk.”
“I understand.” Morgan’s shoulders sagged. It had been a long shot and she knew it. Still, it didn’t ease the frustration.
