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Frank Whittier’s among them. Cal’s were there, too. And Emma’s, which they’d documented when she’d been in to give them Claire’s DNA. They found others, probably Rose Sanderson’s. Claire’s. And one, unidentified, clear print on the back right paw.
Jack Colton’s? They had his DNA, not his fingerprint. Not yet. And the man still was not answering his phone. He hadn’t used his bank card in the past couple of days. Nor had his rig been spotted along America’s highways.
If he was on a run, how was he paying for gas? Reading the lab report that had just come up Thursday morning, the thought of Jack Colton buying gas reminded him of the gas-station robbery case Lucy had worked on recently. She was at her mother’s, probably preparing dinner. Would Sandy have the wherewithal to make it through dinner?
Had Lucy ever had a happy holiday in her life?
He’d had plenty. And then he’d quit having holidays.
T he day was just like every other holiday at the Hayes home. Sandy started out full of energy and forced cheer, insisting that they observe all of their traditions—from starting with a glass of egg nog and breakfast casserole to singing their first Christmas carol of the season as they stuffed the turkey.
After the bird was in the oven, Sandy played only Christmas music until New Year’s, even though she couldn’t listen to any of it and stay sober.
She tried, though. Every year she insisted that she’d make it. That she’d give Lucy a traditional and happy holiday season. The stuff memories were made of.
She had plenty of memories. A lot of good ones containing her mother. Even some holiday ones. Over dinner, they listened to “Carol of the Bells” and the rest of Sandy’s favorite Christmas CD, all bell songs.
Other years, when Marie was there, they listened to Barbra Streisand’s Christmas album, too. Marie was in Cincinnati for the day, this year, serving dinner in a soup kitchen. She’d be back by nightfall, freeing Lucy to go home and pack and get some rest before her early morning flight.
“Mama? Remember that witch’s costume we made?” she asked as Perry Como’s version of “Silver Bells” played in the background.
“You were in seventh grade,” Sandy said, the words only slightly slurred as she chewed and smiled at the same time. She was still just drinking wine, which was a good sign.
“Remember how we spent a whole evening looking at patterns and choosing fabric?”
“You were so eager to learn. You were the best helper in the world, Luce. You always have been.”
“I like being with you.”
Sandy’s eyes filled. But then she took a sip of wine and continued. “We put starch and cardboard behind the fabric in the hat and it didn’t droop like all the other witches hats we’d seen,” Sandy said. “And flannel underneath the black linen skirt and bodice so you’d stay warm.”
“I remember the black streaks you put in my blond hair. I was the best-looking witch ever,” she said, wishing they had more pictures.
“You won first place in the costume contest at the junior high.”
Sandy had been drinking then, but she’d had it under control.
“The dressing and Waldorf salad are perfect,” Lucy said, gorging herself. And thinking of Allie’s spirit watching over them.
She’d tell her mother about Allie. It was the right thing to do. And maybe, if Sandy had answers, she’d move on. She’d fall apart at first, sure, but with closure her mom could get out of the valley of pain she’d been living for Lucy’s whole life, make peace with the past and move forward into the future.
If she had nothing to hang on to, maybe…
As she ate and relaxed and talked with her mother, and as Sandy slowly got drunk, as they continued on with tradition and watched Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street—the original version—Lucy knew what was happening.
She was no longer hanging hope on Allie’s return to bring her mother back to her. But the hope that she’d one day have a healthy, sober Sandy in her life had not died. It was reshaping itself.
Finding a new version. One that might just have a chance of coming to fruition.
It was almost as if Allie’s spirit was at work, helping her to see that the future didn’t depend on the past.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
R amsey Miller woke up Friday morning with a new lease on life. He felt as if he’d survived a storm. He guessed, in a sense, he had.
He’d made it through another holiday.
Dinner with Amelia at eight o’clock the evening before had been lovel
