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Then, it hits me. The woman is Janet Taylor, super wife of Harris Taylor, the town’s OBGYN. Her son is Jesse Taylor, the missing twenty-eight-year-old man I saw on the news.
Interesting.
I take her in and decide that she doesn’t remind me of a poodle so much as one of the housewives from the reality show I’ve been binge watching.
Fife refocuses on me as Janet sinks back into her chair, displeased with her continued wait on the detective.
“Miss Stone, my name is Officer Marino.” He stretches out his hand. I clasp the long, bird-like fingers, shake firmly. “Come on back.”
I am led through the steel door and into a small room with a folding table and two plastic chairs on either side. An interview room, except it is the exact opposite of what I expected. There is no blinding white paint, no bleach smell, no heat lamp hanging down from the ceiling, inches from your sweating forehead. Instead, the walls are painted a dark beige and the recessed lights are rather dim. The room has a calm, soothing feel and I wonder if that is intentional. After all, gone are the days of intimidating detectives asking tough, in-your-face questions and leading accusations. Instead, it is a new age of hand-holding and coddling. Honestly, I’m not quite sure how I feel about this.
Officer Marino sits opposite me, the table between us. As I lower onto the cold plastic chair, he folds his hands confidently on the table, his back pin-straight.
I am beginning to think I have the wrong impression of Officer Marino.
“Okay.” His tone is dispassionate, with a touch of boredom as if he has done this ten times already today. “Tell me what’s going on.”
In a calm, even tone (despite my racing heart) I lay out the last four days of my life, detailing the evening I received the first letter, the second, third, and the fourth. By the time I tell him about the necklace tumbling out of the envelope, I have Officer Marino’s full, undivided attention.
I’m beginning to like the effect this mystery has on people.
“Do you have the necklace?” he asks.
“Yes, and the letters.” I pull the envelopes from my purse and slide them across the table.
“I’m assuming you handled these without gloves, correct?”
“Yes—sorry.”
He nods, expecting this response. Instead of immediately opening the envelopes, Marino studies me for a minute.
“So, you’re Marjorie Stone’s daughter.”
The tickle of nerves in my stomach turns into a sinking ball of grease. I force myself to hold eye contact.
“Yes. I am—was.”
“I remember hearing about the case.”
“Most people around here do.”
“You worked at the newspaper a while back. Right?”
“Yes. I was laid off.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” I look down, but quickly correct this obvious show of nerves.Never look down.Chin up, shoulders back.
My eyes lock onto his.
“I joined the force about four months before Covid hit,” he says. “I think I saw you a time or two, working a few stories.”
I nod, unsure where he is going with this.
He looks down at the letters. “May I?”
“Of course.”
