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It was revealed that Rhett’s carpentry business was underwater, his home and car one month from being repossessed. Rhett was on the brink of bankruptcy. His motive was money.
Rhett had established a safe, comfortable relationship with my mother by being her hired help. He had access to her home, her valuables, this creating an optimal opportunity.
Means, check; motive, check; opportunity, check.
It was a slam-dunk case.
Or was it?
Not two weeks after the murder, I was approached by a Los-Angeles based literary agent. According to her, several big-time publishers were interested in signing me for a book deal to follow me through the trial and retell the story.
I declined.
A stupid, stupid decision.
10
Sylvia
It has been a week since I delivered the letters and necklace to the Thorncrest police department. I have received no calls, no emails, no follow-ups whatsoever. On a positive note, I have also received no more creepy letters. Everything has just kind of stopped.
I’ve busied myself in the garden, spending the days outside, under the crystal clear autumn sunlight. I do love this time of year.
I had just sat on the couch, wondering if I will ever hear anything again on my mother’s case, when a knock sounds at the door.
I mute the television and look at the clock—3:32 p.m.
I search for Shirley, finding her perched in the windowsill. The late afternoon sun streams through the glass, casting her long, black shadow across the floor and making her look triple her usual size. I swear she does this on purpose.
“Who is it?” I whisper to her.
I receive a dismissive tail-flick in response.
I tear off the blanket from my lap and hide my half-empty wine glass under the end table. I have no idea why.
Another knock.
I hurry to the door, feeling my pulse increase with each step.
Officer Marino stands on the other side, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. Next to him stands Detective Johnny Stroud.
I clear my throat, open the door.
“Good afternoon, Miss Stone,” Marino says. Stroud nods in greeting.
There is an air of tension emanating from the men, leaving no question that this visit is not just a casual check-in. Something is going on.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, I—Detective Stroud and I—would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“Is this about the letters and the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…” I step back, open the door widely. “Come on in.”
I hurry to the couch, straighten the pillows, toss the blanket on the armrest, and remove a stack of books from the recliner. “Sorry, I, uh…”
