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“You mean who the real person is that killed my mother.”
“Again, we are far from making that conclusion.”
I nod.Find Jesse. He is the key to unlocking the first piece of this puzzle.
“What about the half-print? Will you be able to confirm who it belongs to?” I ask.
“We’ve sent the pendant to a fingerprint analyst up in DC. Will take some time, but it’s the best we can do. Might come up with nothing, who knows.”
“We also want to remind you to be vigilant, Miss Stone,” Marino adds. “If it is true that Cohen is innocent and the real killer is still out there, or if he had an accomplice, you need to be careful.”
The words of the final letter filter through my head—
You are next
“Do you have friends or family you can stay with while we get this thing figured out? For security reasons?”
“I… Yes. I’ll figure something out,” I lie.
“Good. Sorry to bring up this very painful past all over again. I’m sure this is tough.”
We stare at each other a moment, the “right” words eluding us.
“Have a good rest of your afternoon, Miss Stone,” Detective Stroud says, ending the meeting. “Lock your doors and call us if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
I watch the officers disappear down my driveway, then, on a deep exhale, fall back against the door. For a solid minute I stand there, motionless, staring at my mother’s ashes on the fireplace mantle.
You are next…
11
Sylvia
It is just after ten in the morning when I drive through the large, ornate gates of Deep Shadows, the only affluent neighborhood in Thorncrest. The heavily wooded subdivision is tucked away in the outskirts of town, and borders Crest Lake, a picturesque, beautiful area, especially in the fall.
I slow, peering at each property as I pass. They are all the same. Large Nantucket-style homes that scream old money. Either smoky gray or pale blue, each shingled exterior is outlined by bright white shutters and matching trim. Each lawn is meticulously manicured, trees trimmed, bushes shaped to perfection.
I roll to a stop next to a large stone mailbox with spotless brass numbers down the side. House number 423—otherwise known as the home of super wife Janet Taylor, her doctor husband, Harris Taylor, and their son Jesse, before he went missing. It is the biggest house in the neighborhood.
I shove the Jeep into park, slide the key in my pocket and get out. The neighborhood is eerily quiet, as if all the residents are on vacation. It is so still that I can hear the sound of the lake lazily lapping against the shore in the distance.
I quietly shut the door and take a second to straighten my knee-length pencil skirt and adjust the matching suit jacket.
I’d spent an hour and a half getting ready this morning. Ninety whole minutes of scrubbing, shaving, brushing, drying, straightening, makeuping.
I’d dusted off my old work clothes and slipped into my favorite hard-hitting journalist power suit. The same suit I wore while running around town, following clues, chasing leads for whatever small-town mystery I was researching. I’m even wearing high heels. The only thing missing from the ensemble is a notebook and pen in my hand. I decide to leave those in the Jeep.
Chin up, shoulders back, I make my way down the narrow cobblestone walkway, my heelstap, tap, tappingagainst the silence. It feels like I’m working again. It feels good.
I step onto the porch, lined with overflowing pots of begonias. Reds, pinks, whites, there are thousands of them. I press the doorbell, frowning at the chipped nail-polish on my fingertips. I make a mental note to get a manicure soon, acrylics maybe.
There is no answer.
I ring again, hearing the polite chime echo inside the house.
No answer.
