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Frowning, I step back. The front windows are open. Long, sheer curtains blow in the breeze. The room behind the curtains appears to be dark.
I suddenly get that indescribable feeling like I am being watched.
A chill snakes up my spine.
No one knows I’m here. I didn’t pass a single vehicle on the gravel road that leads to the gated community.
I clear my throat loudly and relax my stance, feigning a carefree confidence to whoever is watching me. A friendly, just-stopping-by-my-buddy’s-house demeanor.
Perhaps I should have second-guessed the suit.
I casually look over my shoulder, spotting the neighbor’s house through the trees. A blurred silhouette stands in a second-floor window, staring directly at me. Long fire-red hair flutters in the breeze. I quickly step out of the silhouette’s line of sight.
Just then, the front door opens. Janet Taylor, the same woman I’d seen at the police station, stands before me. Today, however, her appearance is vastly different. What had been a disheveled, mismatched woman on the edge of a panic attack, is now a picture of poised perfection. Janet Taylor is wearing a pressed white sundress with lace trim and pointed flats. Her curly blonde hair is pulled back in a chignon, her makeup flawless.
She frowns when she sees me.
“Mrs. Taylor,” I thrust out my hand in an overly-professional manner. “My name is Sylvia Stone.”
Her green eyes widen. She knows me. Of course she does. The entire town knows me as the daughter of the woman who was brutally murdered twenty years ago.
When she doesn’t say anything, I continue with the speech I’d rehearsed on the drive over.
“I heard about your son, Jesse, and I want to say I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thank you.”Get to the point,her expression says.
“I also saw you last week at the police station. I think you were waiting to speak with Detective Stroud.”
Her frown deepens. “I’m sorry… how can I help you? Does this have something to do with my son?”
“Yes, kind of. Possibly.”
“Do you know where he is?” she asks quickly.
“No, I’m sorry. But, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions about him.”
“Why?”
“Well, considering the letters…”
“What letters?”
“The ones he delivered to my house last week.”
“You saw my—where?”
I frown. Is Mrs. Taylor unaware of the letters? Surely the police would have told her, considering they think he was involved? If not, why? Doesn’t she have a right to know? Don’t they have an obligation to tell her?
“What are you talking about?” she presses.
I realize the woman is totally clueless—which confuses me.
I clear my throat. “I think I saw him at my house last week. He—or someone—delivered a letter to my doorstep, in the middle of the night.”
Janet stares at me, baffled, then looks over her shoulder as if she’d heard someone—or is checking for someone. When no one appears, she refocuses on me, takes a step back, and opens the door widely.
“Come in, come in.”
