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I am nothing short of awestruck when I step over the threshold. Despite the weathered exterior, the inside of the house has been completely renovated.
The home opens to a large foyer with gleaming hardwood floors, a Persian rug that I guess costs more than my Jeep, and a gorgeous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
I’m glad I wore the suit.
Janet leads me past a wide, imperial staircase and through a large living space with lush leather furniture and windows lined with heavy drapes. At least a dozen family pictures adorn the walls, many of her missing son, Jesse.
“Can I get you something to drink?” This rhetorical question is followed immediately by, “What do you mean my son left you a letter?”
We step into the kitchen. She turns to face me. In the corner of the room, the local news whispers from a flat-screen television mounted above a breakfast nook. A bowl of oatmeal and steaming cup of coffee are sitting on the table.
“Well, like I said, I’m not certain that it was him, but whoever delivered them was wearing a black sweatshirt with a white skull and crossbones on the back. I understand that’s what your son was wearing when you last saw him, is that correct?”
Janet nods, an intense, yet very confused, gaze locked on mine.
“Well,” I continue, “that’s what the person who left the letters was wearing. He—whoever it was—was also fast, as I would assume a young, fit person to be. Again, I’m just assuming it was him. And that’s why I’m here; I’m wondering why and hoping you can help me figure it out.”
“What did the letter say?”
“Letters. There were four.”
“You saw himfourtimes?”
“No, only once. The delivery of the last letter. I found the rest sitting on my doorstep.”
“What did the letters say?” she repeats, impatient now. Or, irritated? I can’t tell.
I pull my cell phone from my suit pocket and click into the photos.
I hand her the phone. “Those are the letters. The police have them now.”
I notice her hand is trembling as she clicks through the pictures. Then, she thrusts the phone back at me as if it were a ticking time bomb. “I don’t understand, this is the extent of the letters? Each letter just has three numbers on it?”
“The first three, yes. The fourth contained a necklace with a letter that appeared to be a threat of sorts.”
“You think my son isthreateningyou?”
“Again, I’m not sure. I’m just trying to figure this out, like you are.”
Janet looks at the phone in my hand. “Are—are they times? Like, a time of day or night?”
“That’s the working assumption, yes.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand—what? Why? What do you think they mean?”
“Well,” I shift my weight. “I think they are related to my mother’s death, twenty years ago.”
“How?”She squeaks, obviously picking up on the implication that her son might have been involved in something very sinister.
“I don’t know—I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get into the details, but I wanted to ask you if there is any way Jesse might have known my mother back then? Or anything linking to her? Or anyone that knew her, maybe? I know he would have been young, but maybe there is something…”
“But that guy did it,” she snaps, defensively. “The carpenter.”
“Right,” I take a quick breath. “Ma’am I’m not saying that your son is—”
“What was his name? The guy. Rex?”
“No. Rhett. Rhett Cohen.”
