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“Yes, that’s right….” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, hang on… do the cops know about this?”
“Yes, they’re working on finding who delivered the letters, whether it’s your son or not, and also trying to decipher what the numbers mean.”
Janet looks out the window, begins rubbing the back of her neck.
“Did you see where he went?” she asks, still gazing outside. “After he left your house?”
“No. He ran into the woods. I yelled after him but he didn’t turn around. I think it’s safe to say whoever it was didn’t want to be seen.”
Janet nods as if this doesn’t surprise her. She drags in a long shaky breath. I follow her gaze. Through the trees is a clear shot of the neighbor’s house, where the silhouette stood in the window minutes earlier.
Janet clears her throat and refocuses on me. “Thank you for telling me this.”
“You’re welcome. Is your husband, Dr. Taylor home? I wonder if I maybe can ask him—”
“No, he’s at work.”
“Okay. … Do you have any idea why your son would be involved in this, Mrs. Taylor?”
“I don’t know why Jesse has done many of the things that he has done over the last handful of years.”
Our attention shifts to the television above the breakfast nook where the headline reads:
Local man accused of murder innocent?
My eyes widen. Janet’s jaw drops. Has the story of the letters, as well as my interpretation of them, already been leaked to the press?
“We have breaking news on a twenty-year-old case where a local women was brutally stabbed to death in her own home. In what appeared to be a burglary gone bad, local carpenter and owner of Cohen Carpentry, Rhett Cohen, was arrested and later charged with Marjorie Stone’s murder. Cohen was convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in state prison, despite his proclamation of innocence. The recent discovery of new evidence suggests that Mr. Cohen, who has spent the last two decades of his life behind bars, might be innocent. In light of this evidence, brought forth by an unnamed source, a new investigation has been opened to a case that rocked our small town so long ago. I spoke with the warden this afternoon and it appears Cohen is up for parole—the exact date of that hearing was not given to me—after having already served twenty of his twenty-five-year sentence…”
Mrs. Taylor looks at me, eyes the size of golf balls, mouth agape.
“I want you out of here,” she snaps. “I don’t want anything to do with this. Me, my son, my husband, we have nothing to do with this. Get out. Now.” She places her hand on my back and pushes me toward the doorway.
I hurry down the hall with Janet on my heels. I have to fight from breaking into a jog. The woman is literally running me out of her house.
“Mrs. Taylor,” I say over my shoulder, stumbling on the Persian rug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Out.”She yanks open the door.
I lunge outside.
The door slams in my face.
I exhale, my heart racing.
Once I gather my footing, I look at the neighbor’s house through the trees.
The curtains in the second-floor window flutter in the wind. The silhouette is gone.
12
Four Days Later . . .
Sylvia
Iam bent over my vegetable garden, on hands and knees, sifting through dirt when I get the unmistakable feeling I am being watched—something that has become a daily occurrence since visiting the Taylor home four days earlier. I look to the tree line, searching for my cat, Shirley, but she is nowhere to be seen.
I look over my shoulder.
