Page 136 of Ruined By Protection
FOUR WEEKS LATER
Hazel
Itake a deep breath, my hand hovering inches from the door knocker. The modest suburban house looks exactly like the photos in the news articles—white siding, blue shutters, potted geraniums flanking the entrance.
One more breath. I can do this. I raise the old brass knocker. For a moment there's nothing but silence, and I wonder if I’m crazy, or self-indulgent, being here.
Then the door swings open and there stands Sandra Winters, Melissa's mother. Her gray-streaked hair is pulled back in a simple bun, deep lines frame her eyes—eyes the same warm brown as her daughter's in the photographs I've seen.
Recognition dawns on her face as she looks at me. Her hand flies to her mouth.
"Hazel," she whispers.
Before I can explain myself, she steps forward and pulls me into her arms. Her body heaves with sobs and I find myself holding her just as tightly.
"They found her," she cries into my shoulder. "They found my baby girl."
The events of the past month churn through my mind—the police excavation beneath the oak tree, the media frenzy when they discovered Melissa's remains, Elliott's suicide note confession plastered across every newspaper. The endless questioning, the statements, the photographs of me leaving the police station with my face hidden behind sunglasses.
Sandra's sadness pours out of her. A mother’s raw grief for her lost baby. I can only imagine.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I didn't know."
She pulls back, cupping my face in her weathered hands. "How could you have known, sweetheart? You were one of his victims."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by her forgiveness, her gratitude.
"Come inside," she says, finally releasing me. "I'll make tea."
I follow her into the homely living room, where framed photos of Melissa cover every surface—Melissa as a toddler, as a teenager with braces, as a young woman in a graduation cap. Smiling, always smiling. Never knowing that the devil waited for her.
Sandra leads me into the kitchen—cozy, with yellow curtains and a wooden farmhouse table. The kettle whistles on the stove and she moves to silence it, her hands trembling slightly as she pours hot water into a flowered pot.
"Chamomile," she says, placing one in front of me. "It helps to calm the nerves. I can't tell you what it means to see you here, safe." Sandra settles across from me, her eyes never leaving my face. "When I saw your picture in the papers, standing beside him at those charity events, I worried for you. I saw an expression in your eyes—the same one my Melissa had justbefore he told her it was over. Which I have to say was a relief to me. If only she hadn’t gone ba…"
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, not knowing what else to do for her. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Winters. I can't imagine what you've been through."
"Sandra, please. And thank you but you’re the one who lived with that monster for two years."
I stare down at our joined hands, unable to meet her gaze. "I should have known. There were signs..."
"No." Her voice turns firm. "Don't you dare blame yourself. Elliott fooled everyone—police, friends, our whole community."
"But not you," I say softly.
Sandra's eyes cloud with memory. "No, not me. A mother knows." She withdraws her hand and wraps it around her mug. "Would you like to hear what happened after she disappeared?"
I nod and raise the cup to my lips. The tea scalds my tongue but is a distraction from this sorrow.
"For nearly three years I’ve searched for her." Sandra's gaze drifts to the window, looking beyond the tops of the trees into the big empty sky. "At first the police took my claims seriously. They questioned Elliott but he had excuses for everything. Said they'd broken up weeks before, that she was upset but accepted his decision. He even produced text messages from her phone saying she needed space."
"He sent those himself," I murmur.
"Of course he did." Sandra nods. "But they believed him—the golden boy of Austin, with his family connections and charming smile."
The same smile that had seduced me at the bar, I think, my stomach tying knots.
"When the police investigation stalled, the local community stepped up." Pride mingles with grief in her voice. "Melissa's friends organized search parties every weekend for months. Wecombed parks, abandoned buildings, drainage ditches. Her old high school teacher made a website. The ladies from my church made snacks to keep everyone going."
