Page 7 of Dead Man's Hollow
Now that the tension’s eased, she elaborates. “This is a different way of presenting a case—investigating it in real time. It removes the temptation for Jordana and me to craft a narrative arc that leads the listener to the conclusion we want them to reach. There is no foregone conclusion. We’re not telling a story where we know the ending. We’re searching for answers.”
“We’re searching right along with you,” Jordana elaborates. “The Farley Files only take on cases where we’re working in concert with the people directly affected by the crime. We’re not interested in sensationalizing someone’s pain for ratings.”
She pauses, and Maisy jumps in. She looks directly at Rich as she adds, “Or in re-traumatizing this family. You’ve been through enough.”
He holds her gaze for a moment, then dips his chin. Message delivered.
To Maisy, it seems the sisters are having a silent conversation. The atmosphere in the room changes, as if they’ve come to a decision. They have.
Diana leans forward. “Let’s do it.”
A thrill of triumph runs through Maisy, and she realizes for the first time how badly she wants to do this. But she maintains a calm expression. “You’re all in agreement? You’re sure?”
Amy speaks up. “Yes. Mom and Dad could have gone to court to have Heather presumed dead seven years after she disappeared. They never did because they always held out hope that we’d get her back. Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean we want to give up on her without at least trying one last time.”
Diana crosses herself at the mention of their recently deceased parents. “The estate attorney says we need to do it now so we can close probate. Mom and Dad went to their graves without answers and without changing their will. Everything is split four ways. We either need to find Heather or have her declared dead.” She stares down at her hands.
“We’ll do everything we can to get answers for you,” Maisy promises the sisters. “But be prepared for unflattering or upsetting information to come to light.”
Kristy speaks for the first time. Her voice is soft but sure. “Ms. Farley, it’s been thirty years. Nothing we learn is going to change how we feel about our sister.”
Maisy’s about to explain she actually means information about the rest of them—Heather’s friends and family—when Kristy continues.
“We just want to give her some peace. And, to be honest, ourselves. It’s been hell wondering what happened to her. We need to know.”
“You deserve to know.” She stops herself from saying the obvious: any closure she can provide is almost certainly going to be painful and dark. Odds are this story doesn’t have a happy ending, but they know this even better than she does.
There’s a pause, then Amy asks, “So, where do we start?”
Jordana shuffles a stack of papers. “We’ll begin by filing a right-to-know request for the police records and pulling archives of local media coverage. Do you have access to Heather’s things—any diaries, yearbooks, calendars?” Her voice rises in a question as she rattles off the list, and Maisy realizes her twenty-two-year-old producer is wondering what other analog forms of communication existed among teenagers in the last millennium.
“Notes, letters, photo albums,” Maisy adds. She pauses and tries to remember life in 1994. “Did Heather have a pager?”
“No,” Diana and Amy say in unison, confident in their answer.
Kristy presses her lips together for a moment, then says, “Actually, she did.”
Her sisters turn to gape at her. “She did?”
And so it begins,Maisy thinks.
Kristy nods. “She gave me the number and made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“A pager? Like a doctor would have?” Jordana’s confusion is splashed across her face.
“Right,” Maisy explains. “Before cell phones, some teenagers used pagers so their friends could reach them when they were out. You’d page them with your number and they’d call you back when they got to a phone. Usually a payphone.”
“Drug dealers,” Diana says. “When I was in high school, only kids who were dealing had pagers.”
Amy’s bobbing her head in agreement. “That’s why Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me or Heather get one. I didn’t really care.”
“Heather did, though?”
The sisters consider Maisy’s question. The older two look at Kristy, who shrugs.
“She must’ve. She went through the trouble of getting it and paying the rent on it in secret.”
“Why? Was she dealing drugs?” Jordana wonders.
