Page 13 of Memory of Murder
“Jack it is, then.” She watched as he navigated from the lot and onto the road. “Everyone calls me Anne. My name is actually Marianne but I’ve never gone by that.”
“So, Anne.” He glanced at her, smiled. “What made you decide to keep your first name when you changed your last name?”
She considered the question and the passing landscape as he drove. “It was the last name and all the baggage it carried that I wanted to get away from. The other didn’t seem relevant at the time.”
“You could have used your father’s last name.”
A valid point. “The newspapers and online articles all quoted Mary’s friends as saying that Neil Reed was her longtime boyfriend and future husband and, of course, my father, but he wasn’t named on the birth certificate. I don’t know if it was an error due to the circumstances.” She shrugged. “I mean, being born in a prison isn’t exactly an ideal situation. But, in the end, I opted for something completely different. I read a book once with a character named Anne Griffin and…” She shrugged. “I guess it stuck with me and it certainly took me out of the situation altogether.”
“I get that.” He flashed her a smile as he turned onto Big Hollow Road. “I’m sure, as you say, the birth certificate was an error. Mary never deviated in her certainty that Neil Reed was your father.”
“No one else questioned it either, to my knowledge. I’ve always assumed that made it true.” She turned her attention to the landscape then. They were nearlythere…to the place where her parents had lived before disaster struck.
Mostly trees and houses dotted both sides of the road until they reached the little town of Round Lake. Johnsburg, Round Lake—they were all bedroom communities near Crystal Lake. All within a few minutes driving distance of each other.
He made the turn onto Washington Street and then onto Fairlawn Drive before he started to slow. “This is the place.”
If they had turned in the opposite direction on Washington Street, Fairlawn would have taken them to the waterfront homes on Lake Shore Drive.
But this was no waterfront home, and it was nothing like Lake Shore Drive.
This was a little house built eighty or more years ago. It looked like a rehab special that no one had decided to tear down but obviously should have. The narrow lot was overgrown. It was easy to see why anyone would just pass it by and never consider a rehab or rebuild.
This was where the woman who had given birth to her had lived when her life went to hell in the proverbial handbasket.
“Wow. Looks as if no one has lived here in decades.” A real dump. The photo from the newspaper back then hadn’t shown it this way. It had been a neat little cottage surrounded by blooming flowers and mature trees. The tiny lawn had been well kept. The paint hadn’t been peeling.
“I spoke to a clerk in the property office,” Jack told her, “and she says the place was and still is owned by Neil Reed’s father. They’ve sent warnings about the condition of the property, but he never does anything. Just last week they labeled it condemned.”
“Why haven’t they razed it? Don’t cities do that in extreme cases where owners refuse to take the proper action?” In her line of work, she had heard about those sorts of situations, especially in neighborhoods being gentrified. Or under consideration for gentrification. Failure to pay taxes and/or to properly maintain a property often resulted in the city taking action—sometimes extreme action.
“Apparently,” Jack explained, “Preston Reed, Neil’s father—your grandfather—has an in with someone on the city’shierarchy and action is never taken. This isn’t the first time it’s been listed as condemned and then later removed from that status. I suppose Mr. Reed has his reasons for wanting to leave it as is.”
Grandfather. At some point Anne had read that her purported biological father had a living father. But she had assumed since he hadn’t taken her in as an infant that he wanted nothing to do with her either.
She stared at the house where Mary had lived the last two years of her freedom. There was no reason to believe that because Mr. Reed had kept his son’s home for all those years that he cared one iota for his grandchild. Hanging on to the house might’ve only been related to it being the last place where his son lived. As for why he would ignore Anne, maybe he had reason to believe Mary had cheated on Neil. If she murdered him, she was certainly capable of other atrocities.
Anne dismissed the thoughts. Really, she had no idea what sort of people her biological mother and father and grandparents were.
Jack pulled into the drive—a strip of lesser overgrowth rendering the driveway very nearly hidden.
“Are we going in?” She instinctively leaned forward. The possibility suddenly had her heart beating faster. Her palms itched with anticipation.
“Might not be safe to go inside, but we can look through the windows and make that determination. The clerk said whatever we do, they are not responsible for any injuries we might sustain since it is listed as condemned. Not to mention, there’s always the trespassing and breaking-and-entering charges if we’re caught.”
Anne felt giddy suddenly. “I’m willing to take the risk if you are. I would really like to go inside if possible.” Especially if no one else had lived in the house in all these years. On some level sherecognized this was a bit on the foolish side. What difference did where they lived make? Why take such a risk?
What was she even doing here, really?
Just stop. She ordered the dissenting voice away. She had to do this. Had to know as much as possible…to understand before she could put the past fully behind her. After reading that journal Mary had written, there was no way for Anne to pretend she no longer cared. The disinterest she had feigned all these years had been a lie she told herself so she wouldn’t look back. No more lying to herself.
Jack shut off the engine. “We’ll have a look and go from there.” He gave her a nod and got out.
“Works for me.”
Moving quickly, she did the same before he could hustle around to open her door. She joined him at the front of the car. A long survey of the small yard had her thankful she’d worn her sneakers and jeans. Gardening boots would have been better, but at least she wasn’t wearing sandals or high heels.
He walked ahead of her, threading his way through the massive shrubs to follow the barely visible brick walk that led to the porch steps. The scrape of branches had her wishing she’d chosen a long-sleeved blouse too, no matter that the temperature was well into the eighties. She frowned at the condition of the porch and steps. Both looked less than reliable.
