Page 24 of Memory of Murder
Preston Reed looked away. “It doesn’t matter. They’re both dead now.”
Fury slammed into her chest. “But I’m not and you’re not. Why allow this travesty to stand?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “If it’s money you want, you’ll just have to wait for that. I’ve set up a trust fund that distributes to you when you reach age thirty. In, if memory serves, four months from now.”
Anne drew back. “I didn’t come here for your money.” She launched to her feet. “I don’t want your money. I want the truth.”
Jack was at her side, a hand on her elbow. “We can go if you’d like,” he offered.
Reed peered up at her, his face void of emotion. “Don’t waste your time digging around in the past.”
Anne couldn’t speak. There were no words that accurately articulated what she wanted to say to him. Instead, she left. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Once they were in the car driving away, she said out loud, mostly to herself, “How could he ignore me all these years and then throw money at me?”
“It takes courage to step forward and do the right thing in times of loss. He was grieving the loss of his son—his only child. He may have seen you as an extension of Mary, and the idea of having you in his life was unbearable under the circumstances. But on some level, even now, he recognizes his obligation to his son’s child.”
She pressed her hands to her face, fought the urge to cry. Damn it. She would not cry. “When I agreed to do this, I didn’t expect…this…him.”
“There will be more.” He glanced at her. “And some of it will be painful, maybe more than what just happened. But it’s the only way to find what you’re looking for.”
Defeat crushed at her chest. He was right. But she had to be strong. She’d endured far more painful times growing up. On the scale of her childhood misery, this was nothing.
Chapter Nine
Crystal Lake
Farrell Residence
Bunker Lane, 3:00 p.m.
They stood outside the door of Beatrice Farrell’s house. This was a cold call, so Jack wasn’t sure how it would go.
Farrell was one of the teachers at Crystal Lake Elementary who had worked with Morton. She had been interviewed by the detective investigating the case, but she’d had no helpful information to share, according to his report.
She had retired at the end of this school year, so hopefully she was home and not traveling to celebrate her newfound freedom.
Anne pressed the doorbell a second time, and they continued to wait.
Jack had been a little worried about her after the visit with Preston Reed. She’d been more upset by the man than Jack had anticipated. He suspected all these years of ignoring the situation had not prevented Anne from forming feelings for the family she had never known except through newspaper clippings and online articles.
What little girl abandoned by a parent, whatever the circumstances, didn’t dream of the fairy tale that could have been?
He hoped Farrell would be helpful. Of the three teachers who had been fairly close to Morton back then, Farrell was the only one still alive.
Finding someone who had relevant memories of Mary Morton and who was willing to share them would be good about now. Not only for the investigation but for Anne. She needed to see progress.
The door opened, and the woman who matched the photos from the school’s website stood before them. Beatrice was petite, with hair that was more blond than gray and kept in a long braid. She had pale eyes, almost a blue, but they were actually a very light shade of silver. The knee-length shorts and cotton t-shirt she wore said she went for comfort over fashion. Judging by her weathered skin and the sheer number of blooming plants in her landscape, she liked spending her free time outside.
She looked to Jack. “I’m sure you noticed the no-soliciting sign next to the sidewalk.”
“Mrs. Farrell,” Anne said, drawing her attention, “my name is Anne Griffin.”
Farrell shifted her attention toward Anne. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my word, you’re Mary’s daughter.”
Jack watched Anne’s reaction. This just kept happening. If she’d had any doubts about how much she looked like her mother, she shouldn’t have any now. He’d noticed the remarkable resemblance the first time he googled her.
Anne produced a realistic smile. “I am.”
