Page 8 of Memory of Murder
They grabbed more slices of pizza and continued eating as they discussed the details.
“I’ll call the contractors and suppliers,” Anne said. “Make sure we’re good there and send you an email with the dates they give me.”
“I can lay out a schedule and pass it along to all parties,” Lisa suggested before biting into the thick-crusted slice of pie.
“Add reminders to our calendar.” Anne then took a bit of her own slice.
“Will do.” Lisa held up her half empty glass. “To the future.”
Anne tapped her glass against it. “The future.”
She just hoped it wasn’t about to turn into a nightmare.
7:30 p.m.
ANNE HAD TOUCHEDbase with all the necessary contractors and suppliers, then passed along the results of her conversations to Lisa by phone and via email. There appeared to be no glitches to worry about with scheduling. During the calls to the suppliers, she had ordered the items—like the special floor tile—that required additional lead time.
Now, a fourth cocktail in hand—she never had four cocktails in a single day, but somehow this day called for it—she settled onto the sofa to begin reading the journal.
Deep breath. This is the right decision. She opened the slightly worn cover and stared at her mother’s handwriting. Then she sipped her cocktail to wash down the lump that had risen in her throat.
Reading this journal was a necessary journey into whatever had been happening when her mother committed murder—or not. Like the documentary, it would be one-sided. That said, in order to have both sides of the issue she had no choice but to do this.
It was often said that the truth would set you free. Anne had no idea if that was true. Mostly the only thing this particular truth had done for her in the past was to make her a pariah. Kids at school had tortured her. Even foster parents had treated her differently. Some had been afraid of her, while others had decided she was something with which to be toyed, and not in a good way. After all she was the daughter of a monster. Why not treat her like a little monster? She’d been mistreated and abused…but mostly she had been neglected and unloved.
No child should grow up believing he or she was alone and unloved.
But it happened all too often.
Maybe that was why she had never managed a long-term relationship. She hadn’t been able to trust anyone to care for her or to love her properly as a child. How could she possibly trust anyone as an adult? The answer was she could not.
She’d had the occasional date. Even an official boyfriend once or twice, but nothing lasted more than a month or two. The first one had only been interested in sex, as were most teenage boys. The other was obsessed with true crime and, as it turned out, only dated her in hopes of learning the dirty details.
Nothing ever lasted.
“Get over it,” she muttered. This was her life.
To her credit she had made the most of it, and damn it, she was proud of her accomplishments. Once this unexpected bump in the road was behind her, she wasn’t looking back ever again. Forward would be her only direction.
Satisfied that she had made the right decision, she began to read, starting with thePresent Daynote that had been added to page one by taping pink pieces of notepaper on top.
Chapter Four
Journal Entry
Thirty Years Ago
Sorry—this part is the present, but I had already begun by writingThirty Years Agowhen I realized I needed to explain, and it’s ink so… Oh well. I didn’t have a diary or a journal back then—when I was young and in love and pregnant with you. I was far too busy planning my wedding and working to worry about writing anything down. Besides, who worries about the worst-possible situation actually happening at the most unlikely time? Not me apparently. This I now deeply regret. It’s the second biggest regret of my life. It would have been so much easier if I’d kept a log of the details. Oh well, hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.
Although it has been three decades since these events occurred, I realized just recently that it was necessary for me to put certain parts in writing. I skip around a little, ensuring that I get the most relevant dates and information down. With my recent cancer diagnosis, my time and energy are limited, and in truth, I can’t say that I won’t go to sleep tonight and not wake up. If I am able to finish, I hope this journal makes it to you. I know I don’t deserve your time or your attention, but this isn’t for me. This is foryou. I want you to know the truth so that whatever bad feelings about who you are and where you came from will be alleviated to some degree.
Also, no matter what you believe, I have always loved you. I loved you before you were born, and I love you now. Your father loved you as well. What happened was the sort of nightmare you might see in a movie or read in a book. It was not something I ever dreamed would happen to us. To this day I wonder how it could have happened without at least some sort of warning.
Anyway, I hope you won’t be put off or ignore this journal simply because you hate me. Or perhaps you feel nothing for or about me. Please know that I understand. If I were you I would hate me too. But please keep reading. I beg you to keep reading. Find the truth…foryou.
I’m sure you’re likely wondering why now. Why did I wait all this time to contact you in any way? After all, you came to the prison several times, and I refused to see you. That is my first and biggest regret in this life. Once it was clear an appeal was not going to happen, I thought I was doing the right thing by staying out of your life and never allowing you to be part of mine. It was the most difficult decision of my existence. I wanted you to be free of me and the regret and pain I carried. And the stigma, of course. I noticed you changed your name, and I’m glad. You deserve to be free of any connection to the horror that was my final year of freedom.
I’m sure you’re laughing as you read. Why wouldn’t the murder be my biggest regret? The answer is painfully simple. I did not murder anyone. I swear this to you. I am innocent. I don’t expect you to believe me, which is why I have started this journal. When it’s done I’m sending all that I have left along with the journal to the Colby Agency. Another inmate told me that the Colby Agency are the best private investigators. Not that she ever used them, but she knows people who know people. I did a little research on the internet, and it seems to be true. In the end, I’m counting on someone at the Colby Agency to find the truth. You see, I don’t know who killed the love of mylife. Neil’s murder, I am confident, was committed by someone close to us. I can tell you the people I believe did this, but I cannot prove anything. My hope is that the Colby Agency can do what I and the police could not. Actually, I’m praying they will. Again, not for me, but foryou.
