Page 34 of What She Saw
The mid-forties receptionist had black hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore aqua glasses attached to a silver chain around her neck. “You missed her.”
I set a gift bag on the counter. “Darn, I had a present for her.”
“You can leave it with me.”
“It’s cake. It should be refrigerated.”
“Oh, well, she’ll be back in a few days.”
I shoved out a sigh, trying to strike a balance between sadness and frustration. “I can run it by her house. She’s on the way toward Mom’s house.”
“I’m sure she’d be fine with that.”
I opened my phone. “She’s on Craig Road, right?”
“No, Jones Road.”
I searched the street. It looked rural. “That’s right. End of the road on the right?”
“Left.”
“Okay.”
“Number 2020.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” I said.
As I walked back to my car, I caught my reflection in the window of a storefront. Dark hair draped down my Rolling Stones T-shirt. Worn jeans skimmed my long legs. I slid into the car and tossed the bag in the back seat.
I plugged Jones Road into my phone and drove east. It took me a good thirty minutes before I made the left down a small gravel road.
I’d made a career interviewing victims. Sure, some of them didn’t always get the story right. But most had a handle on the offender, even if they didn’t remember all the details. There was something about being face-to-face with a killer or rapist that imprinted impressions on a body that even a mind didn’t recall.
I’d spent countless hours reading Taggart’s police records. But there was no replacing interviews with the victims and their families. Most victims of crime weren’t wealthy. And cops and reporters tended to discount them if their home situation was dysfunctional.
I couldn’t write a book on parenting or family bonding, but I understood even the most messed up of us had something to offer.
My GPS led me off another secondary highway onto the graveled and tarred Jones Road. The trees on either side were thick, and long branches draped over the road. Several scraped against the side of my car as I searched for a house at the end of the road on the left.
I spotted a rusted mailbox that rested cockeyed on a leaning post. The name “Carr” was visible, but the twoR’s looked more likeI’s. I turned down a narrow, rutted driveway that arched in front of a brick rancher. The grass around the house looked freshly cut. But the edges of the yard were ragged, as if weed eating were a bridge too far. I got it.Homes, as a rule, were a pain in the ass. I was happy living on the road and operating off my laptop and a post office box in Charlottesville.
I pulled around the arch and nosed my car toward the end of the driveway. I’d not called ahead, which was a huge risk. Even when I notified a contact I was coming, I was cautious. I was a stranger, and my interviews stirred up bad old memories for people that could go sideways.
That had been the case last year when I’d interviewed the father of a murdered girl. The victim had been one of six girls killed by a man who’d lived five houses down from the family. It was a lower-middle-income neighborhood outside of Baltimore. The slain girl’s father was devastated. He’d tried to start a nonprofit for missing kids, but it had never gained enough traction. He’d lost his job, and his wife left him.
As I’d pulled into his driveway, the father had staggered outside. He’d been drunk and brandishing a .45 caliber handgun. He’d fired two bullets at my Jeep. I’d shoved the car’s gear into reverse and hit the accelerator. I took out two clay planters as I raced out of the driveway. I’d not pressed charges, but I also hadn’t approached him again. After that day, I parked on the street.
I walked along the cracked cement sidewalk and, seeing no doorbell, knocked hard. A glance at the untrimmed shrubs brought to mind an old cop’s joke about 1970s porn snatch.
The door opened to a woman who was a few inches shorter than me. Her thinning gray hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and her face was lined. Her T-shirt and jeans were clean but old and threadbare.
“I’m Sloane Grayson. I’m writing an article about the Mountain Music Festival.”
“I heard there was a reporter in town.” She studied me.
“Already? News travels fast.”
“Edna at the grocery store and I are friends, and she knows Bailey. Why are you here? Why care about a case that’s thirty-one years old?”
