Page 53 of What She Saw
He set his cup down and checked his watch. “Okay.”
“I want an exclusive interview.”
“You got it.”
Fast-forward a year and the pastor was in jail, three cold case murders had been closed, and my article was now live. The headline was way larger than my name, which was okay because it was an excellent hook.Pedophile Pastor Pleads. Even before the article had dropped,many of the pastor’s parishioners had sent threatening emails—they didn’t like my questioning the faith of their spiritual leader. A few had mentioned biblical retribution.
I turned from the window. Woodland snoopers or zealots—it didn’t matter. “Bring it.”
I filled a large mug to the brim. I raised the cup to my lips and sipped. For whatever reason, the java still wasn’t agreeing with me.
From my file box, I removed the manila folder for Debra Jackson. She’d been eighteen when she’d vanished. Debra, like Patty, had lived locally. She’d worked at a dry cleaner. She was a straight A high school student and lived in a trailer a few doors down from Patty after her mother had thrown her out of the family home.
Debra had a younger sister, Marsha Sullivan, who now lived in Roanoke, about an hour away. I wasn’t crazy about another drive but counted myself lucky that Marsha had agreed to see me.
I spent the next couple of hours reading case notes on Debra. The more I read, the more I realized she’d have been right at home on Team Outcast.
Chapter Eighteen
Sloane
Sunday, August 17, 2025, 2:00 p.m.
Marsha Sullivan was in her garden yanking weeds when I pulled into her driveway. The house was a brick rancher with a long, narrow porch that stretched across the front. Baskets filled with ferns dangled as a rocker dipped back and forth as if someone had just risen out of it.
I shifted my sunglasses to the top of my head and grabbed my notebook and pencil. I’d spoken to Marsha a few days ago and told her about my project. It had taken some convincing to get her to agree to see me.
“Ms. Sullivan?”
She pressed the back of a garden-gloved hand to her forehead and rose. When she faced me, it took me a moment to determine if I had the right person. This woman, with graying hair and shoulders ripe with fatigue, didn’t look like the outraged teenager who’d advocated for the victims at the trial thirty-one years ago.
I’d read several profiles on Marsha. Almost all the headlines sounded something like,“Where Are Our Girls?”
“I’m Marsha Sullivan. And you must be Sloane Grayson.”
I extended my hand, finding a small smile and doing my best to appear approachable. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Sweat glistened on her brow as she nodded for me to follow her to the porch. On a small table between the two rockers were a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. “I’m surprised. No one talks about the festival anymore or the girls.”
“That’s why I’m writing about it.”
“I heard your mother was Patty Reed?”
News traveled fast. “That’s right.” We both sat, and she filled two glasses with lemonade.
“You look like her.” She handed me a glass.
“You knew my mother?”
“We weren’t friends, but I saw her at the diner when I came in for breakfast before school. My mother wasn’t a morning person and didn’t like cooking breakfast. I also saw her with you at the trailer park. I think you were crying.”
“Sounds like me.”
“Babies cry.”
Sara used to complain I took crying to a new level. “What was Patty like?” My curiosity for my mother was a constant itch I’d never been able to scratch.
“Always had a smile on her face. She was a year older than Debra, and she was the one that encouraged Debra to leave home.”
