“What night?”
“Mama’s funeral,” she said softly, hearing her father’s sharply indrawn breath when she mentioned the taboo subject. “I sat out in the backyard all day. I think everyone in the county came out to give me a hug and a kiss.”
Daddy planted his big, splayed hands on his pants and pushed to a stand. In the pale blue moonlight, he looked thinner than usual. “I think I’ll call it a night.” He leaned down, pushed the hair from her eyes in a gesture as familiar as her own reflection, and kissed her forehead. “ ’Night, Birdie.”
She shouldn’t have mentioned Mama. It had always been the surest way to get rid of her father. He was at the screen door by the time she found the courage to say softly, “You never talk about her.”
He stopped. The door screeched open. She thought she heard him sigh. “No, I don’t.”
She knew the end of a conversation when she heard it. The finality in his voice was unmistakable. As usual, she gave in gracefully, knowing how much it hurt him to remember Mama. “Good night, Daddy. Tell Anita I’ll see her in the morning.”
“Some wounds run deep, Birdie.” When he spoke, his voice was as soft as she’d ever heard it. “You’d best remember that.”
Then the door banged shut, and she was alone.
FIVE
The girl who had come forward—Andrea Kinnear—lived with two roommates in a small 1930s brick Tudor near the university. A messy brown yard led up to a porch that was littered with empty planter boxes and mismatched chairs. The only holiday decoration was a colorful snowman stuck to the front window. A stack of empty Rainier beer cans formed a pyramid beside the door.
Jack paused at the gate. “Wait here,” he said to Kirk, his cameraman, and Sally. “Let me introduce myself first.”
Then he faced the house. He’d never done anything like this before, an on-camera interview with the victim of a violent crime, and he was nervous.
Alleged victim.
That was the kind of distinction that mattered in the news biz. Pros like Dan Rather and Bob Costas probably didn’t even have to remind themselves of it.
Jack was out of his league here, no doubt about it. But he’d go down in flames before he’d let this story out of his hands. As the old saying went, another reporter would have to pry the notes from Jack’s cold, dead fingers.
He walked down the cracked, moss-furred concrete pavers and climbed onto the splintered porch. Sally and Kirk followed him at a respectful distance.
He knocked at the door.
A few moments passed, so many that he started to worry that Andrea had changed her mind. He glanced back at Sally, who shrugged.
Then the door opened. A small, pale young woman with carrot-red hair stood in the opening. She wore a cotton twill skirt, white blouse, and navy blazer.
“Hello, Mr. Shore.” She cleared her throat, then added, “I’m Andrea.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Andrea. Please, call me Jack. And this is my associate, Sally Maloney.”
Sally stepped forward. “Hello, Andrea. We spoke on the phone.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Andrea stepped back into the house. “Come in.”
Jack motioned to the cameraman, who immediately started toward the house.
Andrea led them to a small living room that was crowded with garage-sale furniture. Papers and coffee mugs covered every table. She turned to Jack. “Where would you like me to sit?”
Kirk answered, “How about that chair by the window?”
Andrea sat down, though her body remained stiffly upright, her hands clasped tightly together.
Jack sat down opposite her, on a faded denim ottoman. While the camera was being set up, he looked through his notes for the thousandth time; then he put them aside. “I’m just going to ask you some very straightforward questions, okay? I won’t ambush you or anything like that.” He frowned. She looked … fragile suddenly. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Great reporter, Jack. Way to go for the kill.
“It’s just … humiliating.”