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Authors: Leslie Parrish
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Wainwright?”
A faint sheen of pink might have appeared in her cheeks, and she
smoothed her dress, suddenly looking a little more prim and uptight.
Embarrassed. Rich Southern ladies didn’t usual y go around insulting people,
and she apparently thought she had. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“I’m kidding,” he said, gentle and earnest. “Because you’re right. I don’t live
a lifestyle that can be cal ed in any way normal. No homicide detective ever
could.”
“I agree. Nobody surrounded by death al the time could ever be said to
have an entirely ordinary, sane existence,” she said, that thoughtful tone
returning to her voice. “That’s what I meant. Again, I’m sorry if I sounded snotty.
”
“You didn’t.”
“It’s just, normal’s not in my vocabulary, either.”
He doubted that. Olivia looked about as normal a member of the Southern
elite as anyone he’d ever known, even if she did have a kind streak and
spoke in a down-to-earth way that didn’t quite match the dol ar signs under
which he suspected she’d been born.
Then he remembered her background, the whole reason she’d come here
today.
Hel . No, normal wasn’t necessarily the word to describe this woman’s life,
and it hadn’t been, not since she was fifteen years old. And nothing could
make an ivorytowered princess come down to earth faster than realizing she
was just as likely to be a victim of crime as any normal person born into a
middle-class lifestyle. In her case, with those dol ar signs attached to her
name, probably even more so. He doubted she’d have been awakened in the
middle of the night by a kidnapper if she’d been the daughter of a truck driver
and a high school teacher. She’d seen darkness most people couldn’t even
imagine.
Even as he thought it, he saw the way her shoulders gradual y slumped as
she came to the same realization. Her smile faded. A low sigh emerged from
her mouth. It appeared distraction time was over; her mind was heading back
toward business.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing exactly what she meant. She
appreciated the distraction. The brief segue into normalcy . “And for the
record?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” he said, almost surprising
himself with the tender note in his own voice. But it was only the truth. He
hated even picturing those awful days, and wished he could turn back the
clock and change things so she’d never have to know about such ugliness. No
innocent kid ever should.
“You’re real y a nice man, aren’t you?” she asked.
Feeling stupid for having opened his mouth, he muttered, “Don’t let it get
around.”
“Our little secret,” she said, not laughing, sounding more thoughtful and
appreciative than anything else. Then she shook her head, as if shaking out
any distractions, and got back to the reason she’d come here. “Now, as to
whether I’m basing this just on my memory of what Jack looked like, let me
just point out a couple of things.” She raised her hand, ticking off points like a
lawyer presenting closing arguments in a case. “The boy I remember seemed
to be about twelve or thirteen years old, in line with what the coroner said
about the remains you found.”
“He said nine to twelve.”
“So he was smal for his age. Or mature beyond his years—probably with
reason.”
He nodded, conceding the point.
“You said you think this might have taken place twelve years ago, around
the time the bar underwent renovations after a previous fire?”
“It’s a theory.”
A pretty solid one, actual y, considering what forensics had discovered.
They didn’t believe the body had been disturbed since it had been put inside
that wal —at least, not until the fire—and that it had been there for the ful
period of decomposition. Some tests they’d run on the bones as wel as on a
few flecks of the clothing and plastic that
A faint sheen of pink might have appeared in her cheeks, and she
smoothed her dress, suddenly looking a little more prim and uptight.
Embarrassed. Rich Southern ladies didn’t usual y go around insulting people,
and she apparently thought she had. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“I’m kidding,” he said, gentle and earnest. “Because you’re right. I don’t live
a lifestyle that can be cal ed in any way normal. No homicide detective ever
could.”
“I agree. Nobody surrounded by death al the time could ever be said to
have an entirely ordinary, sane existence,” she said, that thoughtful tone
returning to her voice. “That’s what I meant. Again, I’m sorry if I sounded snotty.
”
“You didn’t.”
“It’s just, normal’s not in my vocabulary, either.”
He doubted that. Olivia looked about as normal a member of the Southern
elite as anyone he’d ever known, even if she did have a kind streak and
spoke in a down-to-earth way that didn’t quite match the dol ar signs under
which he suspected she’d been born.
Then he remembered her background, the whole reason she’d come here
today.
Hel . No, normal wasn’t necessarily the word to describe this woman’s life,
and it hadn’t been, not since she was fifteen years old. And nothing could
make an ivorytowered princess come down to earth faster than realizing she
was just as likely to be a victim of crime as any normal person born into a
middle-class lifestyle. In her case, with those dol ar signs attached to her
name, probably even more so. He doubted she’d have been awakened in the
middle of the night by a kidnapper if she’d been the daughter of a truck driver
and a high school teacher. She’d seen darkness most people couldn’t even
imagine.
Even as he thought it, he saw the way her shoulders gradual y slumped as
she came to the same realization. Her smile faded. A low sigh emerged from
her mouth. It appeared distraction time was over; her mind was heading back
toward business.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing exactly what she meant. She
appreciated the distraction. The brief segue into normalcy . “And for the
record?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” he said, almost surprising
himself with the tender note in his own voice. But it was only the truth. He
hated even picturing those awful days, and wished he could turn back the
clock and change things so she’d never have to know about such ugliness. No
innocent kid ever should.
“You’re real y a nice man, aren’t you?” she asked.
Feeling stupid for having opened his mouth, he muttered, “Don’t let it get
around.”
“Our little secret,” she said, not laughing, sounding more thoughtful and
appreciative than anything else. Then she shook her head, as if shaking out
any distractions, and got back to the reason she’d come here. “Now, as to
whether I’m basing this just on my memory of what Jack looked like, let me
just point out a couple of things.” She raised her hand, ticking off points like a
lawyer presenting closing arguments in a case. “The boy I remember seemed
to be about twelve or thirteen years old, in line with what the coroner said
about the remains you found.”
“He said nine to twelve.”
“So he was smal for his age. Or mature beyond his years—probably with
reason.”
He nodded, conceding the point.
“You said you think this might have taken place twelve years ago, around
the time the bar underwent renovations after a previous fire?”
“It’s a theory.”
A pretty solid one, actual y, considering what forensics had discovered.
They didn’t believe the body had been disturbed since it had been put inside
that wal —at least, not until the fire—and that it had been there for the ful
period of decomposition. Some tests they’d run on the bones as wel as on a
few flecks of the clothing and plastic that
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