from Daddy, that sheâd learned about fear.
As she stared ahead, watching the silvery ghost of a little girl looking at yellow-bright lights in a glass jar, she said, âThe moon looked just like this that night.â
âWhat night?â
âMamaâs funeral,â she said softly, hearing her fatherâs sharply indrawn breath when she mentioned the taboo subject. âI sat out in the backyard all day. I think everyone in the county came out to give me a hug and a kiss.â
Daddy planted his big, splayed hands on his pants and pushed to a stand. In the pale blue moonlight, he looked thinner than usual. âI think Iâll call it a night.â He leaned down, pushed the hair from her eyes in a gesture as familiar as her own reflection, and kissed her forehead. â âNight, Birdie.â
She shouldnât 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, âYou never talk about her.â
He stopped. The door screeched open. She thought she heard him sigh. âNo, I donât.â
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. âGood night, Daddy. Tell Anita Iâll see her in the morning.â
âSome wounds run deep, Birdie.â When he spoke, his voice was as soft as sheâd ever heard it. âYouâd best remember that.â
Then the door banged shut, and she was alone.
FIVE
The girl who had come forwardâAndrea Kinnearâlived 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. âWait here,â he said to Kirk, his cameraman, and Sally. âLet me introduce myself first.â
Then he faced the house. Heâd 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 didnât even have to remind themselves of it.
Jack was out of his league here, no doubt about it. But heâd go down in flames before heâd let this story out of his hands. As the old saying went, another reporter would have to pry the notes from Jackâs 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.
âHello, Mr. Shore.â She cleared her throat, then added, âIâm Andrea.â
âItâs nice to meet you, Andrea. Please, call me Jack. And this is my associate, Sally Maloney.â
Sally stepped forward. âHello, Andrea. We spoke on the phone.â
âItâs nice to meet you.â
Andrea stepped back into the house. âCome in.â
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. âWhere would you like me to sit?â
Kirk answered, âHow about that chair by the window?â
Andrea sat down, though her body remained stiffly upright, her hands clasped tightly together.
Jack sat down opposite her,
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