say Dwayne’s behavior bordered on stalking, but Abby didn’t agree.
Dwayne was lonely and more than a little paranoid. End of story. And as far as Abby knew, none of the other neighbors gave Dwayne the time of day.
Well, she, for one, wasn’t about to ignore him.
Abby dropped her gaze to the scarred picture of herself with Gina and Vicki. Just look where ignoring a friend had gotten her once before.
Vicki’s death was the reason Abby spent so much time with each postcard she received. She tried to put herself in the sender’s position, tried to imagine the anguish, the guilt, the relief each felt at finally coming clean.
She was no therapist, nor did she profess to be one, but she could offer space. Space to come clean. Space to confess. Space to shed the burden of a secret’s weight carried for too long.
Abby understood the pain of holding a secret inside, she understood how the truth could slowly eat away at you, uncoiling like a snake.
She’d never told a soul—not even Robert or Gina—about the call she’d ignored from Vicki.
Perhaps someday she’d send herself a postcard.
She laughed at the irony, glad she could laugh at something today.
A mental image of Detective Jack Grant flashed through her mind and her belly tightened. The man’s intensity was breathtaking, albeit foreboding. If he hadn’t scowled so intently the entire time he’d been at the office, she might be tempted to call him handsome. But she wasn’t about to make that leap, not anytime soon.
She thought again about the case information she’d uncovered on the New Mexico murders.
Seemed Detective Grant had left out a bit of information himself. So much for full disclosure.
No matter. Abby recognized his type.
He’d tell her what she needed to know, when he thought she needed to know it. He probably believed he was protecting her by sparing her the gory details—like the killer’s signature.
She shuddered at the thought.
Abby had been too harsh with the detective, too defensive about her work and the site, and she knew it.
The detective had called briefly later in the day, asking to go through the archives in order to check each postcard for any sign the sender had reached out before.
Abby thought the exercise would be nothing but wasted time, but if that’s what Jack Grant wanted to do, that’s what she’d help him do.
And then it hit her.
Postcards.
She’d never so much as flipped through the contents of the post office box that morning. She’d been so taken aback by the detective’s visit and the harsh reality of his disclosure she’d forgotten about today’s mail.
Abby retraced her steps to the living room and dipped her hand inside the large pocket of her coat. Today’s stack of cards hadn’t been quite as cumbersome as those in recent weeks. Perhaps the onslaught of submissions that had followed the People magazine article was finally tapering off.
Maybe now business would return to usual.
She checked the thought immediately. Business as usual did not include an apparent murder confession.
Abby sank into her favorite chair and flipped through the cards one by one, reading each message before she studied the accompanying graphic.
I never told my father I loved him.
Abby’s heart ached as she studied the apparently scanned image of a scribbled crayon drawing of a house and tree on the reverse side of the card.
I cheated on my bar exam.
The submission featured a store-bought, glossy image of a lush tropical resort.
Apparently this particular confessor didn’t suffer remorse. Abby laughed and moved on.
She shouldn’t have ignored me.
Simple black type on a white label.
No postmark.
Abby choked on her laughter.
She dropped the card into her lap and reached for her gloves. She pulled them from her coat pocket and slipped them over her fingers before she reached for the card again, this time turning the simple card over.
Surely she was overreacting.
This card couldn’t be the same, couldn’t be another confession, another photograph of some poor girl who’d thought she had a shot at a modeling career and ended up dead.
Abby held her breath, gripping only the edges of the card as she turned it over.
A beautiful young woman looked back from the black-and-white shot. She smiled, and yet her eyes hinted at something other than joy. In them, Abby saw nervousness…and fear. Had she known she was in danger at the moment this shot was taken?
The coffee Abby had shared with Dwayne churned in her stomach as she turned back to the message, reading it again.
She shouldn’t have ignored me.
Dread gripped her by the throat and squeezed even as the bright white lights twinkled through her sheer curtains from the bushes outside—an ironic juxtaposition of holiday present and past.
Abby carefully placed the card on an end table and reached into her coat pocket again, this time in search of Detective Grant’s business card.
Her own words echoed in her brain.
What if he doesn’t send a second card?
She’d been so sure of herself, even after the detective’s explanation of the case and the killer’s cruelty.
Detective Grant had been equally sure, and he’d been correct in his prediction.
He will. He will.
Little did the detective know the second card had been in her coat pocket even as he’d spoken.
Abby dropped her focus to Jack Grant’s business card and studied his cell phone number.
The man had traveled all the way from Arizona to Delaware to chase a single lead. She had to admire him for that.
Then Abby took a deep breath, reached for her phone and dialed.
Jack pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the quaint townhouse. Small white lights twinkled from the short hedge lining the home’s oversized windows.
Figured
