style="font-size:15px;"> She’d realized that her grandfather knew more about this case than he’d originally let on. “Yes, the nanny, the woman who is now the new wife of Travers McGraw. That alone is suspicious. I would think you’d encourage me to get the real story of what happened that night. And what does...close mean anyway?”
Her grandfather had put down his pen with an impatient sigh. “The case is dead cold after twenty-five years. Dozens of very good reporters, not to mention FBI agents and local law enforcement, did their best to solve it, so what in hell’s name makes you think that you can find something that they missed?”
She’d shrugged. “I have my grandfather’s stubborn arrogance and the genes of one of the suspects. Why not me?”
He’d wagged his gray head again. “Because you’re too personally involved, which means that whatever story you get won’t be worth printing.”
She’d dug her heels in. “I became a true crime writer because I wanted to know more than what I read in the newspapers.”
“Bite your tongue,” her grandfather said, only half joking. He sobered then, looking worried. “What if you don’t like what you find out about your father, or your mother, for that matter? I know my daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
He gave another shake of his gray head. “Clearly your mind is made up and since I can’t sanction this...” With an air of dismissal, he picked up his pen again. “If that’s all...”
She started toward the door but before she could exit, he called after her, “Watch your back, Punky.” It had been his nickname for her since she was a baby. “Remember what I told you about family secrets.”
People will kill to keep them, she thought now as she looked at Marianne McGraw.
The woman’s rocking didn’t change as Nikki stepped deeper into the room. “Mrs. McGraw?” She glanced behind her. The nurse’s aide stood just outside the door, glancing at her watch.
Nikki knew she didn’t have much time. It hadn’t been easy getting in here. It had cost her fifty bucks after she’d found the nurse’s aide was quitting soon to get married. She would have paid a lot more since so few people had laid eyes on Marianne McGraw in years.
She reached in her large purse for the camera she’d brought. No reporter had gotten in to see Marianne McGraw. Nikki had seen a photograph of Marianne McGraw taken twenty-five years ago, before her infant fraternal twins, a boy and girl, had been kidnapped. She’d been a beauty at thirty-two, a gorgeous dark-haired woman with huge green eyes and a contagious smile.
That woman held no resemblance to the one in the rocking chair. Marianne was a shell of her former self, appearing closer to eighty than fifty-seven.
“Mrs. McGraw, I’m Nikki St. James. I’m a true crime writer. How are you doing today?”
Nikki was close enough now that she could see nothing but blankness in the woman’s green-eyed stare. It was as if Marianne McGraw had gone blind—and deaf, as well. The face beneath the wild mane of white hair was haggard, pale, lifeless. The mouth hung open, the lips cracked and dry.
“I want to ask you about your babies,” Nikki said. “Oakley and Jesse Rose?” Was it her imagination or did the woman clutch the dolls even harder to her thin chest?
“What happened the night they disappeared?” Did Nikki really expect an answer? She could hope, couldn’t she? Mostly, she needed to hear the sound of her voice in this claustrophobic room. The rocking had a hypnotic effect, like being pulled down a rabbit hole.
“Everyone outside this room believes you had something to do with it. You and Nate Corwin.” No response, no reaction to the name. “Was he your lover?”
She moved closer, catching the decaying scent that rose from the rocking chair as if the woman was already dead. “I don’t believe it’s true. But I think you might know who kidnapped your babies,” she whispered.
The speculation at the time was that the kidnapping had been an inside job. Marianne had been suffering from postpartum depression. The nanny had said that Mrs. McGraw was having trouble bonding with the babies and that she’d been afraid to leave Marianne alone with them.
And, of course, there’d been Marianne’s secret lover—the man who everyone believed had helped her kidnap her own children. He’d been implicated because of a shovel found in the stables with his bloody fingerprints on it—along with fresh soil—even though no fresh graves had been found.
“Was Nate Corwin involved, Marianne?” The court had decided that Marianne McGraw couldn’t have acted alone. To get both babies out the second-story window, she would have needed an accomplice.
“Did my father help you?”
There was no sign that the woman even heard her, let alone recognized her alleged lover’s name. And if the woman had answered, Nikki knew she would have jumped out of her skin.
She checked to make sure Tess wasn’t watching as she snapped a photo of the woman in the rocker. The flash lit the room for an instant and made a snap sound. As she started to take another, she thought she heard a low growling sound coming from the rocker.
She hurriedly took another photo, though hesitantly, as the growling sound seemed to grow louder. Her eye on the viewfinder, she was still focused on the woman in the rocker when Marianne McGraw seemed to rock forward as if lurching from her chair.
A shriek escaped her before she could pull down the camera. She had closed her eyes and thrown herself back, slamming into the wall. Pain raced up one shoulder. She stifled a scream as she waited for the feel of the woman’s clawlike fingers on her throat.
But Marianne McGraw hadn’t moved. It had only been a trick of the light. And yet, Nikki noticed something different about the woman.
Marianne was smiling.
When a hand touched her shoulder, Nikki jumped, unable to hold back the cry of fright.
“We have to go,” Tess said, tugging on her shoulder. “They’ll be coming around with meds soon.”
Nikki hadn’t heard the nurse’s aide enter the room. Her gaze had been on Marianne McGraw—until Tess touched her shoulder.
Now she let her gaze go back to the woman. The white-haired patient was hunched in her chair, rocking back and forth, back and forth. The only sound in the room was that of the creaking rocking chair and the pounding of Nikki’s pulse in her ears.
Marianne’s face was slack again, her mouth open, the smile gone. If it had ever been there.
Nikki tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d let her imagination get the best of her, thinking that the woman had risen up from that rocker for a moment.
But she hadn’t imagined the growling sound any more than she would forget that smile of amusement. Marianne McGraw was still inside that shriveled-up old white-haired woman.
And if she was right, she thought,
