Читать книгу Christmas Confessions - Kathleen Long - Страница 7

Abby slowed as she rounded the corner in front of her townhouse. Dwayne Franklin stood stringing tiny white Christmas lights along the hedges that framed her front window.

“Oh, Dwayne. I told you we could skip that this year. It’s too much work.”

Her next-door neighbor pivoted at the sound of her voice, moving so sharply he lost his balance and stumbled, catching himself against the window frame.

Abby reached for his arm and he straightened, anchoring his hands on her elbows and squeezing tight. Too tight.

She swallowed down the nervousness her neighbor inspired, knowing she was being ridiculous.

He was as harmless as a fly. A man who’d been down on his luck for as long as she could remember, and a man who’d been a good neighbor to her for as long as she’d lived on the quiet city street.

“How about some coffee?” she asked.

“I’ll be right in after I finish,” he said with a smile.

Abby stepped back and admired his work. The twinkling strands did wonders for the front of her house. But then, Dwayne kept up her property as if it were his own—cutting her small patch of lawn in the summer, weeding her garden in the spring, and now stringing holiday lights before Christmas.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” Abby called as she headed around the side of the house toward the entrance to her townhouse.

“You have to admit there’s nothing like holiday cheer.”

Dwayne’s words did nothing to warm her, instead reigniting the chill she’d felt ever since Detective Jack Grant’s visit.

Holiday cheer.

The detective had seemed sure whoever had sent the Melinda Simmons postcard would strike again.

That holiday cheer, Abby could do without.

The temperature inside her living room seemed overly warm as Abby stepped indoors. She adjusted the thermostat, shrugged off her coat and tossed it over the arm of the overstuffed chair that had once been her grandmother’s. She’d love nothing more than to pour herself a cup of coffee and curl up with a good book, but Dwayne would no doubt dawdle and Abby would end up cooking them both dinner.

Oh, well, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen. There was no harm in letting the man spend time at her house.

He was lonely, and he’d proved to be a good neighbor time and time again. Plus, she had nowhere better to be.

Abby worried occasionally that Dwayne wanted something more in terms of a relationship, but he’d never so much as tried to kiss her. She probably had nothing to worry about. Matter of fact, she ought to check her ego.

A framed photograph captured her gaze as she flipped on the kitchen light, and she plucked the picture from the counter.

In it, she and two friends stood in front of a series of paintings. Abby’s first gallery show. At the time, Abby’s specialty had been landscapes, her work recreating what she considered the most beautiful canvas of all—nature. But in the years since, Abby had found her time spent creating murals to be more lucrative. Enough so that she could afford to run the confession site on the side.

She refocused on the photo, the faces. Gina and Vicki had been by her side during every moment of her career, just as they’d been by her side during every moment of her life from first grade forward.

Until last year.

Until Christmas Eve when Abby had let a call from Vicki go unanswered and she and Gina had found Vicki’s body the next morning.

Suicide by hanging.

Her heart squeezed at the memory, the image burned into her mind’s eye as if she stood there now, filled with horror and disbelief. Filled with shame and guilt that she might have been able to stop her friend from doing the unthinkable if she’d only answered the damn phone.

She’d vowed to never again make that same mistake. And then she’d founded Don’t Say a Word.

“All done.”

Dwayne’s voice startled her, and Abby dropped the frame. The glass and pewter hit the granite countertop with a crash, and a wicked crack shattered the glass, sending shards skittering across the counter.

Dwayne was at her side in an instant, taking her hands in his, checking her fingers for any sign of blood.

He held her hands until Abby felt the urge to squirm. “I’m okay.” She wiggled her fingers free from his grip, swallowing down the memories of the past. “Just careless…and tired.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Let me clean this up and I’ll make that coffee.”

Dwayne shook his head, staring at her with such intent she felt he could see into her thoughts.

“I’ll take care of this.” He spoke without emotion as he reached to moisten a paper towel, then set to work capturing each shard of glass.

As Abby measured the coffee grounds by sight and set up mugs and cream for two, her neighbor diligently worked behind her, carefully erasing every last trace of her clumsiness.

Then he stood and watched her work, his eyes staring into the back of her head.

She fought the urge to tell him to go sit in the living room.

He was harmless, lonely, and she’d had a long day.

Nothing more, she told herself. Nothing more.

But she couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had enveloped her every sense since Detective Grant had left the office.

He’d called her a target for the postcard sender’s holiday cheer.

A target.

Abby couldn’t help but wonder who it was that had put Don’t Say a Word in his crosshairs.

She’d researched the old case thoroughly after Grant walked out of the office. She’d studied every piece of information she could find, including biographical data on Boone Shaw and information on each of the victims—including Grant’s younger sister, Emma.

No wonder the detective wore such a scowl. If Abby understood one thing, it was how the pain of losing a loved one never left you. So much for the adage about how time heals all wounds.

No wonder the detective had made the cross-country trip as soon as he’d seen the blog.

And no wonder he was focused on the question that now haunted Abby’s mind.

Had Boone Shaw chosen Don’t Say a Word to bring attention to his crimes? Why?

And if somehow the sender wasn’t Shaw, who was it?

Abby’s stomach caught and twisted as the next question slid through her mind.

When would the next card arrive?

JACK PAID THE pizza delivery kid, then flipped the dead bolt back across the hotel door.

He opened the cardboard box and pulled one slice free from the pie, sinking his teeth into the dough and cheese.

Cold.

The pizza was cold.

Just like Delaware. Just like this room. Just like this case.

He was kidding himself if he thought one anonymous postcard was going to break the old murder case wide open, let alone an anonymous postcard bearing no postmark.

That particular piece of the mystery had been nagging at Jack all day.

In addition, he’d made some calls on his way back to the hotel. His source in Montana had said Boone Shaw fell off the radar several weeks back.

The man could be anywhere.

Grant muttered a few unkind thoughts aloud, then tossed the pizza box onto the bed.

He’d stopped at the local police department to let them know he was in town and working unofficially. While they’d been more than polite, they’d offered no help, no resources.

He couldn’t blame them. Surely they had more important things to worry about than a postcard featuring the photo of a young woman missing and presumed dead eleven years earlier.

He’d also met with the officer who had checked out the card on Abby’s behalf. Detective Timothy Hayes.

Jack couldn’t blame the man for thinking the card a hoax.

The card itself was nondescript—available at any office supply store. The same could be said for the white label, and the message had been printed on what could be one of a thousand different laser printers.

Simply put, the card offered nothing distinctive. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except the image of Melinda Simmons, a young girl the rest of the world had forgotten years ago.

The photograph itself was the only unique aspect of the card, and without further cause, no crime lab was about to waste precious time on an analysis of paper, age and adhesive.

The thought of tracing fingerprints was a joke. What better way to wipe out any prints than by sending a postcard through the United States mail?

Yet, how had the sender managed to avoid the card receiving a postmark? Luck? Not likely.

Had the card been hand-delivered? If so, whoever was responsible might be close. Too close.

Jack took another bite of cold pizza and groaned before he tossed the rest of the slice back into the box.

He slid the copies of his old case notes from his bag, spreading the contents across the hotel room’s desk.

Five faces stared back at him from the case photos. Five victims, all struck down within a ten-day period years earlier. There had been no known victims since, so why had Boone broken his silence? Why now?

Jack studied the photos taken of young, vital women—Emma included—during happier times. Each shot had been provided by a grieving relative—a relative who had trusted Jack and the investigative team to bring their daughter’s killer to justice.

Jack pulled the mug shots of Boone Shaw free from the file and stared down into the man’s dead eyes. Shaw had been a big man, strong, yet fairly nondescript as far as physical features went.

Even eleven years ago, he’d been all but bald, and his round face had offered no unique features or scars. His manner of dress had blended seamlessly into the New Mexico culture.

For all intents and purposes, Shaw had been exactly what he claimed to be—a photographer out to build a business as he helped young wannabe models get their starts.

Jack knew better. He knew it, felt it, believed it.

Boone Shaw had been as guilty as they came.

Yet, when push came to shove, the lack of DNA evidence and Shaw’s airtight alibi had been enough to let the accused walk.

Jack had waited every year, every month, every day since the trial ended for the chance to go after Shaw again. The Melinda Simmons card might not be much, but Jack planned to work it for everything he could.

Jack flashed back on the image of Abby Conroy.

The woman looked more like a waif than the co-owner of the thriving Internet site. Short and slender, she’d sported a navy knit cap, pulled low on her forehead, the pale blond fringe of her bangs peeking from just below the hat’s ribbed edge.

Her long hair had been tucked behind her ears, and her nose, reddened by the cold, had matched the bright circles of determined color that had fired in her cheeks as she defended her actions.

A real spitfire.

Yet her ice blue eyes had remained as chilly as the temperature outside, faltering only when she realized Jack was telling the truth.

She’d been carrying around the photo of a dead girl, and she’d done exactly what the killer had wanted by publishing his message.

Even so, the woman had made it clear her first priority was the integrity of her site and the anonymity of the site’s supporters, but she’d no doubt change her tune as soon as another card arrived.

And it would arrive.

Jack hadn’t been so sure about anything since the day he’d first looked into Boone Shaw’s eyes and known the man had killed Emma.

Abby Conroy might think her precious blog site innocent in the sins of the past, but as long as she encouraged confessions, she sure as hell wasn’t innocent in the sins of the present.

And Jack had no qualms about blowing Abby Conroy and Don’t Say a Word sky-high.

He’d vowed long ago to do whatever it took to bring Emma’s killer to justice.

Now all Jack had to do was sit back…and wait.

ABBY RETURNED TO the broken photo frame after Dwayne left.

For once, her neighbor hadn’t lingered. Matter of fact, Abby was used to the man being quiet, but tonight he’d been more distant than ever. If Abby hadn’t known better, she’d swear there’d been something he wanted to tell her, a secret he wanted to share.

Abby knew Dwayne regularly read the blog. He’d told her so on various occasions over the past year—while they shared a glass of iced tea after he’d worked in her yard, or on the occasional evening she offered him a quick sandwich when he’d bring over her mail.

He’d never told her much about his life, his work, his past. Perhaps that was better.

The man was a loner in the true sense of the word, and yet he’d befriended Abby. He looked out for her, kept an eye on her property, trusted her.

He even went so far as to take Abby’s personal mail from the small box by her front door if she worked too late. He had a fear of the mail sitting out all day.

Perhaps he’d once been the victim of identity theft—who knew—but on the occasions Dwayne did take in her mail, Abby would thank him for his kindness and write off the odd practice as a quirk of a lonely mind.

The fact Abby hadn’t put a stop to the practice drove Robert and Gina insane, but Abby knew Dwayne was only trying to be neighborly.

Both Robert and Gina felt Dwayne’s overfamiliarity was just that. Overfamiliar. Robert had gone so far as to 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.