Work for him? With him? Doing what?
Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?
Suddenly the room felt chilly.
October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.
Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.
I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.
No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.
My higher centers began another loop.
The afternoon’s call.
Who was the woman on the phone?
Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?
Was the caller also afraid of this person?
Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.
Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.
John-Henry Story?
If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.
I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.
If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Round and round.
Questions leading to more questions.
No answers.
And where the hell was Katy!
I AWOKE TO RAIN BUCKETING down outside my window. And a feeling I’d slept too late.
Yep. My clock radio said 8:42.
Eyes half open, I snagged my iPhone and scanned overnight e-mails.
No update from Katy.
Quick calculation. Midafternoon in Bagram. She’d be busy.
Knowing I should wait, I sent a message.
“Please check in. Mom.”
Nothing from Ryan.
My sister Harry had fired off a foursome, the first landing at 2:42 A.M . The others had followed at five-minute intervals.
I speed-read to get a sense of the new crisis.
For a chuckle, I sometimes visit the website First World Problems. The contents are Harry’s life in microcosm. The Angsts of Harriet Brennan Howard Dawood Crone. Though I think she dropped Crone when she divorced husband number three. Or was he two?
New acquaintances are often shocked to learn that Harry and I are siblings. But despite our differences, which are epic, my sister and I share one fundamental trait. She is wired with the same bulldog drive that got me through college, grad school, and decades in a demanding and often heartrending profession.
What differs between us is the focus of our passion. For me it’s the search for truth, recognition, and justice for the dead.
For Harry it’s shopping. Shoes. Shades. Houses. Husbands. Deep down, I think the acquisition itself is irrelevant to my sister. What matters is the hunt.
Over the years I’ve pondered why Harry is the way she is. Why I’m the way I am. Clichéd as it seems, I’ve come to believe that our mother owns a big piece of the blame.
Looking back, I realize Mama swung on a pendulum beyond her control, one that moved her between wild elation and soul-bleeding depression. With each upswing, she’d take joy in wearing the latest fashion, knowing the right people, seeing and being seen at all the best parties, concerts, and restaurants. With the plunge would come tears, withdrawal, the closed bedroom door. Having achieved all she’d sought, Mama wouldn’t give a damn.
My mother’s moods bewildered me as a child. As an adult, I still don’t fully understand.
And I worry there are hints of Mama’s demons in my sister.
I’ve never discussed my personal issues with Harry. A battle with the bottle. A failed marriage. A daughter who’d volunteered for combat without asking my
Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?
Suddenly the room felt chilly.
October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.
Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.
I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.
No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.
My higher centers began another loop.
The afternoon’s call.
Who was the woman on the phone?
Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?
Was the caller also afraid of this person?
Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.
Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.
John-Henry Story?
If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.
I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.
If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Round and round.
Questions leading to more questions.
No answers.
And where the hell was Katy!
I AWOKE TO RAIN BUCKETING down outside my window. And a feeling I’d slept too late.
Yep. My clock radio said 8:42.
Eyes half open, I snagged my iPhone and scanned overnight e-mails.
No update from Katy.
Quick calculation. Midafternoon in Bagram. She’d be busy.
Knowing I should wait, I sent a message.
“Please check in. Mom.”
Nothing from Ryan.
My sister Harry had fired off a foursome, the first landing at 2:42 A.M . The others had followed at five-minute intervals.
I speed-read to get a sense of the new crisis.
For a chuckle, I sometimes visit the website First World Problems. The contents are Harry’s life in microcosm. The Angsts of Harriet Brennan Howard Dawood Crone. Though I think she dropped Crone when she divorced husband number three. Or was he two?
New acquaintances are often shocked to learn that Harry and I are siblings. But despite our differences, which are epic, my sister and I share one fundamental trait. She is wired with the same bulldog drive that got me through college, grad school, and decades in a demanding and often heartrending profession.
What differs between us is the focus of our passion. For me it’s the search for truth, recognition, and justice for the dead.
For Harry it’s shopping. Shoes. Shades. Houses. Husbands. Deep down, I think the acquisition itself is irrelevant to my sister. What matters is the hunt.
Over the years I’ve pondered why Harry is the way she is. Why I’m the way I am. Clichéd as it seems, I’ve come to believe that our mother owns a big piece of the blame.
Looking back, I realize Mama swung on a pendulum beyond her control, one that moved her between wild elation and soul-bleeding depression. With each upswing, she’d take joy in wearing the latest fashion, knowing the right people, seeing and being seen at all the best parties, concerts, and restaurants. With the plunge would come tears, withdrawal, the closed bedroom door. Having achieved all she’d sought, Mama wouldn’t give a damn.
My mother’s moods bewildered me as a child. As an adult, I still don’t fully understand.
And I worry there are hints of Mama’s demons in my sister.
I’ve never discussed my personal issues with Harry. A battle with the bottle. A failed marriage. A daughter who’d volunteered for combat without asking my
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