The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly Page B

must have been a burglar who got surprised by your parents and started shooting. But they never did catch him.”
    â€œI don’t understand how that happens. A burglar breaks in, kills two people, and the police just . . . let it drop.”
    â€œWell, it was an unusual case. No physical evidence, at least not that I could gather. There weren’t any fingerprints in the house that weren’t supposed to be there. And they never found a murder weapon. All they had was an eyewitness.”
    â€œThere was an eyewitness?”
    â€œOf course, honey. You.”

Fifteen
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    B efore I left, Cheral Rooney pressed a pair of gold earrings into my hands. “They were your mom’s. Only thing I have of hers. They’ve been sitting in my jewelry box all these years—I never could bring myself to wear them.”
    The earrings were enormous, finely braided hoops. They had a vaguely Gypsy quality to them, delicate and gaudy at once. Not the kind of thing I would ever wear. But then, I hadn’t been a fashionable young woman in the 1970s.
    â€œThey were the height of fashion back then,” said Cheral, reading my mind. “I’d borrowed them to wear to a party, only reason I have them. After your parents died the whole house was a crime scene. Police tape everywhere. I wasn’t allowed in to try to scoop up anything else of hers. Then one day, movers appeared. Boxed everything up and the house was sold.”
    â€œThank you for keeping these.”
    â€œShe had beautiful jewelry. And clothes. With her figure, she could wear anything. She had this green coat, so chic, with matching green suede boots. . . .” Cheral smiled sadly. “You’d have loved her taste.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI would have come to visit you. I would have liked to stay intouch. Your mother would have wanted that. But afterwards the doctors wouldn’t let me see you. You were in intensive care for weeks. And I assume the police were trying to question you during that time.”
    â€œDo you know if I—if I saw anything? Was I able to tell them anything that helped?”
    She shook her head. “I’ve no idea. You don’t remember?”
    â€œNo. Not anything.”
    â€œProbably for the best. You were a baby, Caroline, barely more than a baby. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise when I said that, about you being an eyewitness. Who knows what you saw or didn’t?” She patted my shoulder. “Anyway, after a time the social services must have gotten involved. Next thing I heard, you’d been adopted by a new family. We never had word again; it was like you’d just been spirited away. I hope they were kind to you. The couple that adopted you, I mean.”
    â€œVery kind.” I felt my voice tighten with love. “The kindest family ever. I couldn’t have asked for a more loving home.”
    â€œI’m glad.” Cheral touched my shoulder again. “Mercy, it’s brought back some memories, seeing you. To think that you’re older now than Sadie Rawson and Boone when they died. Such a nice man, your daddy. Didn’t deserve what he got.”
    â€œNeither of them did.”
    She blinked, then nodded. Tears were in her eyes as she closed the door. Tears, and something else. A hint of jealousy again? Or some other emotion? I couldn’t tell, could only sense it twitching, a sour under­current beneath the surface.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    SOMETHING CHERAL ROONEY had said was nagging at me. Something, some detail, didn’t sit right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and the more I tried to catch it, the more it eluded me, like a kitten batting at a piece of yarn.
    I was parked back on Eulalia Road for my appointment with the Journal-Constitution photographer. I was not looking forward to it, was already regretting my decision to participate in this entire exercise. It felt tacky. As though I