remained about the night her mother died.
Aurora settled for a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the porch. In the darkness, the waters of the bayou rose and fell in thick waves, like swirled cream. A boat laden with partygoers idled a mile offshore, music blaring.
They had all been on a boat ride the night of the murder. Aurora, her mother, and her father. She tried to conjure Raylene’s image from the depths of her mind. She remembered climbing into her mother’s lap on someone’s porch, in front of a glass table rimmed in white. “You’re too old to be held this way,” her mother had said with a laugh, but she’d cradled her anyway, rocking her back and forth, Aurora’s spindly legs draped over the chair’s armrest. Aurora couldn’t remember her face or anything she was wearing, or even whose porch it was, but somehow she remembered that grip. Loving. Intense.
Aurora stemmed the tide of emotions that were rising to the surface. There was no time to sit here and let the past engulf her. If Papa wanted her to continue the search for the truth about that night, she was up to the task, no matter how painful it was.
She shut the French doors behind her. Tonight she would tackle the files in the cherry-finish secretary desk in Papa’s office. Royce Beaumont, the attorney, had told her about several documents she needed to bring to their first meeting in the morning. She was counting on the contents of the desk to be what she expected—papers, bills, checkbooks—but was afraid there would be something else there that she wasn’t ready to see.
The sight of Papa’s spindly handwriting on the file folders brought an unexpected rush of tears to her eyes. Why had he left all of this for her to do? She could feel a throb between her eyes beginning to bloom into a headache. Well, it would only take a minute; Papa was organized, and everything was easy to find. The folder labeled HOUSE was tucked in the back. A manila folder was among the deed to the house and other legal papers. A folder labeled with a single word.
Raylene .
She was unfolding the contents even as her mind was screaming at her to stop, to let it be, to leave it alone. So he had done his research after all. She spread the pages out across Papa’s desk. It was an old, blurred photocopy of the autopsy report and the police report. This was what Nana and Papa had been protecting her from all these years, and now she understood why. Aurora read the details, knowing they would never be erased from her memory. Death by asphyxiation. He had strangled her with his bare hands. There was evidence consistent with rape; she had been found half-naked on the shore of the bayou, less than a mile from where Aurora was sitting right now. Papa had circled and underlined words on the autopsy report. Contusion, right knee. Defensive wounds. Broken fingernails.
Aurora felt the weight of it all settling in her chest. She caught sight of herself in one of the antique mirrors hanging to the right of the desk. She resembled her mother, but she was Wade’s daughter too. Was that why Papa could not share this? When he saw her, did he see his treasured daughter but also the man who had taken her away forever?
Clipped to the report was a letter from the police department, informing Papa that every effort was being made to bring Wade Atchison to justice. Her grandfather had circled her father’s name and written a question mark above it. Was he questioning who had killed her mother? Wade was a criminal, a violent man, a jealous man. Who else could have possibly killed Raylene?
The rest of the file contained clippings from area papers. Aurora paged through them. She’d seen the local paper, The Bayou Bumblebee, for sale at a gas station she’d stopped at on the way into town. These papers mentioned places she didn’t recognize: Starflower, Kervick, Papillon City. She expected accounts of the murder, but the articles were all about alligators; probably mixed in with
Aurora settled for a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the porch. In the darkness, the waters of the bayou rose and fell in thick waves, like swirled cream. A boat laden with partygoers idled a mile offshore, music blaring.
They had all been on a boat ride the night of the murder. Aurora, her mother, and her father. She tried to conjure Raylene’s image from the depths of her mind. She remembered climbing into her mother’s lap on someone’s porch, in front of a glass table rimmed in white. “You’re too old to be held this way,” her mother had said with a laugh, but she’d cradled her anyway, rocking her back and forth, Aurora’s spindly legs draped over the chair’s armrest. Aurora couldn’t remember her face or anything she was wearing, or even whose porch it was, but somehow she remembered that grip. Loving. Intense.
Aurora stemmed the tide of emotions that were rising to the surface. There was no time to sit here and let the past engulf her. If Papa wanted her to continue the search for the truth about that night, she was up to the task, no matter how painful it was.
She shut the French doors behind her. Tonight she would tackle the files in the cherry-finish secretary desk in Papa’s office. Royce Beaumont, the attorney, had told her about several documents she needed to bring to their first meeting in the morning. She was counting on the contents of the desk to be what she expected—papers, bills, checkbooks—but was afraid there would be something else there that she wasn’t ready to see.
The sight of Papa’s spindly handwriting on the file folders brought an unexpected rush of tears to her eyes. Why had he left all of this for her to do? She could feel a throb between her eyes beginning to bloom into a headache. Well, it would only take a minute; Papa was organized, and everything was easy to find. The folder labeled HOUSE was tucked in the back. A manila folder was among the deed to the house and other legal papers. A folder labeled with a single word.
Raylene .
She was unfolding the contents even as her mind was screaming at her to stop, to let it be, to leave it alone. So he had done his research after all. She spread the pages out across Papa’s desk. It was an old, blurred photocopy of the autopsy report and the police report. This was what Nana and Papa had been protecting her from all these years, and now she understood why. Aurora read the details, knowing they would never be erased from her memory. Death by asphyxiation. He had strangled her with his bare hands. There was evidence consistent with rape; she had been found half-naked on the shore of the bayou, less than a mile from where Aurora was sitting right now. Papa had circled and underlined words on the autopsy report. Contusion, right knee. Defensive wounds. Broken fingernails.
Aurora felt the weight of it all settling in her chest. She caught sight of herself in one of the antique mirrors hanging to the right of the desk. She resembled her mother, but she was Wade’s daughter too. Was that why Papa could not share this? When he saw her, did he see his treasured daughter but also the man who had taken her away forever?
Clipped to the report was a letter from the police department, informing Papa that every effort was being made to bring Wade Atchison to justice. Her grandfather had circled her father’s name and written a question mark above it. Was he questioning who had killed her mother? Wade was a criminal, a violent man, a jealous man. Who else could have possibly killed Raylene?
The rest of the file contained clippings from area papers. Aurora paged through them. She’d seen the local paper, The Bayou Bumblebee, for sale at a gas station she’d stopped at on the way into town. These papers mentioned places she didn’t recognize: Starflower, Kervick, Papillon City. She expected accounts of the murder, but the articles were all about alligators; probably mixed in with
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