“Silver pieces that look like they belong in the family.”
“No. Yard sale finds. They can go.”
Maura rummaged in the box. “Earrings in the kitchen drawer. Look like real pearls.”
A gift from Clarke. “No, they can go.”
Maura looked a little surprised but kept going through the box. There was a small photo album featuring all Nate’s visits to Santa. In the first he was eleven months, but in the second, at twenty-three months, he had learned stranger danger and would have nothing to do with the big guy in the red suit. Clarke had offered to hold him, and the photographer, who had dozens of children waiting, had snapped a picture of a stressed-out Santa and a grinning Clarke holding a red-faced Nate.
In the end, she kept the photos and the bear, but everything else she let go. “Thanks, Maura.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Would you like to visit?” Ann offered. “I don’t have much yet, but I have pasta I’m heating up, and we can eat on the couch in the living room.”
Maura checked her watch. “The charity center closes in an hour, but the truck is covered with a tarp, so it can sit until morning.”
Each settled on either end of the couch with a paper cup of wine and a bowl of penne pasta covered in marinara sauce.
“This is amazing pasta,” Maura said.
“It’s from a little out-of-the-way place called Tony’s. When I want to treat myself, I go there.” Ann slipped off her shoes and curled her feet up under her.
“I should have all the closets, cabinets, and bathrooms cleaned out by the end of the week,” Maura said as she finished off her pasta.
“You’re efficient. At the rate I was going, it would have been years before the house was sold.” Ann found a clear spot on the coffee table for her bowl and retrieved her wine.
“Easier when you’re on the outside looking in. Outsiders don’t take time to ponder or second-guess.”
Ann had done more than a lifetime of each. “I think you’re right.”
“You teach forensic psychology.” Maura sipped her wine. “Do you solve cases with the cops?”
Ann laughed, not willing to discuss any of her work with the state police. “I grade papers and hand out homework assignments.”
“If I wanted to take a class at the university, could I still sign up?”
“Yes, at the registrar’s office. I’ll be in my office the next couple of days, so if you want a tour, I’d be happy to give you one. I can also introduce you to the registrar.”
“I might take you up on that. What kind of class would you recommend?”
“Come and see me, and we’ll figure it out.” Ann finished her glass and discovered she wanted a little more. It felt good to relax and have a normal conversation, even if it was superficial. “Would you like a little more?”
Maura glanced into her empty cup. “I better get going. Tomorrow’s a long day.”
“Of course.” Ann followed Maura as she made her way around the boxes to the door. “Maura, remember there are people who are still really curious about me. What’s in that house is for your eyes only. I’m not feeding anyone’s morbid fascination with my life.”
“Of course,” Maura said quickly. “I understand the importance of privacy.”
“Good.”
Ann stood at the door and watched Maura load the box and then get back in her truck. As she backed out of the driveway, Ann noticed that Maura’s truck sported Wyoming plates. She had said she’d worked back east for several years but had not mentioned when or where she had arrived out west. She would not have been the first to put off a visit to the DMV.
Ann walked to her mailbox and retrieved a handful of ad flyers and bills. Her father always said salesmen and bill collectors were the most efficient at finding a new address.
She returned to the kitchen and poured the last of the wine in her cup as she stared at Montana Mac. “Sorry, big fella. I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”
Mail and Montana Mac in hand, she went to her office and sat at her desk. Sipping her wine, she settled the bear on the couch behind her and then opened the Helena murder investigation file.
The gruesome pictures reached past the haze of the wine and reminded her that there was a monster in town. And as much as she wanted to get on with her life and find happiness, or whatever, it would all have to wait. She would search every detail in this case, and maybe make up for all the warning signs she had missed with Clarke.
As she flipped through the mail, a handwritten envelope fell out. It wasn’t stamped, and the address was simply “Ann.”
Curious, she pulled out the note card and opened it.
Ann, it’s time we met and talked.
Find me or I will find you.
Elijah.
Her office chair squeaked as she sat back and studied Elijah’s bold, direct script. Finding her here would not have been a difficult task, especially for someone as smart as Elijah. A call would have been more efficient, but a note carried greater impact. It was a tangible reminder that he knew exactly where she lived.
She crumpled up the note and tossed it toward the new small brown trash can. The unwieldy ball bounced off the rim and hit the floor, rolling back toward her. The note refused to be tossed away, just as she suspected Elijah was not going away easily.
PAUL THOMPSON’S CRIME FILES
The woman across from me is successful, attractive, and poised. She is the kind of woman most females envy and most men want. And she has been writing to a man locked behind bars in Montana for four years. If you guessed the man was Elijah Weston, then you would be correct.
“You must be wondering why I started writing him.” The Realtor is dressed in neatly pressed black slacks and a red shirt that offsets her shoulder-length blond hair. Her nails are manicured, and a charm bracelet given to her by her grandmother dangles from her wrist and complements discreet gold hoop earrings.
“You’re not what I pictured,” I say.
“I never would have seen myself doing anything like this.”
“So why do it?”
She leans back and picks an imaginary piece of lint from her slacks. “Five years ago, I was in a low point in my life. My boyfriend and I broke up, and my father died. There was an article on the internet about a prisoner in Montana. He had just earned his college degree while behind bars and was touted as a model prisoner. It was a second-chances kind of story. That appealed to me, but when I saw his brief interview, I was kind of amazed.”
“He’s a good-looking guy.”
“To say the least.” The silence settles around her. “I needed to believe in second chances then, and he was an inspiration to me. I decided to write and tell him so. It’s important to acknowledge when people try to clean up their mistakes. I didn’t think he’d write me back, but two weeks later there was a letter in my mailbox.”
“What did you think?”
“I was shocked. A little afraid.”
“Why were you afraid?” I ask.
“He now had my home address. Which I had to give in order for the prison to accept the letter.”
“What did he say?”
She reaches for a letter sitting on the table beside her. “I’ll read just a little.”