Sunday, April 3
1:30 a.m.
There was no use waiting for sleep to descend. It wasn’t coming. She’d tried soft music, warm milk, counting sheep, mind-cleansing exercises, and reading. But two hours after climbing into bed, she was still wide-eyed.
Recognizing a lost cause, Elise threw back the covers and padded across the thin bedroom carpet on bare feet, the strap of her pink satin camisole slipping down her shoulder. There was always work that could be done—both for the paper and her class—though in all honesty none of it held any appeal at the moment.
She’d spent so much energy assuring Mitch she was okay enough for him to leave that she’d actually fooled herself into believing it. But it wasn’t true. The simple fact that Jacob Brown was under a cloud of suspicion for the murder of Hannah Daltry was enough to set her nerves on edge.
Flicking on the living room light, she made a beeline for her laptop computer. With any luck, there would be a few emails to keep her busy until sleep came knocking.
She pressed the power button and waited as the computer slowly booted up, running through the various check screens before finally stopping on the welcome page. A click of the mouse and a password later she was in her email account—a red seven beside the little yellow mailbox. Just what she needed . . .
She entered her box and began opening email, taking time to respond to each one, her thoughts slowly taking on a focus other than Jacob Brown.
The first email was from Maureen O’Reilly. Maureen and Elise had become friends during the murder investigation last summer, their relationship deepening in the subsequent months. They got together for lunch every week, shared silly emails with one another in between.
Grateful for the mind-numbing list of questions that were to be answered and then forwarded on to five different friends, she threw herself into coming up with clever replies for each one. Even the standard one word “favorite” answers were embellished with a little wisecracking. When she was satisfied with her answers she sent it back to Maureen, adding Uncle Ken, his girlfriend Sophie, Jonathan, Aunt Betty, and Mitch to the recipient line.
Next up was an email from Sophie. Ever since she’d met the woman during her vacation to Mackinac Island with Mitch in January, she and the fifty-something woman had grown very close. It certainly didn’t hurt that Sophie and Elise’s uncle were engaged to be married. The two couples had joked about a joint wedding here in October, but Ken and Sophie wanted to marry on the island, with Elise’s cousin R.J. as best man.
She clicked the email open, smiling as she read the latest news on the island . . . including R.J.’s new job as a groomsman for Stodder’s Livery, and Uncle Ken’s upcoming showing at the Island Art Gallery. It warmed her heart to hear how happy they all were. Together and at peace.
She jotted a quick reply and pressed send, making a mental note to write a longer letter in a few days—maybe even including the murder investigation.
The next email in her box was from a sender she didn’t recognize: Bestphotog.
Bestphotog? Who on earth—
Dean.
It had to be. Although it was still hard to accept that the staff photographer was not only using a computer but sending email on it now as well. What was next? Computer dating?
She moved the arrow to the blank subject line and double clicked.
Hey Missy. This is your LUCKY day . . . your email reading life is now complete. I am officially online. Riding the websites and everything.
She giggled. So much for his computer jargon. Maybe she should clue him in on the correct terminology. Then again, maybe not. He could ride the websites all he wanted while the rest of the world surfed the net, mocking him.
Since I’m new to all this stuff I was wanting to jump in with both feet. While most of my interest lies in the sites we discussed the other day—
She rolled her eyes and groaned.
I’d love to see what one of these forward of a forward things are all about. So pick something fun that you’ve sent to all your buddies and send it to me too. Okay?
~Dean
He never ceased to amaze her. Just when she thought she had him all figured out, he did something totally unexpected. Like buy a computer. And get sentimental. Bizarre.
Shrugging, she clicked on her “sent mail” basket and forwarded the goofy question-and-answer email to him. With any luck he wouldn’t pay too careful attention to her answers—particularly the ones relating to her favorite food, her favorite way to relax, and her favorite nonwork activity. Lord knew what he could do with that kind of information.
The last two emails were Viagra ads and required no action except pressing the delete button without opening.
She stared at her empty mailbox, her needed diversion all but gone. There were websites she could check out, an article on a ribbon cutting ceremony she could start for the paper, her assignment for next week’s class to consider, but she opted to shut the computer down instead, her mind restless.
She pulled the strap of her camisole higher on her shoulder and wandered into the kitchen in search of a dish to put away or a cup to rinse. Unfortunately she was an overachiever most days and it had all been done when Mitch went home.
Wandering back into the living room, she shut off the overhead light in favor of a small reading lamp beside the papasan. She pulled Hannah Daltry’s dog-eared writing sample from under the pile of books and plopped onto the round blue cushion.
It was weird how the same seventeen paragraphs kept calling to her, pulling her back again and again. She’d assumed it was the powerful writing that kept her reading and rereading, but maybe it was just a final connection to a woman brutally murdered for no reason.
Her gaze skimmed down the page.
The black metal cave was cool against my tears . . .
“She was under a desk. Probably one of the desks inhabited by the people who open new accounts,” Elise said aloud, her voice filling the dimly lit room.
The end to Mommy’s noises meant we could no longer hear each other . . .
This made more sense now than it had the first time she read the piece, mainly because Madelyn had explained about the adults being locked in a bank vault during the robbery. She pulled her legs up onto the cushion, hugged her knees with her left arm while holding the paper with her right.
I hugged my legs tighter as I watched their calves pace back and forth, their steps getting faster and crazier with each breath I took.
Desperation. On the part of the robbers and little Hannah.
Two of the men wore brown work boots, like Daddy’s, the other man wore white sneakers with dark blue squiggles, his laces coming untied like mine always do.
That paragraph was brilliant. Kids make associations, bringing logic to unfamiliar things by likening them to objects and experiences in their own world. But the accuracy made sense knowing that Hannah, the writer, had been the child staring out from under the desk, her mother locked in a vault unable to soothe the frightened little girl.
She skipped ahead through the next two paragraphs.
But maybe he’s afraid. Like me. Or maybe he doesn’t know it’s okay to play with other people. His mommy should tell him that. And maybe she should tell him it’s not nice to scare people too. I bet he’d listen. He seems to be a good listener. Like me.
That part always made her pause, amazed at the empathy a child could show toward someone responsible for her fear. The empathy the adult could still recall thirty-five years later.
She yawned and rubbed at the heaviness in her eyelids, sleep finally starting to take its hold.
I smacked my hand over my mouth to stop from getting excited. Help was coming. Mommy and all the other people would be okay.
The words became blurry on the page as she tried to keep reading, but it was no use. Laying the paper against her chest, she curled into the cushion and closed her eyes.