Sure enough, Sandy, or Sandra as she’s now known, isn’t that hard to track down. After just a few minutes on Burke’s mom’s Facebook account, we’re able to find an old photo of Terry and Sandy. Sandy’s name is grayed out, indicating she’s deleted her account, but her last name is still there—Willis. A bit of surfing later and we’ve found her.
Two days later, we’re in the city, standing in front of a row of suburban townhouses that curves around a cul-de-sac, the kind that look like they were built in the eighties and never changed since. Every single one looks the same: like a shoebox standing on end, with a triangle sliced off the upper edge, dark smoky windows, a covered entryway notched into the side.
“You should go first,” says Sarah as we stand uncertainly at the end of the little walkway. “You’ve got the connection.”
It was Sarah’s idea to hunt down Terry O’Donnell’s ex-girlfriend Sandy, to see if she believes that he kidnapped Layla, and whether she might have some insight into what happened to turn him into a kidnapper. To find out more about what she remembers from the time that Sibby was taken.
I reluctantly cross the front yard, stepping on the round concrete pads that are set into it like lily pads, and walk up two steps to the front doorway. There’s a Christmas wreath on the door, even though it’s almost February. It’s one of the overtly religious ones, with a cross attached to the ribbon.
As I press the doorbell, it occurs to me that I’ve never been in front of a mystery like this one. I’ve always been hidden behind the shadow of my microphone, orchestrating other people as they make inquiries. My heart beats extremely fast as I wait for someone to answer, telling me that I’m not cut out for this.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” I say, turning to leave.
“You only just rang it,” says Sarah. She reaches around me and raps loudly on the glass window in the upper edge of the door, then steps back behind me again, shoving her mittens into her pockets.
A few seconds go by and nothing happens.
“Seriously, Sarah,” I say. “I don’t think this—”
The door opens inward all of a sudden, and I jump slightly.
“You look surprised,” says the woman behind the door. “Didn’t you just knock?”
I nod. “Yes, sorry,” I say. “I just didn’t think there was anyone home.”
“Well, here I am,” she says. “Can I help you?”
The woman is nothing like the Sandy I remember, who was trim and pretty, dressed in form-fitting T-shirts and cool jeans, occasionally dresses. Her hair was cut just above the shoulder with a slight wave in it.
This woman is much more conservatively dressed, with a thick cable-knit sweater over a long, floor-length skirt. Her hair is cut into a sensible bob, and she’s not wearing any makeup. Around her neck is a thin gold chain with a cross on it. But I can tell right away that it’s her. The big blue eyes staring at me as she waits for me to speak, bring me back a decade, to when I was just a little girl, and she was the most glamorous person I’d ever met.
“You probably don’t remember me,” I say. “I’m Dee—Delia Skinner. I was—am—friends with Burke O’Donnell. You used to go out with his uncle Terry.”
Her face goes pale, and she puts a hand to her throat. Her mouth opens slightly, and she stares at me, blinking slowly.
“My goodness,” she says finally. “You’ve grown up, Delia.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s true,” I say. I turn to Sarah. “Um, this is my friend Sarah.”
Sarah holds up a hand and gives a little wave, and Sandy nods slightly, acknowledging. We stand there for a moment, and I don’t know what to say next, when Sandy manages to choke out a little laugh.
“Come in, girls,” she says. “It’s cold outside.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
We follow her into a small entryway, beige tiles and a boot mat underneath a small round mirror that’s hung between two religious cross-stitches.
“Let me take your coats,” she says, and we dutifully pull them off and hand them to her so she can hang them over the back of a chair. We kick off our boots and follow her into her house. The tile in the threshold makes way for a thick beige carpet that seems to run throughout the house, up the stairs, into the dining area, and beyond, to the small living room, divided from the little kitchenette by a shelf full of knickknacks.
“Come in,” she says, leading us to the living room. “Have a seat. Can I offer you anything? I have herbal tea. No coffee, I’m afraid. I avoid anything caffeinated.”
“I’d take a glass of water, please,” I say.
She glances at Sarah, who nods. “That’d be great, thanks.”
She moves off into the kitchen, and we perch on the edge of the sofa. It’s deep, with a feminine curve of carved wood along the back, and a pattern of pale blue stripes and yellow roses.
As we hear the cupboard opening and water running, I look around the room. A bookcase in the corner is mostly stocked with small ceramic angels, but one shelf is lined with neatly arranged books. A Bible, some religious self-help texts. No novels or anything really interesting to be seen. There doesn’t seem to be a TV of any kind.
A wooden cross is hung prominently on one of the soft pink walls, surrounded by a small collection of neatly framed prints, mostly religious scenes and Bible quotes written in calligraphy.
Super religious, mouths Sarah.
“No kidding,” I whisper back as Sandy returns to the living room with two tumblers of ice water.
“Thanks,” we echo, as she hands them to us and sits, smiling and once again unruffled, in a prim armchair on the other side of the room.
“So,” she says. “What brings you here today?”
I take a sip of water and clear my throat. I don’t know what to say, and I realize now that I should have planned it out better.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard about Terry,” I say.
She nods gravely. “Yes. I did read about it in the newspaper.”
“You still read the paper?” asks Sarah, genuinely surprised. “Not the internet?”
Sandy smiles and points toward a table in the corner of the room, where there is indeed a newspaper folded crisply underneath a flowered china lamp.
“I prefer to read my news the old-fashioned way,” she says. “As a matter of fact, I don’t have access to the internet. I don’t even own a computer, to tell you the truth.”
Sarah’s mouth drops open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Sandy laughs lightly, then her face hardens and she stares across at us with a fresh intensity that makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. “The internet is a Godless place. A modern-day Tower of Babel. There are many young people being led astray by the notions they find online. I won’t be part of it.”
“Notions,” echoes Sarah.
Sandy nods once, then casts a judgmental gaze back and forth between us. “It isn’t my place to make assumptions, but there are many ways for a soul to be led astray.”
It’s obvious what assumption she’s talking about. Neither of us say anything, and I’m keenly aware of Sarah’s hand on the sofa just a few inches from mine. I want to grab it, to pull her closer to me, but I know that it would only serve to have us kicked out of this strange woman’s house, and I need to hear what she might have to say.
“But you have read about Terry O’Donnell in the paper?” I ask, bringing the subject back around.
“Yes,” she says. “Yesterday was the first I heard about any of it: the kidnapping, the charges against Terrance. A terrible business.”
She sounds like an old lady, although she can’t be older than thirty-five, thirty-six.
“It’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?” I ask. “That the girl was taken from my old house? Almost exactly ten years after Sibby disappeared?”
“Is that why you’re here?” she asks. “To ask if Terrance had anything to do with the disappearance of Sibyl Carmichael?”
“You knew him better than anyone,” I say.
She laughs. “Terry and I weren’t together long,” she says. “He was a road bump. One of many, I regret to say.” She leans forward and clasps her hands together, her elbows on her lap. Her voice takes on a pious quality. “Girls, I don’t want to sound judgmental, because I was there. I was an impressionable young woman, easily caught up in a life of cheap promises. I’ve since learned that there is an easy path to happiness, but it isn’t the one I thought I was on. The only true way is to follow the Lord and trust in his goodness.”
“You still haven’t answered our question,” I say. “Do you think Terry could have had anything to do with this girl’s disappearance?”
She sighs, throws her hands up. “I honestly don’t know. Like I said, I barely knew him when we were together. I haven’t spoken to him since we split up, shortly after that awful situation. We went our separate ways. But I will tell you that he had nothing to do with the disappearance of Sibyl Carmichael. Nothing at all. I was with him that day, along with Burke and Mara and Alicia. We’d gone to a movie. As far as this new girl, I know nothing about it.”
She stops talking and bows her head to stare at her hands, as if squeezing in a quick prayer.
“I don’t know what happened to Terry after that summer, girls,” she says. “When you’re my age, you’ll better understand the paradox of time. A decade goes by in the blink of an eye, but when you look back across it, it feels like a million years. Somehow, both things are true.” She turns back to look at us. “I always knew Terry needed guidance. He was a gambler, into drugs and bad characters and unsavory places. I was naive enough to think I was the one to guide him, but of course that never works out like you hope. It turns out I needed as much guidance as he did, and I’m happy to say that I found it in my savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. I can only assume that Terrance allowed his soul to be led down the wrong path until he reached the point of no return. I can’t judge him for sinning, as I’m a sinner myself. There but for the grace of God go I.”
“Do you remember anything from that summer?” I ask her. “Anything weird that might stand out?”
“Not really,” she says. “I’ve obviously thought about it a lot over the years, racked my brain to see if there was anything I might have missed that could have helped. I’m sure everyone in that neighborhood did the same thing. But nothing ever comes up. I barely knew Terry’s family, let alone you neighbor kids.”
“So what do you think happened?” I ask.
She gives me an astonished look. “How on earth would I ever know what happened?”
“Everyone has a theory,” I counter.
She turns away and stares at the wall again, her lips pursed, as she thinks it over.
“I can’t for the life of me imagine why someone would take a child,” she says. “I suppose if I had to guess, I’d say some hunters just came across you and Sibyl, and the devil took control of them.”
Sarah lets out a burst of incredulous laughter. “Are you serious? You think the devil was responsible?”
Sandy gives her an agitated look. “I don’t know what to believe,” she snaps. “I wasn’t there.” She gets up from her chair and walks to the cross on the wall. Clasping her hands in front her, she stands and gazes at it.
“Maybe it was the exact opposite,” she says without turning to look at us. “Maybe she was taken into a home of faith. Maybe God decided she deserved a chance at blessed salvation.”
I exchange a look with Sarah. Her eyes are wide as she mouths, What the fuck? I know we’re both thinking the same thing. We stand at the same time.
“We should leave,” I say. “We have to get back to Redfields before dark.”
Sandy turns to us, her religious reverie broken. “I have to ask: Why are you digging this up again now?”
I’m ready with an answer. “It’s been ten years,” I say. “It’s been on my mind lately, and I need to ask questions now, so I can stop thinking about it as much in the future.”
She nods as if my answer makes perfect sense. “I’ll be praying that the poor girl is found,” she says. “Just as I pray for Sibyl Carmichael, every single day.”
We’re at the door when she reaches out and grabs me. I look down at her hand, clasped tight around my wrist, and I freeze. I allow my gaze to lift to her face and find her staring intently at me, almost furiously.
“I hope you know I’ll be praying for you too,” she says.
Back in the car, I lean forward and put my face in my hands.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asks, reaching over to put her hand on my back.
I sit up and exhale sharply. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
She leans across the seat and kisses me on the cheek. “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“I do though,” I say. I reach down and take her hand. “Sibby has been gone for ten years, and everything I’ve ever learned about missing people is that the longer they’re gone, the greater the chance that they never come back, and when it’s been this long, the percentage is even steeper. I have to ask myself, what’s the point? Why am I doing this?”
She nods sympathetically, and I slap my hand on the dash and let out a small scream of frustration.
“It’s just too much,” I say. “I get crank emails all the time. It comes with the territory. It makes sense that memories of Sibby are bubbling up, and people are looking for ways to stay involved, especially now that it looks as if Layla’s gone forever. If it hadn’t been for my own connection, I wouldn’t have given this email another thought.”
“You have to cut yourself some slack, Dee,” she says. “This would be too much for anyone to deal with.”
“I just want to be free of it,” I say. “I need to just accept that I’m never going to find out what happened to Sibby. It’s time to move past it and focus on what I can do.”
“Like the podcast,” she says.
I nod. “This Houston case we’ve been profiling is turning into something. I can feel it. That’s something I can work on.”
“Then you should do that,” she says. She reaches over and runs her hand through my hair. “You should be proud. You’ve done amazing things.”
“I helped make amazing things happen,” I correct her. “And that’s enough for now. I don’t need to do more. I want to live my life like a normal person, without this huge tragedy hanging over me for the rest of my life.” I turn to look at her. “I want the podcast to move forward because it’s helping, not because I need it to help me. I want to go to the winter dance with my girlfriend, and be normal for a change.”
“Don’t be too normal,” she says.
I smile at her. “I promise. I’ll be just as normal as I need to be, and we’ll leave it at that.”
“That sounds perfect,” she says.