He felt an unbidden pang that stupidly still lingered.
Less than five minutes later, his mother called.
“Don’t tell me,” she said when he answered. “You’re back on the McIntyre thing, aren’t you?”
“Hi to you, too, Mom.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” she said, and launched right in again. “Damn it, Wesley, can’t you let it go?” she said, her fury emanating over the wireless connection.
She knew he couldn’t. They’d had this discussion over and over again.
“I saw on the news that Jonas McIntyre’s out of prison and that lawyer who got him out? Merritt Margrove? He was killed. It’s everywhere. Newspaper, radio, television, even my damned Facebook feed!” She let out a long sigh. “I’ve had a reporter call me this morning. That Sheila Keegan woman. Pushy thing. And she’s just the first. They’ll be lining up, I know they will. There’s already been some kind of rally about Jonas McIntyre. And they’re gonna dig this all up again. And you . . . you’re right in there with the rest of them.”
“It’s my job, Mom.”
“No, Wesley, it’s your obsession!” She paused and then more calmly said, “You need to let it go. What’s done is done. I’m not crazy about the fact that Jonas McIntyre is out of prison, you know I’m not, and I feel bad that another man died—was killed—but it’s in all God’s hands now.”
“Merritt Margrove was murdered. I don’t think God had anything to do with it.” Tate started the engine and cranked up the heat in the defroster as the windows had begun to fog.
“But that’s not what this is about,” his mother reminded him. “Haven’t you spent enough time on this? Give it up, son.”
“I’ve got a new angle,” he said, glancing away from his phone and watching through the condensation as two deputies walked out a side door and climbed into a department-issue SUV.
“Look, if I can leave the past behind where it belongs, you can.”
“I can’t.” And that was the God’s honest truth. The tragedy had been haunting him for almost half his life.
“You’re as stubborn as your father was. He wouldn’t listen to me either.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t you think this whole thing has done enough damage to our family? And it’s been so long. It doesn’t matter if Jonas McIntyre is out of prison or not, you need to find a life beyond it.”
“So you’ve said, Mom.”
“Okay, okay. Now, there’s something else.”
He braced himself.
“Dinner rolls and appetizers.”
“What?”
“That’s what you’re bringing to Christmas dinner.”
“Wait a minute—”
“Christmas is this weekend, Wesley, and we’re celebrating. As I said, we all need to get on with our lives and Our Lord’s birthday is the perfect time. See you then. Love you, Wesley.”
“Me too, Mom,” he said by rote, but she’d already cut the connection. He leaned back in the car seat and replayed the conversation in his mind. It wasn’t that she wasn’t right. But he couldn’t let it go. Researching and writing the book wasn’t only cathartic, it would provide answers to questions that had been gnawing at him for two decades.
And being close to Kara McIntyre would help.
*
“You think your missing sister is calling and texting you?” Johnson asked Kara, obviously skeptical. They were still standing in the hallway outside the interview room, the two officers staring intently at her.
“No, I don’t think it’s her. I mean . . . no. Why would she say ‘she’s alive’ if Marlie’s calling to tell me she was okay? Wouldn’t she say, ‘I’m alive’？”
“Maybe to hide her identity,” Thomas said as a stern-looking fiftysomething deputy striding in the opposite direction squared his hat over his head as he passed. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and they all shifted to one side of the wide corridor.
“Okay, I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Kara admitted. “But I can’t help but feel that . . .” She let her voice trail off.
“That what?” Johnson prompted.
Kara shook her head and felt the stitches in her head pinch a bit. “I want to believe Marlie’s alive.” There, she’d said it, admitting to the police what was really in her heart, the fantasy she’d held on to for two decades.