Page 27 of Sinister Secrets

“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m here.”

“I just can’t understand who would have wanted to hurt my boy.”

The tears that spill onto her cheeks make me swallow my response—that I would have. He was involved with the people who murdered my grandfather. I would have gladly maimed him a bit, played with him like a cat with a lizard, digging my claws in, releasing, letting him get his hopes of an escape up before latching on again.

And he would have deserved it. I feel no sympathy over what happened to him. But the woman before me? She had nothing to do with that so I force a kindness that’s hard to feel into my voice.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Oh, it’s been, gosh, how long, Larry? Six, seven months? It was before the wedding, I know that.”

“Almost eight,” he corrects.

Eight. Which means they haven’t seen him since he went into hiding after his real estate scheme came crashing down.

“Do you know where he was during that time?”

“Not a clue. He wasn’t answering my calls. I thought he was just busy, but then he missed calling me for my birthday, which he never forgot. When I called to check in and his voicemail was full, I knew something was wrong. That’s why I filed the missing person report.”

“Did he speak with or contact you at all during that time?”

“Twice,” she says, standing on unsteady legs and wobbling over to a dresser against the wall. Opening a drawer on the ornate wooden box that sits on the top, she removes a couple of postcards. Cradles them to her chest as she carries them over, settling back onto the couch.

“Here.” Her hand trembles as she holds them out to me.

Both are vague, containing only a few short sentences that could have been written by a stranger and not a son to his mother, but they’re both also definitely in Gordon’s distinctively pointy handwriting.

I check the dates and postcodes. The first was mailed locally mere days after I shot and killed his accomplice. The second is dated only two weeks ago—and was sent from California. If he’d made it that far away, why return now?

Why hadn’t the sheriff’s notes mentioned these? And why does she still have them when they should be in evidence? Unless Kingston hadn’t asked the right questions to know they existed.

“Do you mind if I take these?”

“What?” Her eyes go wide as she makes a grab for them. “No! They’re all I have left of him.”

“Mrs. Massey.” My gaze flits briefly to her new husband, realizing I don’t know her new surname—that wasn’t in Kingston’s notes either. Suddenly, my reason for being here feels a little less selfish. “I’d like to have our forensics department take a look at them.”

Refusing to think of how many hands the postcards had been through during the mailing and delivery process, I add, “There might be something they can tell us about where Gordon’s been. Or who hurt him. Please, Cheryl. I’d like to give it a try.”

“I guess,” she stutters, though she doesn’t look too sure.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve always been a good girl,” she says, giving my arm a pat. “You’ll find out who did this to my boy, won’t you? Bring them to justice? Make them pay for what they’ve done.”

“I promise I’ll do everything within my power to do exactly that.”

Even if my definition of making them pay and hers might be a bit different. But as she watches me leave, I see something in her eyes that makes me suspect that perhaps our definitions of justice in this circumstance aren’t that different at all.

CHAPTER 16

Gordon’s house is a small bungalow on pilings in one of the nicer neighborhoods that sit in town. A typical “stilt house” like those so common in this prone-to-flooding area, a wooden staircase begins beneath the building and leads to a small deck space before the front door. It’s on this deck that I now stand, waiting impatiently while Sheriff Kingston tries to get the key Gordon’s mother gave him to turn in the lock.

“Do you want me to try?” I offer.

“No.”

“Maybe it needs some WD-40. It’s probably been a while since it’s been used.”