Some Choose Darkness
Page 26
The long road came to a T, where Rory turned left. A moment later, the farmhouse appeared before her. She hadn’t been here in some time. Aunt Greta had moved to the nursing home several years before, and until today, Rory never had reason to return. As soon as she saw the old farmhouse, though, with its blue painted cedar and wraparound porch, she realized how much she missed it. Her memories transported her to the summers she spent there as a child.
With her mind flooded by flashbacks, Rory turned up the gravel driveway. She parked at the front, where the gravel ended and the never-ending expanse of grass began. A moment passed as she waited for anyone to appear from inside. She wasn’t sure how she would proceed if the new owners were home. But what she needed to do could not wait. The pull in her chest was too strong to ignore. After a few minutes, the farmhouse stayed still and quiet in the fading light of dusk, silhouetted by the lavender horizon. Rory looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Even during the long ride out to the country, she kept her thick plastic glasses on her face, and the beanie cap slung low on her forehead. She reached up and pulled them off. Today, of all times, she couldn’t hide. Didn’t want to hide. Didn’t need to.
She dropped her hat and glasses on the passenger seat, and picked up the other item that had made the trip with her. She opened the door and climbed out into the evening. She walked to the side of the farmhouse and into the backyard. The rear porch was to her left, and she remembered in vivid detail the night when she was ten years old, when the buzzing in her chest had pulled her out of bed and into this field during the middle of the night. She remembered the smoky glow of the moon and the far-off thunderstorm that ignited the horizon with intermittent pulses of lightning. Tonight the fading sun burned lilac on the horizon, the sky above a dark cobalt.
Rory found the low, two-tiered stable fence that ran the length of the property. She followed it again now, the same way she had the night the amazing calm had come over her. Nearly thirty years later and Rory finally understood the meaning of that night. The lure in her chest, the magnetism that had pulled her, and the sense of peace that had washed over her when she had lifted that rose and had inhaled the sweetness of its scent.
Rory followed the fence to the back edge of the property, where it turned at a ninety-degree angle and ran off to her left. Once she arrived at the corner of the prairie, Rory looked down at the ground. The only other time in her life when she stood in this spot, she had found the flowers she always watched Aunt Greta pick from the garden. The ones she helped bundle.
The conspiracy theorists could have their chat rooms and threads. They could keep their wild and uneducated ideas about Angela Mitchell and where she was today. None would ever know the truth. None would ever find her. Angela hadn’t wanted to be found forty years ago, and she didn’t want to be found today. Rory lifted the item she had carried with her from the car—a bouquet of roses tied in a tight bundle. She placed them to her nose, closed her eyes, and took in their sweet scent. Then she crouched down and laid them on the ground.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A big thank you to the following people:
The entire clan at Kensington Publishing, who continue to support my novels in ways that stun me. Especially John Scognamiglio, who has fought for me more times than he lets me know.
Marlene Stringer, agent and friend, who is always two steps ahead of me.
Amy Donlea, who is the glue that holds our family together. Without you my life would be in so many scattered pieces that not even Rory Moore could put it back together.
Abby and Nolan, for being my biggest supporters, for constantly asking to read my books (you’re still not old enough), and for all the wild ideas for future novels. Keep ’em coming!
Mary Murphy, for trying so hard to have coherent conversations with me about completely incoherent ideas for a manuscript that was only half written when I started bothering you for help.
Chris Murphy, for suggestions on the final draft, and for setting me straight on Dark Lord stout. We should probably share one soon.
Rich Hills, for the idea. Although I’m sure I distorted and perverted your original suggestion.
Mike Chmelar and Jill Barnum for sharing your lawyering knowledge in order to help me spring a serial killer from jail.
Thomas Hargrove, founder and chairman of the real Murder Accountability Project, for taking my calls and explaining what you do.
And to all the readers who keep buying my books. I’m forever grateful.