“Please,” Peter said. “I sense he feels the same way.”
Without the pressure of the case over them, they talked easily for two hours. It was what they had hoped to achieve in Summit Lake but never were able to. Now, sipping the last of the wine long after the table was cleared, they talked until they were the only ones left in the restaurant. Finally noticing the waitress waiting in the corner, Peter paid the bill and they walked to the lobby elevator. A big day awaited tomorrow.
As the elevator doors closed, Peter pressed the button for the fifth floor. “Where are you again?” he asked.
Kelsey smiled. “Same.”
The next morning they had breakfast at a diner down the street and were back on the road by 9:00 a.m. It was approaching 10:00 a.m. when they reached the Greensboro suburbs and pulled to the large house with a manicured lawn. Tall trees in the front yard did not sprout branches until they were far above the roof, like southern pillars of protection.
Kelsey sat with the manila envelope on her lap and stared at the intimidating front door. Peter rubbed her knee as she took deep breaths. Finally, she climbed from the car and walked up the steps. Rang the bell.
A petite, middle-aged woman answered the door.
“Mrs. Eckersley?” Kelsey asked.
“Yes.” The woman wore a serious expression. “I’m Mary Eckersley.”
“My name’s Kelsey Castle. I’m from Events magazine.”
There was a moment of silence between them.
Mary Eckersley finally said, “I know who you are.”
“Sorry to show up unannounced, but I wanted to see you before my article runs.”
“And when will that be?”
“Two weeks.”
“We’re not going to give you any statements for the article.”
“I understand. But that’s not why I came.”
Mrs. Eckersley waited.
“I wanted you and your husband to know that this case . . . this thing, horrible thing, that happened to your daughter has touched me in a way that no other story has. I know this will sound intrusive, but I feel connected in some small way to her. And it’s important for you to know everything I wrote was with Becca in mind. With what she went through on the forefront of my thoughts as I wrote about her life and . . . her death.”
Kelsey had a prepared speech. Two full paragraphs she had written and rewritten. Spoken aloud in the bathroom mirror and committed to memory. It covered her own struggle with having been raped. Her questions about life and death, and why one person lives through such a horrible event while another dies. It was beautiful and poignant, meant to disarm the Eckersleys and bring them safely onto her side. It was sincere, too. Meant to show that there was nothing vindictive in what Kelsey had written. But when she saw William Eckersley walk up behind his wife, the entire speech leaked from her mind leaving a giant black void that prevented thought. Kelsey smiled at him awkwardly. No introductions were needed.
“Anyway,” Kelsey finally said. “I came here to give you this.”
She handed Becca’s mother a manila envelope. “I think Becca would want you to have it.”
Kelsey slowly backed away from the front door, finally turning and walking down the steps. As Peter backed down the long driveway, Kelsey watched Mr. and Mrs. Eckersley handle the envelope, turn it over for any clues about what might be inside. Finally, they opened it and pulled out Becca’s journal and the letter she wrote to her daughter.
Kelsey caught Mrs. Eckersley’s eyes as she looked up from the journal. Peter shifted the car into drive and they pulled away.
CHAPTER 51
Kelsey Castle
Miami, FL
May 11, 2012
Three months after Becca’s death
The morning sky was patchy with clouds as Kelsey left her house. She wore an Under Armor tank top and shorts. Tight ankle socks were invisible under her green running shoes. Jogging along the beach for a mile, she smelled the salty air as her body glistened from the humidity. It took ten minutes until she came to her old turnoff, which she followed for another quarter mile to the edge of the forest. Her heart was racing. The mile run responsible for some of it, anxiety doing the rest.
Staring into the forest, the path was shadowed and poked with sunlight trickling through the foliage. There were no other runners or bikers present. The thought of turning around crossed her mind, of taking the beach path back home. It would be a sufficient two-and-a-half-mile run, but would completely defeat the purpose of this morning. It had been months since she ran this trail. Four long months since she was last here, showing the police where it happened and how it happened. A lifetime since this journey began. And finally, with Becca’s article debuting today, Kelsey was ready to end this chapter of her life. Type the last sentence and ship it off.
She felt a few raindrops splash her shoulders, then looked up to the sky. It was a mix of distant sun and overhead clouds. The rain grew heavier. She put in her earphones and took off along the shaded forest path, the thick foliage protecting her from the drizzle after a few strides. Seven minutes in, she passed The Spot. She refused to look into the woods. Refused to let her mind run wild. Instead, she ran right past. Her long, muscular legs propelling her beyond this part of the forest and her life, one foot in front of the other, until The Spot was far behind her.
Two miles went by before she saw the exit up ahead, a curved doorway out of the forest. It was bright and alluring. Calling her. She picked up her pace, lifted her knees in a high runner’s gait, touching the path with just the balls of her feet. Her arms swung in a tight, controlled motion as sweat rolled down her wrists and across her open palms and flew from her fingertips. As Kelsey grew closer to the forest exit she saw the pavement outside was covered in sunlight, reflecting off the puddles that had formed. Highlighting the dripping trees.
A sunny rainstorm.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Charlie Donlea
Lyrics to “She Don’t Like Roses” used by permission of Christine Kane.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015951104
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0098-8
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: February 2016
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0099-5
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0099-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: February 2016
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