It was hard to resist the attraction of a man whose first intention was to expose my secret to the world. I had to remember that, even as I felt a stirring inside I swore would never come again.

  “Enough about me,” he said as he opened the door to Aunt Bea’s diner. “Tell me about you.”

  I shrugged. “My dad was a foreign correspondent with Reuters, when he met my mother. She was with Reuters, too. So you could say, I got the bug early—or I was born with it. We lived all over Europe before Communism fell and he settled into a bureau chief’s job in Washington D.C.”

  “Is that how you ended up majoring in communications at the University of Maryland?”

  I shot him a sharp look. “You’ve done your homework on me. Yes.”

  “What attracted you to covering war? That’s a hell of a beat for anyone to cover.”

  “Is this going to end up in your article?”

  The waitress came over to our table and took our breakfast order, giving him a few moments to think about his answer.

  “I suppose it could all be fodder for the article,” he said after she left. “But right now, I just want to get to know you. Off the record.”

  I was smart enough to know that the best information could be coaxed from a source “off the record” and then thrown into their face at some point in the future. I wasn’t going to give into that, the hell with those dancing blue eyes.

  “My bosses needed somebody to cover it. I was single, so I volunteered,” I said shortly.

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m not going to open the lid on my PTSD for you to dissect here.”

  He put down his coffee mug and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  The waitress brought our plates, steaming with scrambled eggs, sausage and hash brown potatoes. I let her set them down in front of us before I spoke.

  “The truth is, Leland, I like you. I like you a lot. But I have to remember that your first motivation is to find out what makes me tick, what made me disappear, and to tell the world where I am today,” I said. “That scares the hell out of me.”

  What also scares me is the attraction I’m starting to feel toward you, the way my heart skips a beat when I look into those sad eyes... But I’m not going to tell you that. Not yet.

  “You’re not the entire focus of the article. I’m going to talk to former reporters, too.”

  “Like that New York Times reporter who got nailed for plagiarism? Or the woman who made up the twelve-year-old heroin addict? I didn’t make up my sources. That better be clear—my sources lied to me.”

  “I know. You were misled. So why do you want to break our agreement?”

  “OK, maybe I don’t exactly want to break it, but my publisher’s arrest changes a lot.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. “I promised you I’d talk to you and tell you my story. I’ll still agree to that, but you can’t work with me. We can meet at my apartment in the evenings. You can interview me there. You still can’t tell anyone where I am, though.”

  “I’ve told you I found you by Googling you. Anybody else with a little bit of knowledge and a computer can find you.”

  I lay down my fork. “In the whole time I’ve been here, the only person who came looking for me is you. One other person said I looked like somebody famous and I blew him off. Nobody else cares until you publish your article and the world suddenly knows where I am. That’s only going to happen on my terms, when I’m ready.”

  Leland looked me directly in the face. This time his eyes were filled with pain. “Nothing ever happens when we’re ready, Charisma. When we least expect it, when we least want it to, that’s when the other shoe drops—good or bad. Of all the lessons I’ve learned in this life, that’s the biggest one.”

  *****

  After breakfast, I went back to the newsroom and left a note for Addison to tell her about my interview with Hiram Warder. The former chief lived in a little subdivision at the western edge of Jubilant Falls, populated with identical brick box houses built after World War II on streets named after each state. When I pulled up, the retired fire chief was sitting on a lawn chair on his front porch, his fingers interlaced and laying across his belly. A cane leaned up against his knee. He struggled to get to his feet as I stepped from my car and onto the porch. It was painful to watch, since he didn’t look too much older than Leland.

  Why is that man still on my mind?

  “Hello, chief,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Charisma Lemarnier. We talked on the phone about the body in the creek.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” He nodded and struggled back to his chair. “Hurt my leg at a fire. Got a lot of arthritis in it, so I had to retire.” He pointed for me to sit in the other lawn chair.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said as I sat down. “Can you tell me about that day? What do you remember?”

  Warder rested both hands on the top of his cane and thoughtfully looked across the yard.

  “It was my first day as a firefighter and medic. I’ll never forget it. We got the call about six in the morning, just as the sun was coming up. I drove the squad over to the scene there at the Yarnell Road Bridge, where the body was. There were three police cruisers on scene; we had two fire trucks. I parked on the bridge itself and looked over into the creek to see what was going on.”

  “What did you see?” I didn’t look up as I began to take notes.

  “I saw the victim from the back. The body was hanging on a big branch that had fallen into the creek. We thought at first the victim was female because he had long hair, like a bunch of those kids did back then. His face was in the river and one of his arms caught in the branches. That’s what stopped him from floating further.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “He had on a tee-shirt with a peace sign on the front, but I didn’t see that till we got the body out of the river. All I could see at first was the back of the white shirt and blue trim on the collar and the edge of the sleeves. He had blue jeans on. One of his black high-top tennis shoes was missing.”

  “How long had be been in the river?” I looked up from my notebook.

  Warder shrugged. “Probably all night, from the looks of the body. He was dead when he hit the water though. I remember that.”

  “How do you know he was dead when he hit the water?”

  “If he’d still been alive when the murderer threw him in the water, he would have sucked water into his lungs. Autopsy didn’t find any.”

  “Who pulled him out of the river?”

  Hiram pointed at himself. “Couple of us waded into the river and we moved the body off the branch. I had him by the legs. Marvin McGinnis—he’s the police chief now, but he was a patrolman then—he got the victim under the shoulders and we carried this poor kid’s body up to the banks of the creek.”

  “What did you see when you laid the body on the creek bank? What kind of wounds did he have?”

  “He’d fought somebody off pretty well—his hands were all cut up and he’d taken a couple good cuts to the chest.” Warder moved his hand like he was thrusting a knife.

  “What got me, though, was the cut to that kid’s throat. He was cut from ear to ear. Before that day, I’d never seen anything like it.” Warder’s hand sank back onto his cane and his eyes looked off into the distance again.

  “No one ever came forward to identify him?”

  “Nope. Never saw the kid before or since. Nobody knew who he was and the cops never could find anything on him.”

  “There has been a lot of speculation over the years about the victim, that he was a male prostitute, or that he was a hitchhiker who got into the wrong car and got killed. What do you think?”

  Warder looked pensive. I wondered how much pain and destruction the old chief had seen throughout his career.

  “Nah, he wasn’t any of that. He wasn’t skinny, like he’d gone without meals or he was a drug addict. His clothes weren’t tattered or raggedy like some vagrant; they were in good shape. Somebody knew that kid.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “Who do you think killed him then?” I asked.

  “Someone here in Jubilant Falls killed that boy and they’ve been living with that secret for a long, long time.”

  “You’d think a secret like that would be hard to keep all these years.”

  “Not if someone else also knows your secret.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One person didn’t kill that boy. Two people did that.”

  “Two?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this and I have a theory: While he was fighting off the first person who was stabbing him in the chest, someone else came up behind him and cut his throat. I saw it, remember? That cut was too clean. Somebody with a lot of strength came up behind him and did that, then together, they dumped him into the water. And all these years, they’ve had to keep their secret.”

  I remembered the farmhouse near the creek. I’d wanted to get there Monday night, to question the folks who lived there and find out if they were around when the young man’s body hit the water. I never made it because of the fire at the inn. I wanted to get there—now.

  I stood up and shook Hiram Warder’s hand. “I appreciate your time. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Warder looked off into the distance.

  “Maybe your story will shake something loose this time. I’ve talked to reporters every couple of years about this story since it happened. What bothers me the most about the whole thing is somebody somewhere misses that boy. Somebody’s been looking for him ever since he went missing and they don’t know he’s buried here in Jubilant Falls. Maybe you’ll be the one who sends him home to his family where he belongs.”

  Chapter 16 Addison

  So I wasn’t alone in thinking Jimmy Lyle was murdered. Hearing Angela Perry voicing the same scary thoughts made me shiver as I left the newsroom.

  But what could anybody have done at the time? Jubilant Falls was in shambles, nearly wiped off the map from the tornado. Students were dead at the middle school and others, adults as well as children, were dead and wounded throughout the city. There wouldn’t have been the resources at that time to investigate a homicide. And who would have believed it, anyway? Jimmy could have been dead long before the storm hit, but no one would have been able to look for him until the storm passed. And in the days before cell phones, no one would have been able to make contact with him or warn him to take shelter, not without putting themselves in danger.

  Tightly gripping the steering wheel, I made my way through the mid-afternoon traffic as I headed out into the county, toward Eve Dahlgren’ mother’s house.

  I was familiar with the place where Eve grew up. Known as the Shanahan House, it had always been a showplace with its white-painted bricks, arched windows and columns; for many years the Dahlgren regularly opened it for holiday home tours in conjunction with the historical society.

  MacGregor Shanahan, the founder of Jubilant Falls, lived there in the early days of Ohio statehood. He was also a fast-talking con man who tried to finance and construct a canal from the creek that now bore his name to the Ohio River. Instead, he built the big brick house using backer’s money.

  Canal Lock Park contained Shanahan’s one 50-foot attempt at building the canal and had been part of his original farm.

  When the Dahlgren family bought the place, Eve’s father, Ed, was vice president of sales at Traeburn Tractor, the forerunner of the Japanese auto parts plant. I saw his picture frequently on the business pages of the paper through high school and my young adulthood, like when Traeburn made donations to local charities, or held a golf scramble. He was a big man, with wide shoulders and a willing handshake, but I could see, even in those grainy newspaper photos, something was hiding behind his toothy grin.

  When Traeburn closed, he’d tried to find work elsewhere that sustained their lifestyle but was unsuccessful. After he committed suicide in the mid-eighties and Eve’s mother had never remarried, I made the assumption that Ed, like a lot of others in the greedy eighties, had simply lived above his means.

  I was out in the county now. I turned right and the Shanahan House came into view. A red, four-door car was parked on the road, at the end of the home’s curved driveway.

  That’s odd, I thought. Why is Charisma here? I pulled up behind her and parked. She looked into her rearview mirror and waved, a shocked look in her eyes. She stepped up to my driver’s side window.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I answered.

  “I got this address from Gary McGinnis as one of the places that deputies looked for information on that first cold case story. I was just sitting here thinking about what questions I want to ask,” she said. “You?”

  “This is where our murder victim Eve Dahlgren grew up,” I answered slowly. “Her mother still lives here.”

  Charisma’s eyes widened. “Do you think Eve or anyone here had anything to do with the creek murder?”

  I looked around. Up the long, curving drive I could see a single person slowly rocking back and forth on the porch, but distance kept me from seeing who it was. The odds of anyone hearing us were slim, but I didn’t want to risk it, nor did I want anyone to pull up on us.

  “Canal Lock Park is just up the road. Meet me in the first parking lot. I need to share something with you,” I said.

  Charisma arrived seconds after I did. I parked my car and leaned over to open the passenger door.

  “Get in,” I said, sweeping the fast-food wrappers and old newspapers from the seat to the floor.

  “Do you think these crimes are connected?” she asked, sliding into the seat and shutting the door.

  “I’m not sure,” I began. “But first, there’s something you need to know.”

  I told Charisma the whole story: tutoring Jimmy Lyle my junior year and Eve’s rage at seeing us together, the tornado, my suspicions about his death and how Angela Perry felt the same way. I finished by telling her about Angela’s stories of violence and the boarding school connection between Earlene and Eve.

  Charisma took notes as I told my tale, occasionally bouncing her pen against her chin.

  “So is Eve’s mother the only one living in that big old house?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure who else could be living there. Her father committed suicide years ago.”

  “Do you think he knew anything about what his daughter might have done?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? I never put that together.”

  “I think we ought to go back and talk to Mrs. Dahlgren.”

  “I agree, but I doubt if we get much. Her daughter is dead and she’s no doubt grieving,” I said. “This could be a tough one.”

  There was a slight tremor in the hand that held Charisma’s pencil. I wondered what was going through her head, if she was thinking about the accident that cost her parents and her husband their lives.

  “So what do you know about Mrs. Dahlgren?” she asked finally.

  “Not a lot. She used to come into the newsroom with an announcement every time Eve got a promotion or took a new job. She was wrapped up in Eve’s life for a long, long time, then for some reason, she stopped coming in.”

  “If we don’t go back there and ask, we’ll never know what happened.” She reached behind her and fastened her seat belt. “Ready when you are.”

  In a few moments, we were driving up the curving drive of Shanahan House. A little old lady sat alone on the porch, rocking slowly back and forth. She was dressed in an expensive, pink running suit with clean white athletic shoes that closed with a Velcro strap. Her trembling hands were misshapen from arthritis, but her fingernails were painted soft, glossy beige. Her hair was white, and perfectly styled. Somebody was taking good care of her. Was it Eve? What would happen now that she was dead?

  Betty Dahlgren turned to look at us as we pulled next to the wide porch and stepped from the car. Her eyes were wet and empty.

  “Hello Mrs. Dahlgren,” I said loudly. “Remember me? I’m Penny Addison, from the paper.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, reaching out to take my hand, although I doubted if she really recognized me. Up close, Mrs. Dahlgren was even more vacant and frail. I could see how detached she was from today’s world. For her sake, I hoped someone lived here with her.

  “This is one of my reporters, Charisma Lemarnier,” I said. “We wanted to talk to you about your daughter, Eve.”

  “Eve. Yes.”

  “We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dahlgren,” Charisma began.

  Confused, Mrs. Dahlgren looked at her and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Can you tell us why Eve came home to visit?” I asked.

  “Eve is a good girl. She comes home to check on me.”

  “Did she stay with you?”

  Mrs. Dahlgren nodded.

  “What kind of work did Eve do?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’s a businesswoman. A very powerful one.” Mrs. Dahlgren nodded as sagely as only a dementia patient can. She tapped her finger against her temple. “And a smart one.”

  I decided to jump in with both feet.

  “Do you remember Jimmy Lyle?”

  Mrs. Dahlgren’s elderly face froze. Charisma looked from the old woman to me, her eyebrows arched.

  “You remember Jimmy?” I asked again. “Her boyfriend in high school?”

  “Poor, poor Jimmy,” she whispered.

  “What happened to Jimmy?” I asked.

  Mrs. Dahlgren looked from Charisma to me, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Did Eve know what happened to Jimmy?” I pushed.

  Mrs. Dahlgren pulled at a small beaded chain around her neck and shook her head.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “Not Eve, no.”

  Charisma pulled a picture from the back of her notebook. It was not the photo we’d run of the stabbing victim being pulled from the creek all those years ago, but one the coroner had taken to send to police stations across the country in hopes of getting him identified. It showed the young man’s face, turned slightly to the left, eyes closed in death and his long black hair fanned out behind him on the steel autopsy table. His mouth hung open slightly and a sheet covered the slash across his throat. He didn’t look dead; he just looked like he was sleeping.