Chapter 2 - The Yellow Flowers
“Where did you find that?”
My voice sounded distant.
Detective Ortiz kept the photograph between us.
“You recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A kitchen towel.”
Harris frowned.
“You're certain?”
“My mother owned a whole set.”
I could practically see our old kitchen.
The wooden table.
The refrigerator covered with magnets.
Those stupid yellow flowers.
Ortiz noticed my hand move unconsciously toward my side.
“What happened twelve years ago, Mara?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I opened the door.
“Come inside.”
For the next forty minutes, I told two strangers more about my childhood than I'd told anyone in twelve years.
When I finished, neither detective rushed to fill the silence.
Harris finally asked, “Was your brother arrested?”
“No.”
“Was there a police report?”
“No.”
“Hospital?”
“No.”
“My parents wouldn't allow it.”
Ortiz looked toward my three locks.
“Did Caleb ever contact you after you left?”
“Never.”
“Until now?”
I showed her the messages.
Her expression sharpened.
“May I photograph these?”
“Yes.”
Then Harris asked, “Did your parents contact you recently?”
I laughed without humor.
“They found me yesterday.”
Both detectives became still.
“What did they want?”
I told them.
Every word.
Especially the request for an alibi.
Harris stopped writing.
“They specifically told you to say Caleb was with you Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“And he wasn't?”
“I haven't seen him since I was fifteen.”
That changed everything.
Two hours later, I was sitting in an interview room at police headquarters.
They showed me a photograph of Elise Porter.
Thirty-one.
Elementary school teacher.
Dark hair.
Warm brown eyes.
A smile that made her look like someone children trusted instantly.
“She failed to arrive at work Wednesday,” Ortiz explained.
“Her sister reported her missing.”
“Her car?”
“At home.”
“Phone?”
“Missing.”
“Caleb?”
“They'd been dating approximately eight months.”
“Were they still together?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“Elise ended the relationship last week.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Why?”
“We're investigating that.”
I understood what that meant.
They weren't ready to tell me.
Harris placed another photograph down.
Caleb's truck.
There was a dark stain near the passenger seat.
“We're awaiting laboratory results.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is that Elise's blood?”
“We don't know yet.”
“And the towel?”
“Recovered behind the driver's seat.”
I stared at the yellow flowers.
Something didn't make sense.
“Why would Caleb have one of my mother's towels?”
“That's what we're trying to determine.”
Then a thought hit me.
“My parents said there was evidence in his truck.”
Harris nodded.
“They knew before you searched it.”
“Yes.”
“Which means Caleb showed them.”
Neither detective spoke.
“Or they helped him clean it.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because that's what they do.”
I thought of Dad scrubbing our carpet.
“They clean up after Caleb.”
When I returned home that evening, my porch light was off.
I always left it on.
I stopped beside my car.
Something felt wrong.
I called Ortiz before approaching.
Police arrived.
My front-door lock had been forced.
Someone had searched my apartment.
Nothing valuable was taken.
My television remained.
Jewelry remained.
Cash remained.
But a cardboard box in my bedroom closet was missing.
“What was inside?” Ortiz asked.
“Things from when I left home.”
“What things?”
“A notebook. A photograph of my grandmother.”
I stopped.
“And my old laptop.”
“The laptop Caleb attacked you over?”
“Yes.”
Ortiz's eyes sharpened.
“Why would someone want it twelve years later?”
“I don't know.”
Then I remembered.
I sat down.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“I used to record him.”
“Caleb?”
“Arguments. Screaming. Sometimes I left the laptop recording because nobody believed me.”
“Would those recordings still be there?”
“I don't know.”
But somebody believed they might.
An officer called from outside.
A note had been found beneath the windshield wiper of a gray sedan across the street.
Ortiz unfolded it carefully.
Three words.
ASK MOM FIRST.
Below them was my parents' address.
Then a time.
11:30 P.M.
I recognized the handwriting.
Caleb's.
The message wasn't an invitation.
It was a warning.
And for the first time, I wondered whether the secret Caleb feared most wasn't what he'd done to Elise.
May you like
Maybe it was what he'd done long before she disappeared.
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