He didn't watch her long. Just long enough to know she got inside. If she took anything, he needed to know. And he needed to get it.
When enough time passed, so he was sure she was inside, he climbed back out onto the lawn and walked casually away. He'd come back later when the darkness would let him slip inside. He wondered if the brick beside the back door was still loose and if he'd find the key behind it.
He did his best to stay at the outer edge of the properties he crossed. He wasn't expecting the older man clearing a section of ground large enough to be a garden. Making it bare now would make it easier to plant when the warm weather came and thawed the winter freeze to come. He pressed on a little faster when he saw him, hoping the man was lost enough in his work not to notice him. He didn't pause when he heard the man's voice. The name he called bounced off him and fell to the grass. He left it there.
Chapter Ten
I've never been one for conspiracy theories. People with their heads wrapped in aluminum foil and spouting out their views on why the various races of aliens are our clear and unquestioned superiors don't really sit well with me. But I leave Janet and Paul’s house with my own new conspiracy theory. My neighbors and the man I'm dating are conspiring to undermine my ability to unravel a murder mystery one game of Clue at a time.
It's probably not that serious. But I couldn't help but notice they put away the game when I arrived without Sam. On the other hand, I went on to dominate at The Game of Life. I'm sure there's something poetic and symbolic in that, but frankly, I'm too stuffed full of cinnamon rolls and Janet's walnut brownies to be terribly philosophical at this moment. The evening hasn't quite slipped into full-on darkness when I cross the street back toward my house. It's that brief time of day when the air looks blue and soft, almost like you could gather a handful of it.
I haven't heard from Sam yet. But I told him I would be waiting for him no matter what the time, so I plan on taking up real estate on the couch and tuning in to whatever true crime show happens to be on. He tells me he hates when I watch those shows. I'm on a break; he reminds me. I'm supposed to be giving my mind a break and recovering. It's not good for me. But I love them. I love the puzzle, the rush of watching the criminals fall. Sometimes I get the silly thrill of seeing a case I worked on, or watch Eric or Bellamy do an interview about one of their cases. I can only imagine this is something like what football fans feel when they're watching a game. Maybe I need a jersey to wear while I cheer on the home team. My black FBI t-shirt just doesn't really cut it.
Depending on how long it takes Sam to get here, I might be able to indulge in a few episodes before he gets there to scold me. Unless it's a show that catches his attention. He doesn't think I've noticed him watching at the same time he's telling me I shouldn't be. It would be adorable if it wasn't aggravating. It might still be a little adorable.
Before I open the door, I notice a thick manila envelope sitting on my porch. It was either delivered after I left for game night, or I just didn't notice it in my rush to get inside this afternoon. Scooping it up, I carry it inside and toss it onto the coffee table before heading into my bedroom. Freshly showered and changed into one of those delightful outfits that can double as casual clothes and pajamas, I walk back into the living room through long shadows coming into the windows. The cinnamon rolls are still with me, but a steaming cup of coffee will see me through however long I need to wait for Sam.
I curl up on the couch and stare at the envelope sitting on the table, waiting for me. Bellamy's smooth, swirling handwriting across the front confirms these are the papers she redirected to me after they arrived at my house. I know what they are without even having to open the outer envelope. It's why I haven't picked it up yet.
It’s not that I don’t want to know what's inside. After all, I'm the one who requested the documents and other records when I was in Iowa. There are things in there I need to know. But that's just the thing. I don't know them. Right now, I'm in a bit of a standoff. Right now, those papers could say anything. They could be whatever I want them to be. As soon as I open that envelope, I’ll know. I’ll know the secrets those papers hold, and I will never be able to return to the time when I didn't know them.
It would be easier if the envelope was thin. If it was just a couple of pieces of paper or a letter saying the Department of Vital Statistics hasn't been able to find anything, I would be in the same place I've been in. It would be frustrating, but no more frustrating than every other day that passes when I don't know something more about what happened to my mother, or where my father went the day he disappeared. But the envelope is thick and heavy. I can't genuinely hope Bellamy wrapped the original in bubble wrap before chucking it into her own envelope and addressing it to me. It means the search into the records came up with more than I ever could have imagined.
As soon as I open it, everything will change.
I drain half my coffee before feeling steady enough to pick up the envelope. Not giving myself time to hesitate anymore, I tear the flap open and let the inner envelope slide out. The handwriting with my address is shaky, but the Iowa return address is in a blue stamp positioned at a slight angle, like it was done hastily. Tearing it open, I pull out the stack of papers and set the envelope aside.
The first document on the stack makes my breath catch in my throat. It doesn't loosen as I flip through more. I'm halfway through the stack when I get up from the couch and go back into my bedroom for my phone. It rings three times before a muffled voice answers.
"'lo?"
"Are you eating?" I ask.
A gulping sound follows a brief pause.
"Egg salad on rye," Eric says.
"That sounds like an elegant dinner," I comment.
"Nothing but luxury for me. Tonight, it's fine dining at an exclusive little spot called my desk."
"Hard to get a reservation there?"
"Unfortunately, not particularly. I've been a regular customer pretty much non-stop for the last couple of weeks. But I'm willing to take an intermission for you. What's up?" he asks.
"I need you to look into a few things for me," I tell him.
"It's never a good thing when you say that."
"Just listen. I got the papers from Iowa."
"Anything interesting?" he asks.
I take a breath. "You could say that. Turns out, that's where my father was born. And I think I lived there for a while."
"Oh," Eric says.
He makes a few sounds like he's hoping they'll eventually bring themselves together into cohesive words. When they don't, I cut back in.
"There are some newspaper clippings and a few other things. I'm going to send them to you. Can you do your magic for me?" I ask.
"What am I looking for?"
"Anything. Whatever you can find that has anything to do with… anything."
"Thank you for narrowing that down for me," Eric says through another bite of sandwich.
"I'm sorry. I don't have much more than that to go on. But we've been trying to figure out why that hotel registration card pointed to Iowa. Now we know. Maybe this is how we find Ron Murdock."
"It's worth a shot," he says. "You know I'm in. Whatever you need, you've got. Give me just a few days."
“Thanks, I appreciate …”
My voice trails off.