The Charger rumbled down the driveway. The car’s cabby bounced on the rough gravel. Angela faced the cabin. She put the car in park but kept it running. Frank’s Jeep pulled in behind her. She eyed him in the rearview.
He stayed in the car and let his Jeep run, pumping foggy gas from his rattling exhaust pipe. He shut off his car when Angela did. After talking a breath to calm herself, Angela opened up the glove box and pulled out the small black box. Inside was the key to the cabin. It was cold, unassuming, and unlocked the darkest caverns of her past.
She got out of the car and touched her heelless black boot on the snow-covered gravel. She stood up and nodded at Frank. He exited the Jeep and put on some thin winter gloves. He brushed aside his chestnut-colored hair. Snow clung to his scruffy beard. He walked a few feet from his Jeep and suddenly stopped. His eyes went wide. He patted down his chest, feeling for something. He unzipped the top portion of the coat and removed a shiny flask. He hiked back to the Jeep, opened the door, and tossed it inside.
Angela glared at him as he approached.
Frank smiled. “You said no drinking. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea, so I left it in the car.”
“How noble,” Angela replied sarcastically.
“Iris thought I was noble,” Frank replied.
And look where she ended up. Angela held her tongue. The topic was touchy for Frank. “Come on.”
Snow and gravel crunched beneath the investigators’ feet. They had about two hours until sundown. Angela spotted a few deer tracks running horizontally across the driveway. At least the place wasn’t completely dead.
“This is it, huh?” Frank said, craning his face up to the roof and looking mildly impressed. “Who owns it now?”
“I do,” Angela replied.
“Wow,” Frank said, genuinely surprised. “Which one of your parents was the breadwinner? It was your mom, wasn’t it? Yeah, you seem like the type that came from a long line of strong women.”
Angela stopped halfway up the short flight of porch stairs. Her hand clenched the railing. She twisted back to him, an annoyed look on her face. “We can talk after. Okay?”
Frank kept his mouth shut.
Angela reached the top of the small porch and felt lightheaded. Her chest tightened. With the key in hand, she approached the lock, unsure what she’d find inside. The wind howled and sent the tail of Angela’s scarf billowing behind her. She pulled it up to cover her mouth and red nose. The key slid into the lock. Hands trembling, she twisted it. Click. She grabbed the knob and gave it a twist, reminding herself that twenty-eight years had passed and there was nothing to be afraid of. Still, there was something inside that held her back from pushing open the door. She felt Frank’s eyes on her back. He pitied her, most like. She wasn’t going to be a victim. Not again. Holding her breath, she pushed open the door. It creaked, but then the wind took it, slamming it against the inner wall. Dusty snow blew inside.
The place was dark and gloomy. Plastic sheeting covered the couch, recliner, and other furnishings. Snow rushed by her feet and into the dark room of her past. She stepped inside and felt a shiver climb up her spine. It’s just a building, she reminded herself. All of the paintings, the guitar, and other decor had been removed from the walls long ago and was currently stored in her adoptive father’s basement. All that remained in the cabin were the big, useless things that Angela would’ve been better off selling.
Angela walked to the place where the Christmas tree once stood. The floor had scratches on it from the special metal feet of the tree stand. Near the coffee table were dark stains on hardwood. For a second, Angela saw her parents’ bodies. Their blood stained the hardwood, though you won’t know it unless you were aware of the tragic events that had transpired.
Frank followed her inside and shut the door. His breath misted in the cold, dry place. He didn’t say anything as he started to pace around the room.
Angela didn’t know what she was looking for. She moved through the living room, remembering happy days of when her father would read to her while she lay on the couch or when her mother practiced her ballet dancing. It dawned on Angela that she hadn’t danced since the murder. She wondered if that disappointed her mother. Kelly was a stay-at-home mom, but that didn’t mean her day was easy. Angela could be quite the hell raiser, especially if she ate too much sugar. While Angela’s father, Thomas, was clacking away at his next novel or legal case, it was her mother keeping the house in order, paying the bills, washing the dishes, cleaning, and gardening. Angela cracked a smile, remembering how her mother used to tease her father about his silky-smooth hands. Thomas would get so angry, he would chase her around the house, pick her up, and kiss her. Angela wondered if she let Thomas down, too. He wanted her to find a good man to settle down with. The closest Angela ever got to that was Brad from law school, and that was a disaster.
Angela brushed her hand against the bloodstained hardwood. She leaned down and shined a flashlight beam under the couch, finding a dead stinkbug and some dust bunnies. She studied the coffee table next, recalling all the puzzles she and her parents used to make together. Her mother was not as enthusiastic about it as her father. Nevertheless, she’d sit with them and watch with a little smile. Being seven, Angela never thought much of her mother’s interests, but now she wondered what her mother would’ve rather been doing. Angela wouldn’t know. At least not in this life.
She walked to the window and gazed outside. She saw the winding driveway, dozens of leafless trees, and the Appalachian Mountains dressed in sparkling snow. She remembered the place in the front lawn where the shadowy figure stood. How did he get inside of the house? Did Angela tell her parents? Or did he force himself inside?
“Rhymer,” Frank called out.
Angela turned back to the scruffy investigator. He was squatting before the fireplace with a metal tong in his hand. Eyeing him suspiciously, Angela walked his way. The floorboards creaked and moaned under her feet. Chunks of burned wood littered the fireplace. Frank pointed at one of the wood chunks within. Angela didn’t see what he saw. Using the fire poker, Frank pierced the wood and drew back the poker with a ring on the end of the spike. Still squatting, Frank turned the poker Angela’s way and held the ring out before her. Gingerly, Angela slid it from the spike. She brushed off the dust, revealing the golden sheen beneath. It was a wedding ring, simple in design and fit for a female.
Frank studied the ring in her hand. “Does it belong to your mother?”
Angela held it between her thumb and finger and peered through the hole. The initials K.R. were engraved in the inner circle of the band. Kelly Rhymer. “Looks like it.”
Angela thought hard, trying to remember if her mother tossed out her ring at any point during that horrific night. If so, why?
Suddenly, a memory was triggered. Tears streamed down her mother’s cheek. The killer was in the house, but Angela’s eyes were on Kelly. Reluctantly, she pulled off her wedding ring and tossed it into the fire.
The flashback ended. Angela felt lightheaded. Her world began to spin. Frank noticed. He tossed aside the fire poker and put his hands on her shoulders to keep her steady. He looked deep into her eyes as if trying to solve some cryptic message. “Easy now,” he said.
Angela got her balance back. She pulled out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Angela barked, much more hostile than she had anticipated.
Frank backed off.
Angela appreciated the breathing room. She put the ring into her coat pocket and looked at the fireplace. She grabbed the black metal shovel and prodded the charred wood, watching it break apart at the gentlest of touch. There were no more rings or anything of import to be found amidst the cinder. Angela glanced about the living room a final time before heading to the kitchen. The old refrigerator was unpowered and empty just like the cupboards and sink. Angela shined the flashlight into the garbage disposal, seeing the shape of something flat. She reached he
r hand inside, brushing the tips of gloved fingers against the blade.
“Careful,” Frank said as he sauntered into the kitchen. “Friend of mine thought the disposal was turned off. The switch was accidentally toggled and zap! There went the fingers.”
“Thanks for sharing, Frankford. You really picked a good time to tell that one,” Angela said. She felt something inside. Wincing, she pulled her hand out of the disposal. Pinched between her pointer and ring finger was a piece of a puzzle. Angela put it in the palm of her hand and illuminated it with her flashlight. The front of the puzzle was white.
She looked up at Frank. “Does this look like it’s been here for nearly three decades?”
Frank only needed to briefly glance at it before answering. “The cardboard is in good condition, though slightly waterlogged. At the oldest, it’s maybe been down here a few months.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Angela replied, unsure what this meant. She turned the puzzle piece over, seeing the letter “G” scrawled in red pen.
Angela and Frank exchanged the same what the hell look? Angela felt her blood pumping now.
“Let’s split up,” she said. “See if we can’t find more.”
Frank, a look of intrigue and excitement on his face, started to open the cupboards and shine his flashlight inside. Angela checked under the sink. She returned with another puzzle piece stuck behind the piping. It had the letter “E” scrawled on the back.
“Hey,” she said, pulling the upper half of her body out from under the sink. She showed off her piece at the same time Frank showed off the one he found.
“How many are there?” Frank thought aloud.
“Just keep looking.” Angela checked the stove and found one in the back.
Frank retrieved one from the knife rack and another from inside the freezer. They found seven total in the kitchen. Frank and Angela laid them down on the counter, looking at the letters A, G, E, W, L, H, and M.
“Too many consonants.” Frank stated. He started to organize the letters in different combinations, starting with the word GAME.
Angela grabbed his wrist, stopping him. Frank looked at her, equal parts surprised and annoyed.
“Let me,” Angela said, feeling her pulse quicken.
Frank let go of the pieces and crossed his arms, watching with an impress me face. Angela flipped over the puzzle pieces to show the image that had not revealed itself. She connected the pieces that would match and put the others to the side. Only three connected and created what looked like wooden slats on the image. She flipped the section of connected pieces over. They spelled out “WEL.” The G, A, M, and H didn’t match up with each other. Angela studied the word, but couldn’t make sense of it. “There must be more.”
“I’ll get the living room,” Frank said. “You take the bedroom.”
“Deal,” Angela replied. “Make sure we don’t miss any.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Frank replied. He headed to the living room.
Angela headed down the hall to the master bedroom. She shined her flashlight in every nook and cranny. The letter “E” was found in a mouse hole, “L” was located in the closet, and the letter “O” was discovered on top of the wardrobe. She moved to her childhood bedroom next. The walls were painted pink and there was a rocking chair in the corner with a Raggedy Anne doll seated limply on it. Apart from the rocking chairs, the only things left behind were the nightstands. Angela found a puzzle piece resting on its top. It had a light coat of dust on it, but not as much as the furnishing. She found another letter cut into the slit inside of the Raggedy Anne doll. She spent some more time moving around the rocking chair and dusting off the window sill for any hidden pieces and crawling on the floor to make sure that she didn’t miss anything.
She headed to the restroom next but after an extensive search, found nothing. She returned to the dining room table. Frank was waiting for her. He put his five pieces out on the table one by one. Angela laid out her five new pieces. Together, they connected the pieces. All of them fit, but the puzzle was far from being complete. Angela recognized the image that they formed. It was a cabin. The same cabin puzzle her and her father were completing during the night of the assault.
Angela’s mouth dried out. Her head became light. She wanted to vomit. The seventeen pieces only completed the front door and one of the cabin windows glowing yellow. She flipped the rigid fraction of puzzle over, revealing the words, “Welcome Home, Angela.”
Chapter Five
Cold Case
Angela took a step back from the table. Her flashlight stayed on the red pen scribble.
“Why?” she mumbled to herself.
Frank must’ve heard her because he answered. “They’re taunting you.”
Angela turned to him with an angry look on her face.
“Really?” she asked sarcastically. “I would’ve never guessed. It’s why, after twenty-eight years of silence, is he or she or whoever is pursuing me now? One would think that the culprit would be too old for this.”
Frank didn’t have an answer for that one.
Angela got to thinking. Did any of this have to do with Iris, or was she just a pawn? Were there other clues that Angela was missing?
She and Frank stuck together and did another sweep through the house. If there were any more pieces to be found, Angela would have no clue where they would be. They took a hike around the property as the sun started to drop. They returned to their vehicles empty-handed.
Frank turned his scruffy face up at the snowy sky. “Whoever is behind this is leaving you bread crumbs, and you’re eating them up. It’s bait, Rhymer. You keep on following their trail and you’ll end up right where they want you.”
“I’m aware,” Angela replied.
The response surprised Frank. He gave her his undivided attention.
Angela elaborated. “If this guy wants to lead me to a trap, bring it on. I’ve waited twenty-eight years for this.”
Frank raised his brows. “If we play by his rules, we’re playing his game.”
Angela glared at him. “You can leave anytime.”
“Hey,” Frank said with offense. “I just don’t want to see any more pretty women get killed. Is that so bad?”
Angela headed to her car. Without looking back, she said. “You’re a real hero, Frankford.”
Frank scowled at her for a moment. “Where are you going?”
“To my father’s house,” Angela replied as she moved into her car.
“This is your father’s house,” Frank exclaimed.
“My other father.” Angela slammed the door, turned the key, and hit the gas. Her vehicle swerved around the driveway, flinging dirt, snow, and gravel as she arched around Frank. She pointed the nose of the Charger in the direction of the driveway’s exit. She rolled down her window. “You’re coming with, or are you going to run home with your tail between your legs?”
Frank pointed at the house. “If this doesn’t scare you, Rhymer, then maybe it’s time to take a step back.”
Angela didn’t hear the last part. She floored the gas, kicking up another cloud of snow, dirt, and rock as she charged down the drive. Frank watched her go. He pulled out the second flask he had been hiding in his jacket, took a long swig, wiped his lips with the top of his hand, and then ran for his Jeep.
As Angela drove down the mountain road, she saw the Jeep catch up to her in the rearview. She let the tension out of her shoulders. For a moment, but only a moment, she worried he wouldn’t show.
She drove along the mountainous roads and deeper into the woods. Eventually the heart of Ashton came into view. The falling sun cast its dying light across the old brick buildings, dingy convenience stores, gas stations with classic pumps, and 1950s architecture that made up the Appalachian town, hiding in Smokies and locked in time.
Night fell. After a quick drive through town that seemed abandoned at this hour, Angela arrived at the ranch house that had become her home from age seven to eighteen.
It was a quiet, calming place that was set back from the road two acres with a single large tree in the yard.
She pulled into the driveway and parked beside her father’s big Toyota truck. Frank parked beside her and they got out at the same time. There was a single-story house with yellow paint, a series of columns on the raised porch, and a walkway to the front porch that had stones set surrounded by pebbles and two logs to keep said pebbles from spilling out. There was a garden boxed in by bricks. What few plants there were had been dressed with snow and were crunchy from the frost.
Angela knocked on the door. Frank waited beside her. He took off his gloves and breathed into his hands. “It’s chilly out here.”
“Not used to the cold?” Angela asked.
“I’m from Miami. The winters there were a little different,” Frank said.
“Why move to the middle of nowhere?”
“I like the people and mountains more. It’s a little slower, too. And less traffic. I can just sit back and enjoy a drink.”
Angela could tell he was telling the full truth. “Hopefully not while you’re driving.”
“Hopefully,” Frank replied.
A greying man opened the door. Short, soot-colored hair fell from under his rugged brown trucker cap. Wrinkles snaked across his forehead. Crow’s feet etched lines beside his soft blue eyes. He wore a tucked-in plaid shirt, jeans, and a big belt buckle. At the sight of Angela, he smiled, lopsided and sincere. “Angie!”
Angela gave him a strong hug. He felt warm and sturdy in the way fathers were supposed to. He squeezed her back, soaking in the moment. “If I knew you were coming, I would’ve thawed out the steaks.” He had a thick country accent.
Secret Memories Page 5
