by Ray Flynt
Rachel stood. “My contact information is on the envelope with the newspaper articles.”
“Great. One more question. Is there a real estate agency handling the sale of your mother’s home?”
“Yes, Woodbine Realtors in Manayunk.”
“I’ll want to visit,” Brad said, “just to get a feel for the place.”
“Thanks for your time.” Rachel offered a firm handshake and snugged her cap onto her head. She left the office and walked stiffly toward her Ford F150.
Brad continued to watch through the windows until the gates of his estate had rolled closed behind her pickup. Then the swirling leaves in his driveway caught his attention, and he made a mental note to call the grounds-keeping service.
When he turned around, Brad noticed Sharon standing next to the fireplace. She’d draped a throw around her shoulders and appeared engrossed in the newspaper clippings.
“There’s one thing she never mentioned,” Sharon said, her voice raspy.
“What’s that?”
“Martin Tetlow was the second juror killed during that trial seventeen years ago.”
