Chapters (48)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-one
- Chapter Twenty-two
- Chapter Twenty-three
- Chapter Twenty-four
- Chapter Twenty-five
- Chapter Twenty-six
- Chapter Twenty-seven
- Chapter Twenty-eight
- Chapter Twenty-nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-one
- Chapter Thirty-two
- Chapter Thirty-three
- Chapter Thirty-four
- Chapter Thirty-five
- Chapter Thirty-six
- Chapter Thirty-seven
- Chapter Thirty-eight
- Chapter Thirty-nine
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“What happened?” Jill continued. “Did they have an accident? The police said they left the country. I have family in Mexico. Sure, parts are dangerous, but Glen and Denise wouldn’t go to those areas.”
“Their bodies were found locally. About ten miles from their home as the crow flies.”
“I don’t understand. What happened?” she repeated.
“They were murdered.”
She closed her eyes again, took a deep breath. Opened them. “How can I help?”
“Did Ricky say anything to you that day? Anything you remember that sounded strange at the time, or in hindsight?”
“It was three years ago, I don’t remember anything specific. If I had, I would have told the police when they first came to talk to us.”
“I’m sure you would have, and we have their notes, but anything you can tell us about Ricky and his family would help us.”
Jill said, “I want to help, but I don’t know what to say, really. Ricky was here all the time. He, Joe, and Ginny were inseparable, and he was a good kid. Very polite, smart. Joe—my son—he would much prefer to play than do homework. Ricky was a good student, he more than anyone could get Joe to focus for thirty minutes to finish whatever project they were doing, then they would play. The three of them—they’d been friends since first grade, when we moved here. They rode their bikes to school together, and he was here almost every afternoon. If Ricky had a fault, it was being late. Time was more a suggestion to him.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “Half the time his mom or dad would be calling over here for him because he forgot a dentist appointment or it was past dinner. All I really remember about that day was that it was six and I called out to the tree house that it was six and did Ricky want to stay for dinner. He ran in, said he couldn’t, that he was late getting home. I told him to go ahead and I’d call his parents and tell them he was on the way.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“No one. I called the house phone, no one answered, and I left a message on their answering machine.”
“And you’re certain it was six in the evening.”