Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
“I’ll get it,” Rick grinned and wiped a smear of spaghetti sauce off my cheek. “You sit down and finish your wine. You cooked, I’ll serve. Protect and serve is what I do.”
I rolled my eyes and headed for the table.
Rick spent a month trying to locate CeeCee Wilson with no luck. He held me in his arms one night and told me maybe I wasn’t meant to know the missing parts of Violet’s story, not meant to finish the book. “Maybe,” he said, “you’re supposed to keep taking care of the people at Fairfield Springs. It’s something you were born to do, with the kindest heart I’ve ever known.” He kissed my forehead.
“I feel like I’m supposed to know more, Rick. It’s almost like Violet is whispering to me sometimes, telling me to keep looking.” I rubbed my temples. “I know she left me a lot to write about, but something big is missing. I just know it. Do you think CeeCee died?”
“No, that would’ve made her easier to locate. All I have is Mary Cecelia Wilson, born in Anniston in 1943. Some files were destroyed in a courthouse fire years ago. There’s no record of her marriage, and if she’s out there she’s not a Wilson.” He sighed. “I’m not giving up, babe. I know how important this is to you. And I will keep using my keen police brain until we get an answer, okay?”
I kissed him and turned on my side to sleep. “I’m counting on you, Rick O’Shea. You are my knight in shining khaki.”
Two days later Rick pulled up in his cruiser as I dove into my car after work, drenched by an afternoon thunderstorm. He flipped his lights on and drove closer, decorating the parking lot a celebratory flashing blue. He knocked on my window with a big grin, water dripping from the brim of his hat, and pulled the door open. Rick leaned into the car, all official, and announced, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to take you to Atlanta. You’re needed for the questioning of CeeCee Wilson, and you’re not going to believe who she turned out to be.”
A few days later we were led through a warren of offices and cubicles, a few occupied by people we recognized immediately. CNN’s headquarters hummed with activity and excitement. A secretary in her mid-fifties rose to greet Rick and me, indicating a sofa and saying, “Bettina will be just a moment. Please make yourself at home.”