Page 4 of Fragments of the Past

I don’t have a shoe rack. Sue me.

A blouse similar to what I wore last night finishes the ensemble. This time it’s sheer, buttoned to my throat with what your mother would call “appropriate” undergarments instead of ones that tempt a glance.

My phone with the constant low battery has enough juice to alert me that the rideshare I ordered is waiting outside. So that it doesn’t influence what I see, I’m kept in the dark about the places I visit. I tap the screen and show the driver a pdf I haven’t opened before listing the address I’m headed to.

The ride share driver stops a good ten miles away on a residential street. I recognize the other vehicle in front of the house as the same one I slid by while entering the condo past midnight. Detective Ames waits in the driver’s seat.

I don’t have much of a reputation, but as we both exit the cars we’ve traveled in, I can admit it’s tarnished.

Detective Ames clenches his jaw. If he bared his teeth, I’d expect him to snap and bite. “It’s you.”

I should hold out my hand, but I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear instead. “Yeah, me.” I sigh, ready to apologize. “I know this is unorthodox, but—”

“Which part exactly? Lying to me, or the charade you’re about to pull on the Turners?” His hands find his waist, pushing his sport coat behind his hips and revealing his holster. The motion pulls the fabric of his thin-striped plaid button-down taut.

I swallow both out of regret and lingering desire, remembering the breadth of his chest. Sun glints off his badge, which is affixed to his jeans. But the time to revel in his rugged good looks or the take-charge attitude that had increased my attraction to him once we were alone has passed. Anson Ames spits venom at me.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. Let’s get this shit show over with. Do you want me to introduce you as Miss Chatham?”

“Rae Lee is fine.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, giving me his back. Detective Ames doesn’t wait, storming up the walkway towards the front door.

I follow with my eyes downcast, focusing on the worn spots on the underside of his loafers. As we approach the house, I release the barriers I’d held tightly to the previous evening. Opening my mind, I perceive everything Detective Ames brought me to this house in search of.

He rings the bell. An older couple answers the door. Detective Ames makes the briefest of introductions. I see matched skepticism to the detective’s etched on the Turners’ faces… And the underlying, unyielding hope that someday someone will provide them with answers.

I also see what they can’t.

The four of us enter the living room, but we aren’t alone. Unbeknownst to Susan Turner, a twelve-year-old girl sidles up next to her. The child clasps her hand around her mother’s forearm. Mrs. Turner frowns. Her opposite hand brushes the sensation away, and the girl takes a step back.

Sadness washes over me.

The fearful child is why I’m here. Sometimes, she cries when Mrs. Turner dismisses the attempts she makes to gain her mother’s attention.

I see something gray and sparkly and a brilliant white openness.

“Your daughter was named after a gem,” I blurt.

“Pearl.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. It was my first husband’s mother’s. Am I allowed to tell you that?”

“Maybe stick to yes or no,” Detective Ames suggests kindly to Mrs. Turner. I receive a glare.

“That would be best,” I agree, pretending I’m oblivious to his ire.

“You and Pearl don’t use the same last name?”

“No.” Mrs. Turner looks at her husband, Harvey, desperate to elaborate.

“Do you have any other children?” Mr. Turner stands closer to me. I move, focusing the questions on Mrs. Turner.

“No.”

“Not for lack of trying.” Mr. Turner flashes me a grin that feels like I’ve gotten hit by a sledgehammer. My belly sinks and rolls. I’m nauseous as he hugs his wife from the side.

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