Page 83 of Little Stolen Memories

None of us did.

Xander was shaken up, but once he calmed down enough to talk, the mystery of the gold chain and how it came to be in the dresser drawer revealed itself.

A few days earlier, Marcus’ ex had packed up some of his things, telling him he needed to come by and get them or she was taking it all to the landfill. She’d come across the piece of jewelry in his nightstand and had thrown it into a shoebox with a handful of other items. Marcus hadn’t even realized it was in there.

As Xander was in the guest room, looking for the note Owen had written, he’d moved the box to the side, and the lid came off, revealing the chain inside. It may have been two decades, but once he saw it, he remembered seeing the chains around some of the footballers’ necks.

To say nothing or tell the truth, knowing what would happen to his brother if he did. He thought of Cora, and the feelings he’d had for her at one time.

Today, honesty had prevailed.

As I stood next to Whitlock watching Marcus being wheeled past on a stretcher, I had one last dig to get in. I leaned down as he went by, smiling as I whispered, “Who’s woman enough now, you little prick?”

I watched Marcus being loaded into the ambulance and then I called Cora. She was relieved to know the killer was in custody at last. No longer did she need to look over her shoulder or avoid a town she once called home. She was free, as free as one could be, given what she’d been through in life.

“I heard you couldn’t get ahold of Danny earlier today,” I said to Whitlock. “Not that it matters. No need to keep tabs on him now.”

“He was out fishing with his sister,” Whitlock said. “Left their cell phones in the car. Guessing we better get Harvey on the horn, give him the good news.”

“Do you want to call him or shall I?”

“You cracked it. You make the call.”

I took out my cell phone and then hesitated when a call came into the work line. After hours, all calls coming into the office forwarded to me. On any other day, I wouldn’t have answered, but today, something told me I should.

I answered the call and was met with a single word, “Help.”

Then the line went dead.

Whitlock took one look at my face and said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t be sure, but I think I may have just received a call from Valerie. She’s Jackson’s mother.”

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s good.”

As we raced to my car, I gave Whitlock a quick recap of my visit with Valerie that morning. He grabbed the passenger-side door handle and said, “I’m coming with you.”

Ten minutes later, we parked in front of Ray and Valerie’s house and sprinted to the front door, which we found ajar. Inside, we heard someone crying, and not just crying—wailing.

We drew our guns and nodded at one another, creeping inside the house and following the sounds to the kitchen, where we found Valerie on the floor, hovering over Ray. Blood was everywhere. On the walls. On the tile floor. On his clothing. On hers.

“What happened, Valerie?” I asked.

“It’s Ray … he’s ahh … he’s dead,” she managed to choke out.

Whitlock tapped me on my shoulder, and I looked up, spotting an elderly gentleman bending over a chair in the living room. He, too, was bleeding, but he was alive. His hand was pressed against his left breast.

I looked at Whitlock. “There’s a first aid kit in my car. Grab it for me and call 9-1-1.”

“Roger that,” he said.

I rushed to the older gentleman’s side and said, “Sir, help is on the way. Until then, we’ll do our best to stop the bleeding.”

He nodded and said, “My name is Hugo. I am Valerie’s father.”

“What happened here?”

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