Page 76 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

A few moments later, the dots started dancing again, and it was a long time before five words came through.

I’m sorry, Aspen. Forgive me?

She stared at the screen, sighing. Garrett was on her side and had been ever since she’d arrived in Coventry. She had enough enemies. She certainly didn’t need to start suspecting her friends. She’d texted,Forgiven.

They hadn’t talked the night before—he’d gone to see Dean and Deborah before she returned home. But they’d messaged each other a few other times during the day, and all was well between them.

Now she parked outside a single-story building with white siding and green awnings over the windows. Before she got out of her car, she prayed for wisdom and insight. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. These people had owned the house at the time of Aspen’s mother’s disappearance. The house had changed hands between then and when Dad had bought it, but maybe they’d remember him. Maybe her mother or father had had some connection to the house at the time.

Or, maybe this was a wild goose chase.

Aspen had needed to get out of Coventry, a drive to clear her head, and this had seemed the perfect excuse.

She’d sent the yearbook pictures of her parents to the drugstore to have prints made. With those and the snapshots from the attic, she trudged through the parking lot to the door. She was directed down a hallway where older folks, some inwheelchairs, others in armchairs with walkers at their sides, sat chatting.

Finally, she reached the proper door and knocked. When a man called out, “Come in,” she pushed it open and stepped inside. It could have been a luxury studio apartment with the pale walls, dark and ornate crown molding, pretty curtains, and an area rug that looked both old and expensive over hardwood floors. Hospital beds ruined the effect.

“Hi. I’m Aspen Kincaid. Your wife and I spoke on the phone?”

She’d called the day before and tried to ask her questions, but the woman who answered had seemed confused. She told Aspen she didn’t do well with phones and couldn’t she spare a minute to come by and see them?

The man was seated on a chair beside one of the beds. His bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?” He turned to the bed. “Polly, did you talk to someone on the phone yesterday?”

The head of the bed rose, and a woman came into view. She had white frizzy hair that was matted on one side. She peered at Aspen with brown eyes. “Do I know you?”

Aspen took a step closer. “We’ve never met.”

The man stood and crossed the room. If Aspen had expected him to be feeble, she’d have been wrong. He seemed healthy and strong as he extended his hand. “Ron Barnett. This is Polly, my wife.”

She shook the man’s hand and nodded to the woman. “Thank you both for seeing me.”

He ambled back to his chair, then gestured to one against the wall. “Pull that one up closer so Polly can hear you.”

Aspen did. “I live in a house you used to own up in Coventry.”

The man grinned. “I loved that place. Our family made memories there for, what was it, Polly? Twenty years?”

Mrs. Barnett said nothing. Her head was tilted to one side, and she wore a gentle smile.

Aspen took the snapshots she’d found out of her purse and handed them to him. “I was going through the attic and found these.”

He took his time flipping through them, leaning close to his wife so she could see. They remarked on the kids, tossing out names and ages, places they’d gone and things they’d done.

The woman was alert and aware for a few moments before she seemed to slip away again, wearing that kind but vacant expression.

Mr. Barnett clutched the photos to his chest. “Thank you.” He eyed his wife and shook his head. “She doesn’t come back to me very often these days. Whenever she does, it’s a gift.”

Aspen felt her eyes tingling. This was what marriage should look like. This was the for-better-or-for-worse kind of marriage she wanted. This man, who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself, was here because his wife needed him, and he wanted to be at her side. Simple as that.

Would her father have loved her mother this way, if things had been different? Could her mother have loved him back?

Mr. Barnett set the photos on the other bed. “Was that why you came, to give us those photos? Or was there something else?”

“I was wondering if you remembered either of these people.” She took out the pictures she’d had made and handed them over.

He peered at her father’s first. “Who are they?”

“My parents. That’s Michael Kincaid.”

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