Last night, after the quick trip to her house, Jane had reluctantly agreed to sleep in Kyla and Lee’s parents’ old bedroom. It had remained the same since Bonnie and Zeke Harding had spent their last night snuggled in each other’s arms. Less than sixteen hours after awakening, a horrible auto accident ended their lives. That was New Year’s Eve 2018, minutes before the dawning of a new year.

Before crawling into bed, Jane had spent an hour researching home safes. There were many brands, models, and sizes, but only two types: dial and digital. The latter would contain a keypad and require the entry of a numerical code. Numbers also dictated the dial type, but the method of entry was more complicated, including a four-step process of spinning the dial in alternating counter-clockwise and clockwise directions. The final article she’d read described the emergency key feature of all dial types, but Jane didn’t pay it much mind since she figured Ray’s safe would be the digital type; he always tried to shun the difficult.

 Jane felt befuddled. Ray’s safe was the combination type. Unusual, she thought, more difficult than simply punching in a code on a keypad, but doable.

Jane turned the dial counterclockwise, passing 12 four times. She stopped at 12 on her 5th rotation. Her best guess, again, was that Ray had chosen his football number in some alternating sequence. She next turned the dial clockwise, past 21 twice, and stopped at 21 on her third time. Jane removed the slip of paper from her jeans pocket containing notes she’d made from an article found last night online. She wanted to verify the third step. She did, and proceeded, turning the dial counterclockwise, passing 42 once, and stopping at 42 the second time. On to step 4, which required her to turn the dial clockwise until the dial stopped. Jane eased the dial towards the diary table, hoping she’d guessed right. She hadn’t. The dial didn’t stop.

Forty-five minutes later, Jane was ready to give up. She had attempted four additional times to discover the correct combination, using various sequences (including doubling and tripling) from the numbers embroidered across Ray’s football jersey.

Jane had also left the hidden room and searched in three places for the infamous emergency key: Ray’s desk, his gun-cleaning kit atop the giant gun cabinet in the great room, and the cabinet style toolbox in the detached garage on the wall behind Ray’s shiny Corvette. No key anywhere, but she had discovered the weather was getting colder, and it was sleeting.

Now, shivering and staring at Ray’s safe, she decided she needed a break. Maybe that would somehow generate a better idea. Jane exited the hidden room, yearning for a cup of coffee. She closed the bookcase door. As she slid the bolt to the left, she recalled something she’d seen when helping Ray remove his ankle monitor. It was a small and weirdly shaped piece of copper wedged inside a clear plastic sleeve rolled up with a dozen sizes and types of tweezers. That day, also a Saturday, the last place Jane remembered Ray had gone before the little green pouch had appeared, was the master bathroom. And that’s where Jane found it, lying along the right edge of the middle drawer of the massive mahogany dresser that served as the vanity.

After returning to the hidden room, Jane pushed back the diaries and unrolled the pouch, laying it open and flat against the table’s top. There, in the brightness of her flashlight, lay twenty or more types of tweezers. And that odd-shaped piece of copper. It had to be the emergency key.

And it was. From her research, she had learned how to remove the dial contraption itself from the front of the safe. All it took was a firm grip and a quick snap to the left. Once removed, Jane used the flashlight to locate the tiny keyhole. In the center, with three teethed wheels forming a pyramid style triangle around it, the emergency key fit snug like a gloved hand. One simple and easy turn to the right was all it took. Jane depressed the handle and pulled the thick door open. She had done it. With God’s help. It had to be a miracle. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said in a whisper.

***

This time, it was Lillian’s voice. “If you’re successful at opening the safe, snap a photo of the insides. This way you can return the contents to their same position. Ray would notice this type of thing.” Jane laid the flashlight on top of the diaries, removed her iPhone from her left rear pocket, and did as instructed. A timesaving and light enhancing idea came to mind.

It took three trips for Jane to remove the safe’s contents, walk them to Ray’s study, and lay them across his giant desk. Nothing struck her as a smoking gun: a ledger book with frayed spine; one bundle of cash; one or more deeds folded inside a plastic sleeve; an opaque ziplock bag containing what felt like an assortment of jewelry; and one canary-colored envelope, thick like it contained several DVDs.

Jane stared at the items and pondered where to start, jewelry or the envelope. The former seemed uninteresting—probably trophies from the many women Ray had bedded. The envelope it was.

Jane unfolded the metal clasp and removed the contents. One rubber-banded stack of 4 inch by 6-inch photographs was it. An over-sized sticky note concealed the top photo. Ray had scrawled ‘Destroy,’ across it. Jane whispered, “who keeps photos in a safe unless they are vitally important?” She sat in Ray’s antique desk chair, removed the rubber band and note, and was shocked by what she saw. Who in the hell had captured this on camera? It was her, Ray, and Rachel standing in front of his blue Chevrolet pickup; it had to be the night Kyle disappeared, and there she was, decked out in his clothes, all for Ray and Rachel to create a story, one untrue, but one to be masqueraded and marshaled to sustain a fictional account. Given the required position of the photographer, someone took the photos (all fourteen of them) from the direction of Jackie Frasier’s mobile home.

Then Jane recalled the rumors. Jade, Jackie’s daughter, disabled, disfigured, lived a lonesome and solitary life in the tiny mobile home. She wouldn’t dare appear in public, but word was, she roamed the sparsely populated neighborhood at night, secretly capturing outdoor scenes in the rural world she loved to explore.

It was Rachel’s idea. “It’s well known that us four left the warehouse to return the church’s PA system, and for Ray to taxi each of us home. We made it look like that’s what he did.” Rachel’s statement had come after her, Ray, and Jane had bound, gagged, and stashed Kyle inside an old shed between the train station and the ice plant. Ray had pointed a gun at Kyle to convince him to strip down. Rachel had insisted Jane slip on his clothes. Ray had driven to King Street and the intersection of Kent and Kyle’s driveway. Someone, no doubt Jade Frazier, had captured multiple photos of Jane walking away, along the Bennetts’ driveway towards their house. Until she was out of sight. A hundred feet before reaching the old rickety house, Jane had turned right into the woods and hiked a semi-circular path back to King Street, where Ray and Rachel were waiting. Jane couldn’t do anything but close her eyes and shake her head. This was unbelievable. But how had Ray come to have these photos in the first place?

Jane used her iPhone to snap a copy of each of the photos before returning them to the envelope. The last one, the fourteenth one, felt thicker than the others. As she tucked them away, she noticed it was two stuck together, making fifteen photographs that Ray had labeled ‘Destroy.’ Jane gently separated the two and was again surprised. It wasn’t a photo of her strolling down Kyle’s driveway. It was a snapshot of a much younger Stella Lancaster (now Newsome). Jackie Frasier was standing beside her. The two were in front of Jackie’s mobile home, posing along the edge of the small front porch. It looked like someone snapped the photo at sundown, given the dark sky beyond the single bulb to the top right of the door. The only thing Jane could conclude was that Jade was a former patient of Stella, who was a private nurse for at least twenty-five years before going to work at the hospital in the ICU. Jane snapped a copy of Stella and Jackie and returned the stack to the envelope, not forgetting to secure them with the rubber band.

Five minutes later, Jane believed she had figured it out. From a quick review of the ledger, she discovered Ray had recently paid Jade Frasier $25,000. Jane surmised that somehow he had learned Jade possessed incriminating evidence against him. Maybe it was Jade who had started the conversation and asked for money. Either way, Ray now possessed photos that revealed Ray, Rachel, and Jane were involved with Kyle’s disappearance.

The ledger was old. In fact, it predated Ray’s adulthood. There were payments to Rob and Rosa Kern, payments to Buddy and Billy James, and many others. The amounts varied from small to large. The writer provided no explanations. Each contained only the name, date, and amount. The most recent payment was to Jade. The one before that was to Buddy James for $100,000. Jane figured one had to do with the Hunt House, given its proximity to the fire.

Jane flipped through the few remaining blank pages in the ledger and found a half-folded sheet of notebook paper tucked inside the back cover. Written across the top was $7,500. Underneath was “Darrell Clements/Buddy’s truck and HorsePens 40.” Jane didn’t have a clue what this meant. Had Ray paid this Clements fellow $7,500? And how was this related to Buddy’s truck and HorsePens 40? Finally, why hadn’t Ray already recorded the amount and date (what date?) in the ledger?

It took several minutes to snap photos of every page in the ledger, including the Clements note. It was now 9:00 AM. The three hours Jane had allotted were racing by. She sat aside the ledger and picked up the plastic sleeve.

It contained two deeds. One evidencing Ray purchased the Hunt House property. Rob Kern was the grantor. The second deed posed another mystery. Again, Ray was the buyer/grantee. The seller/grantor was a man named Harlan Johnson. Jane attempted to read the legal description, but it was all gibberish, stuff like “Southeast quarter of Southeast quarter (SE 1/4 of SE 1/4),” but a little farther down she noticed a comprehensible phrase, “containing sixty (60) acres of land, more or less, together with residence, garage, barns and garden used by Henry and Nancy Johnson for the past sixty-eight (68) years.” The date at the bottom of the deed was December 11th, 2020. Two weeks ago. Jane had no inclination why Ray had purchased another piece of real estate. What was he up to? She surmised it was a response to his father refusing to sell him the Dogwood Trail farm. Ray would never, could never, cede defeat.

Jane started brainstorming ideas to find the sixty acres. A gust of wind against the side of the Lodge made the blinds rattle. A heavy thud followed. Jane walked to the window and saw that a large limb had fallen from the tree nearest the driveway. What really startled her was a landscape of solid white. The sleet had turned to snow. “I’ve got to get out of here,” Jane whispered, and activated her iPhone. It was now 9:24, but she still wanted to inspect the jewelry.

She returned to the antique chair, opened the brownish-colored bag, and gently dumped the contents on Ray’s desk. Jane had been correct. There was an assortment: ten or twelve rings, all for females, some with diamonds, some without; a gold cross and chain; and two items wrapped in tissue paper. Jane removed the paper from the lightest and thinnest item. What she saw further validated that the contents of Ray’s safe would be his undoing. The small, thin, silver-colored metal was easily identified. It was a dog tag. Jane held it near her eyes. The machine-stamped indentions read:

KYLE THOMAS BENNETT

DOROTHY BENNETT

294 KING STREET

BOAZ, ALA,

12 3 53 P

“Kyle’s dog tag? Ray is so stupid. This is almost as bad as having a video recording of him committing murder.” Unbelievable, Jane muttered, shaking her head with eyes closed. She couldn’t help but recall what Kyla had told her that Lee had discovered: Mrs. Bennett had Sharon Teague’s dog tag. She had found it in a shoebox in Kyle’s closet after he disappeared.

Jane removed the tissue paper from the second item. It was roundish and much thicker and heavier, a class ring. It too was gold or gold plated. Starting at the left side of the beautiful emerald stone and continuing in an arch were the words, “Albertville High School.” Inscribed inside the band was “Sharon Elizabeth Teague.” Oh, my fucking god, Jane thought, pausing a second to seek God’s forgiveness. “Ray’s ass is cooked,” was her loudest whisper so far.

Another gust of wind, this one stronger than the previous, was Jane’s siren call. She had to leave even if she wanted to stay and read a while in the diaries.

It took five minutes to photograph the jewelry and return everything to its proper place. Jane verified her arrangement by thrice checking her previous photos. She removed the emergency key and re-affixed the dial to the outside of the safe. After returning the tweezer pouch to the vanity drawer, Jane returned and snapped a few photos of the diary table. She exited the hidden room, closed the bookshelf door, and slid the bolt in place. She stuffed the flashlight inside her duffel, walked to the kitchen, and stared outside at the snow-covered deck.

Jane’s journey to her car took several minutes, given the icy, snowy conditions. She nearly slipped when she transitioned from the steps to the sidewalk. Thankfully, the backyard provided more traction and improved her pace. When she reached the Equinox, she looked at her iPhone. It was 10:48 AM. She had been at the Lodge going on four hours. As she tossed her duffel in the back seat, she remembered she’d forgotten to reset the disconnect breakers. “Oh my God, that was close.”

During the two-minute walk to and from the corner of the house, Jane worried about two things: what if Ray returns home before the snow melts and sees all her tracks? And, what if he has some type of battery-operated camera that captures her every move?

She almost slipped again as she crawled inside the Equinox. It started on the first attempt. Jane breathed a sigh of relief, concerned that her soon-to-be car might present problems given the harshness of the weather. She let the engine warm a minute before shifting the transmission into reverse. She eased pressure on the gas pedal. That’s when she learned she had another problem. Her rear tires were spinning. She was stuck in the ice and snow. She’d made a terrible mistake pulling onto the grass beside the detached garage. Oh, my fucking god, Jane thought, pausing a second to seek God’s forgiveness.

It had been the best Christmas Jane ever experienced, at least since she’d become an adult. Kyla had called Thursday night and insisted she spend the entire day at Harding Hillside. Both Lillian and Lee had voiced their agreement, albeit in semi-distant voices half-suffocated by Bing Crosby’s legendary performance of “Happy Holidays.”

Although the day had provided a healthy dose of normality—listening to more Crosby and Lillian’s favorite, Barbra Streisand, sharing childhood stories of Santa beliefs, and eating a five-star-chef level mid-afternoon dinner compliments of Kyla—the four had spent two hours contemplating and planning today’s mission.

The skull session was prompted by the richness of the meal—honey-glazed ham, several casseroles including nibblet corn, green-beans, sweet potatoes, homemade bread, and two desserts, pecan pie and coconut cake—and two round-trip walks to the mailbox and back.

Lillian fumed after Lee expressed gratitude that Connor Ford had delivered two recording devices to the District Attorney’s office before someone ransacked her house and riddled the king’s headboard with sixteen nine-millimeter bullets. “We have no choice but to kick Ray in the balls.” Lillian then suggested she and Lee, Jane and Kyla if they chose, go to Ray’s house and shoot out all eight of the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the Lodge’s great room.

Thankfully, Lee had offered a better idea. “Too noisy. We silently broke into his place once, let’s do it again. We just need to find a time he’s going to be out-of-town a day or two.” Jane instantly knew Lee’s suggestion was one that fit her to a tee, with slight modifications. Not because she was a seasoned burglar, but because she needed to prove her worth to her three companions.

“Too risky, and don’t forget you two got caught.” Jane had said. “In the off-chance Ray was to show up at the worst time, I’d have a better chance of weaseling my way to safety than if he caught you two lovebirds. Again.”

Lee had given Jane an opportunity to further distance herself from Ray and to earn some loyalty points for the good side, as Lillian called it. “He’d probably shoot you on sight. You’re ten times the threat to him as the three of us.” Lee said, reaching for Lillian’s hand as they approached McVille Road and Kyla’s mailbox.

Jane had quickly responded. “No, he won’t. He doesn’t know I’ve jumped ship.”

And this convinced Lee and Lillian to support today’s project: Jane, after verifying Ray was spending two days with Ted at his Guntersville cabin on the lake, would go to the Lodge alone, enter, and explore to her heart’s content. She was confident Ray had not changed the back door security code but was less certain she could figure out the safe’s combination.

***

Now it’s showtime. Christmas is over. And so was yesterday’s gorgeous weather. A cold front had moved in at midnight. At 6:00 AM, it was foggy and 34 degrees with only a light mist, but forecasters warned of freezing rain mixed with snow by midmorning. Saturday was going to be sloppy and slippery.

After plotting today’s mission, Kyla had insisted Jane spend the night. The two had made a quick run to Jane’s house for proper clothing, toiletries, her One Year Bible, and her leather-bound copy of Oswald Chambers’ “My Utmost for His Highest.” The last two items Jane described as, “something she couldn’t live without.”

It was now 6:30. God and Chambers had spiritually refreshed Jane during her one-hour devotion. As she descended the front porch steps, she couldn’t believe her good fortune. The new Equinox was a godsend. Although the deep blue Chevrolet was only a loaner, she believed she could afford it. “Thank you, Jesus.”

The problem hadn’t been money, although that’s the excuse she’d used with Lee when she’d asked for his advice. Her 1999 Impala had broken down, for the umpteenth time, last Tuesday and she’d called Lee. He and Lillian had come immediately and given her a ride to Boaz Chevrolet. After the wrecker arrived with her old clunker, Lillian had insisted it was time for Jane to pull the plug on the car her parents had bought new, even offered to help Jane make the car payment.

For two hours, Jane, along with Lee and Lillian, had considered new vs. used, Malibu’s vs. Equinox’s. Jane had finally decided on a gorgeous but high-mileage 2019 Equinox, with one condition: she be allowed to test drive it a few days before making the final decision.

Jane slowed as she approached Highway 431. She glanced to her left and saw her decrepit Impala in the Boaz Chevrolet service center’s parking lot. Lee and Lillian were so good to her. It embarrassed Jane, given her lying, especially lying about something as insignificant as whether she could afford a newer vehicle. “Little things can become big things,” Jane thought as the red light changed and she pressed the gas pedal. The Equinox lunged forward, nearly bumping the car in front. Her Impala would have barely moved.

Ray was the only one who knew (other than her out-of-town bank) that she was a wealthy woman, wealthy by Boaz and Sand Mountain standards. Lee and Lillian would die if they knew Elita’s adoptive parents had paid Jane a million dollars in 1986 as a reward for the disclosure of the whereabouts of Elita, their adopted daughter. Jane thought of nothing else as she drove south on Highway 431.

At Mountainboro Road, Jane turned right and tried to imagine the pain Rachel felt when she lost Elita the second time.

***

The mist had turned to a drizzle by the time Jane arrived at the Lodge. She eased the Equinox down the steep incline to the left side of the detached garage. Here, her vehicle was hidden from Skyhaven Drive.

Jane exited, grabbed an empty duffel except for a flashlight, and cut across the yard to the back door. She didn’t hesitate at entering 12122121, Ray’s high school football number forward and backwards two times each. Almost instantly, the green light appeared at the top right of the keypad and the device beeped. She depressed the door handle and breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing what she would have done if Ray had changed the code. She took two steps inside and recalled what Lee had suggested.

Jane left the back door open and retreated across the small deck and down the stairs. She walked the sidewalk to the right rear of the primary structure and stood inspecting the electrical panels. Lee had noticed during his and Lillian’s break-in that the electrical power to the Lodge was fed underground from Skyhaven Drive. There were three 200-amp boxes connected to the main meter. Jane suspected one fed the Lodge, another, the detached garage, and the last, Ray’s outdoor kitchen and pavilion. As instructed, she flipped off all three disconnects. Now, any electrically energized cameras or other recorders would be inoperable, and she knew Ray didn’t have a generator.

Back inside, Jane walked across the great room and suppressed the temptation to ascend the angled stairway to explore the upstairs. Instead, she continued and turned left down an L-shaped hall and on to the master bedroom. It was a mess. The bed was unmade. Clothes scattered on the floor and slung across a rocker in the far-right corner. The door to Ray’s separate study was closed, but thankfully, it was unlocked.

 Jane walked past Ray’s giant custom-built desk and opened the blinds. Across the room, she stood staring at the bookcases. She almost panicked when she imagined the doorway to the hidden room would need electricity to open. After moving a few books on the eye-level shelf, a slide-bolt appeared. “Thank you, Jesus.” That’s all that secured the hinged bookcase door from the bookcase to its left. In seconds, Jane was inside the hidden space, mostly dark given the overcast sky and the absence of electricity. Jane retrieved the flashlight Kyla had insisted she bring. The safe was on the left wall, a little above chest high, but something else caught her attention.

On a far table, one maybe three feet by three feet, virtually the width of the narrow room, she instantly recognized her and Rachel’s diaries. Jane took two steps and saw an accordion file folder toward the back of the table. Inside was her wall decor: an assemblage of printed photos, newspaper articles, and even the red, white, and blue streamers she’d salvaged from the spinning ball at the Valentine’s dance that night fifty years ago where it all started. “Ray must have moved everything from his office to here.” Jane said in a whisper. “I guess he thought it was safer.”

Jane found Rachel’s 7/1/69 – 12/31/69 diary and turned to the first page. Again, tempted. This time to retreat into Ray’s study, sit at his desk, and read for hours. Thankfully, she recalled Kyla’s words before leaving Mom and Pop Harding’s bedroom last night, “stay brave and stay focused. Sharon, Kyle, and the James brothers are depending on you.” Jane closed the diary, laid it next to a dozen others, and returned to Ray’s safe.

Don’t forget to check the temperature of the chicken.” It was the third time this morning Kyla had reminded me. I guess she saw how focused I was on grading exams.

She was scrambling to leave for Sunday School. Common to both of us was the habit of forcing too much into too little time. Sometimes it worked, often it didn’t. Kyla had risen a little later than normal, but had already made a trip to Walmart, fed and watered the goats, replaced a set of white lights on the Christmas tree, baked a cake, and put on a whole chicken in the crock-pot for today’s lunch. Her hair was only half-dry as she tucked her Bible under her arm and headed for the front door. “Anything else I need to do?” I said, trying to look like a team player, though truthfully, I was enjoying being a professor again.

“Turn it to ‘Warm’ when it reaches 160 degrees.” Sis rolled her eyes and shook her head as she backed through the opened door onto the front porch. “And you can set the table before I return.”

“Yes, ma.” Kyla’s religious beliefs were a mystery, but she leaned toward some form of supernatural being, maybe even the Christian God. She seemed especially interested in Dr. Mork’s prayer prediction although I’d argued it was a post hoc fallacy: if B follows A, it doesn’t mean A caused B. Now, I didn’t know why I’d shared the doctor’s opinion or been verbally critical of his response.

Lillian was half-dozing in a Lazy Boy while listening to Pandora on her iPhone. I was glad she was using her earphones.

Three hours ago, I’d taken over the den and kitchen, arranging one-hundred three bluebooks neatly, by class, along the leather couch. Bluebook #6719 was at the opposite end of the table; a B minus earned by one of thirty-eight students in my Torts II class. I was now reviewing #4382, which had to be Jodie Allison’s almost incomprehensible scribblings. Although Dean Waters had granted my request to alter the end-of-semester exam and grading procedures (normally, exams are taken on computer and the professor reviews and grades them without knowing the student’s identity), Jodie’s awful penmanship was a megaphone, slowly, clearly, and loudly announcing every syllable of her name.

My teaching colleague Lea had called at 4:30 Friday afternoon and announced her and Steve had packed and shipped the hundred and five blue books an hour after they administered the last exam. Fed-X had delivered the package to Kyla’s before dark yesterday afternoon while Lillian and I were at her house, for the second time since the hospital released her from ICU a week ago.

I returned to Jodie’s (aka, #4382) poor penmanship but par excellence for legal analysis. This Grafton, West Virginia native had grown up with three strikes against her but was inspiring despite her stubbornness. By third grade, the school had identified her as learning disabled and placed the awkward child in special classes. Truth was, Jodie suffered from writer’s cramp and chose not to do any work that required the use of a pencil. Bored, she began reading every book offered by the library in her small and pitifully poor hometown. By age 14, she’d used cunning and shamelessness to misrepresent her age and earn her GED. How at 15 (and after one semester at Pierpont Community College in Fairmont, WV) she’d won a four-year scholarship to Yale was still a mystery. However, Jodie’s near-perfect score on her LSAT was clear-as-day proof why she’d been admitted to the law school. I’d learned a lot about her as a faculty adviser and had somehow convinced her to seek medical care. Jodie suffers from hand dystonia, which causes excessive muscle contractions in the hand and arm. Thankfully, after six weeks of arguing, I’d persuaded her to enroll in a long-term occupational therapy program. Unfortunately, it was too early to tell if penmanship improvements were on the horizon.

I placed an A+ at the top of #4382’s first essay and glanced at Lillian. To my surprise, she was looking straight at me. I returned her smile and slid my chair backwards. Given my mental trip to West Virginia, I needed to stay focused on my grading. Then, I remembered how close I’d come to losing the most important person in my life.

It was now December the twentieth, eight days since they had released Lillian from ICU. As far as we knew, she was doing well. The only noticeable change from her pre-injury status was her frequent naps. This had worried me the first few days after her discharge but now seemed natural and harmless since otherwise she was the same wild and crazy woman I’d fallen in love with.

Speaking of mysteries and injuries, the Etowah County investigators had refused to bring charges against Ray Archer. After interviewing Lillian last Tuesday, they concluded there was insufficient evidence to connect Ray to her injury. Their hypothesis was that a two by four board with an attached L-shaped piece of angle iron had fallen and struck Lillian’s head. Prior to falling, the board hung horizontally across the barn’s ceiling. Somehow, like the closing of a hinge, the end pointing to Cox Gap Road had fallen, hitting Lillian on the side of the head as the board completed its journey, ending in a vertical position against an interior wall. It was the weirdest coincidence I’d ever encountered, making me think it wasn’t. I stood, took three strides to Lillian, and knelt beside her chair, wishing Sherlock Holmes was real and currently applying his enormous mental skills to this deeply troubling mystery.

I clutched her right hand with both of mine and kissed her fingertips. “Have I told you this morning that I love you?”

“Two times, not counting that one.” She lowered her footrest and pulled my head forward. “I’m not complaining,” she whispered as our lips met. It seemed Lillian’s injury and recovery had affected me more than her. I was now a full-blown romantic: more touchy, talkative, and embarrassingly clingy than I’d ever been with Rachel. My discovery of intimacy had to be the product of brushing against the near loss of the sensuous Lillian.

I was still feeling guilty for not going with her and Jane last night to Gadsden. It was the first time we’d been apart since her release from the hospital. I should have joined their shopping and worshiping adventure. Jane had broached the idea, saying it would do Lillian good to go to church and express her thankfulness for her new lease on life. And the shopping would be like icing on the cake.

My left leg was cramping, so I stood and pulled a chair from the dining room table and nestled it close to Lillian’s Lazy Boy. “Don’t forget to give me the receipt.”

She reached to the end table to her left and snatched a slip of paper. “Two hundred thirty-eight dollars and forty-two cents, including taxes and shipping.”

“When should they arrive?” After Lea had called late Friday updating me on the bluebooks, I’d realized I’d forgotten to buy her and Steve a thank-you/Christmas gift. Lillian had suggested HoneyBaked of Rainbow City, relaying that their hams and turkeys had been her choice for the past ten years.

“Tuesday. Even though you paid for overnight shipping. They won’t process your order until tomorrow.”

“Thanks again for taking care of me.” I’d given my debit card to Lillian and insisted she buy Lea and Steve each a turkey and a ham, and another ham for our own Christmas dinner at Harding Hillside. Lillian had taken Kyla’s cooler and a few icepacks and left our ham protected in Jane’s trunk as the two attended a revival service at First Baptist Church in Gadsden. The evangelist must have been long-winded since it was after nine when Lillian walked through the front door with notable sadness on her face.

Now I looked into Lillian’s eyes and saw the same sadness. “What’s wrong, you’ve seemed distant since you returned last night?” I had a feeling I knew the answer. It had everything to do with how I felt. No doubt we brought it on when she helped buy my airplane ticket. We were at her place in Sardis when I reviewed my To-Dos in Evernote. It was a practice I’d let slide since coming to Alabama. I’d seen the one instructing me to buy Lea and Steve a gift. Thankfully, Lillian had the answer to that. Then, I’d seen the task I’d dreaded and subconsciously postponed: the purchase of a plane ticket heralding my departure from Alabama and the woman I loved. I’d used Lillian’s laptop to purchase a Delta one-way ticket to New Haven, departing Birmingham at 2:50 PM on Friday, January the 29th. That date seemed like a semester away, but in the grand scheme of things, the forty-one days would pass like a single sunset.

A lone tear rolled down Lillian’s right cheek. She glanced at me and lowered her footrest. “I can’t stand it. Lee, how long are we going to postpone the inevitable?” I knew what she was talking about. One of us had broached the subject several times since her release. Each time it had been after we’d made love and were lying in her oversized bed in her undersized bedroom.

“You know I’m against you staying in Boaz while you wait for the divorce proceedings to end. That’s why I wanted to purchase two tickets.” I didn’t care if Lillian ever divorced. During the days she was in a coma, I discovered how truly important she was to my very existence. I wanted us together forever, and I intended to make that happen.

“Ray will be in jail before you leave town. I’ll be safe for the few weeks it takes to settle everything. By spring at the latest, I’ll be knocking on your door.” Lillian was exuding her self-confidence.

I thought differently. “You can be so naïve. Why not come with me and deal with the legal wrangling from a distance?” We both stood at the same time.

“I need more coffee and you need to get back to grading papers.” Lillian reached toward the end table for her mug and headed to the coffeemaker beside the sink. I reluctantly returned to my bluebooks.

I mumbled under my breath, “what you need is glasses,” before attacking Jodie’s response to essay question #2.

Before I could absorb three paragraphs of the brilliant student’s near-incomprehensible scribbling, Lillian’s half-scream (a high pitch, ‘oh’) brought me to my feet. She had wandered to the kitchen counter closest to the front door. Her hands were outstretched, holding onto the edge of the countertop. Something was wrong. Was she having a stroke? A heart attack?

Thankfully, in two seconds I learned she was reading yesterday’s Sand Mountain Reporter that Kyla had retrieved from the mailbox earlier this morning and had laid, along with a stack of bills and junk mail, at the end of the counter. “This better be good for the scare you gave me.”

“Read this.” Lillian pointed to an above-the-fold article titled, “Hikers Discover Two Bodies in Dekalb County.” To the right of the text was a bird’s-eye view of a map where the bodies were found. The artist had identified and labeled several locations in the small town of Valley Head, including Valley Head Baptist Church. Each location was to the west of the heavily forested discovery area.

I stood beside Lillian, who was ready to turn the page and read the rest of the article on page 9. “Hold on. Let me catch up.” The first sentence declared the moderately decomposed bodies of two men related to a puzzle local law enforcement were trying to solve. The article didn’t disclose their names but did share those matching tattoos across their lower backs pointed to the same two men from Guntersville who’d been missing for over a week. Before I motioned Lillian to flip the pages, the journalist reported that a 2015 pickup truck found a week ago by a St. Clair County Sheriff’s deputy at Horse Pens 40, a nature park in Steele, Alabama, was likely owned by one of the men. “I’d bet they know more than their sharing.”

“How so?” Lillian said, turning to page 9.

“This article is too aggressive. Better put, the newspaper wouldn’t have announced a connection between these two events—the bodies in Dekalb County and the missing truck in St. Clair County—unless they had confirmed these facts with the investigative agencies.” I tried to think of a way to learn more. I’d always heard and believed the Sand Mountain Reporter was a first-class operation, one with outstanding journalistic integrity.

Lillian seemed to read my mind. She flipped back to page 1. “Nick Lancaster. That’s Stella Newsome’s brother.”

“Uh?” I quickly answered my question when I noticed who’d written the article.

“Jane and Stella are good friends. Maybe she could get us an inside view. I’ll call Jane.”

“Not yet. Flip back to page 9. Let’s see what else Nick has to say.” I couldn’t help but think of what Jane had told me in the hospital’s dining room a few minutes before Lillian had awakened from her coma. Jane had followed Ray to Dogwood Trail and waited. Later, she’d seen him turn right onto Cox Gap Road with his Suburban pulling a flatbed trailer. On it was Buddy’s jacked-up pickup. Before continuing our reading, Lillian and I exchanged looks. Without words, our expressions were clear. We both were confident Ray had killed Buddy and Billy.

“Ray was transporting more than Buddy’s truck. If Jane was being truthful, Ray had killed the brothers at the farm and was moving them to what he thought was their eternal resting place.”

“Like he did Sharon Teague and Kyle Bennett.” I said, sick of the man’s horrendous brutality. Almost as bad was the vivid reminder that he and Lillian had shared a bed for half a century.

On page 9, Nick was even more aggressive. He described a third piece of the puzzle: Sheriff’s deputies had discovered several incriminating items inside Buddy and Billy’s travel trailer. The two had rented space from the State Park in Guntersville for over three years. A nephew had become suspicious when his uncles disappeared. He had attempted to find them, including calling their cell phones, visiting The Shack, the restaurant where they both worked, and finally, breaking into their camper. Inside, he’d discovered a sizeable amount of cash and two paperbacks describing the process of remotely starting a fire.

Nick was thorough. He even answered my question, why would the nephew disclose his findings? There were two reasons. One had to do with the campground’s manager who’d threatened to call the police after being tipped off that a burglary was in process. The second reason, probably the most important, was that the nephew was a preacher. “Though tempted, God gave me strength to do the right thing,” was a direct quote by Nick.

After Lillian and I read the full column on page 9, she repeated her “oh,” thankfully not as loud as the first one, and added a “my goodness.”

“What now? What’d I miss?” I was feeling guilty over the misuse of my grading time.

“The preacher, Alex Mandy, last night at the revival. He’s the nephew, Billy and Buddy’s nephew.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s highly unlikely.”

“Hear this before you walk out that limb.” Lillian refolded the newspaper and returned to the coffeemaker. Without looking back at me, she said. “Last night, before the evangelist started preaching, he asked the congregation for prayer. He shared that his two uncles had gone missing, and their bodies had recently been discovered. He said they’d been murdered. At the end of his sermon, Mr. Mandy returned to the subject of his uncles saying that as far as he knew, the two had never accepted Christ as savior, and now it was too late. There were four people in the congregation who responded to the evangelist’s end-of-sermon altar call. Two said Jesus saved them.”

All I could say was, “it’s a small world,” before returning to the bluebooks.