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The house was hot when I arrived home. I walked to the thermostat in the den: eighty degrees. Sophia, no doubt. The pleasant and trustworthy Hispanic woman had been our housekeeper for over ten years. Rachel had met her at school and determined she was the hardest working of the high school’s four custodians, and with her large family, was interested in a little extra money. The only thing negative, if that’s what you call it, was that the polite, shy woman was extremely cold natured.

From the beginning, we had granted her permission to turn up the central heat. Apparently today, she had forgotten to return the setting to its usual sixty-eight degrees. One would think dusting and vacuuming, along with all the other chores Sophia completed every Tuesday, would keep her body toasty warm. I opened a can of Chicken Noodle Soup and set it to simmer while I walked to the master and changed clothes. Jogging shorts and a tee-shirt were proper attire for the tropical weather.

I let my laptop boot-up while my dinner finished warming. I also dialed Rosa’s cell phone (Rob hated them). No answer. I left a message requesting a callback tonight if convenient. I suspect they found a Baptist church in the back hills of New York or Pennsylvania that was holding an all-week revival. Of course, this was just a guess, but certainly not out of the question.

Since Rachel died, I had abandoned my desk in the master and used the table in the breakfast nook for household business, including online bill paying, and responding to personal emails. The latter had dwindled to a small trickle, my sister Kyla notwithstanding. Mainly, I used my laptop on the weekends to review the coming week’s lesson plans and to read relevant law. Law, law, law. I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty when I occasionally spent time at the law school on personal business.

I poured my soup and crumbled some crackers. Unsurprisingly, an email from Kyla was waiting. Ashamedly, I almost didn’t open it. For the past two weeks, all she wanted to talk about was Harding Hillside (Mom’s idea from the 50s when her and Dad bought the farm), plans for a large garden next spring, and a growing fetish for Anglo-Nubian goats. I guess a forty-plus year executive had earned the right to “return to nature,” as Kyla described her in-progress transformation. Apparently, she had done well for herself financially because she had paid me $125,000 cash for my share of Harding Hillside after Mom and Dad died. My one-year younger sister could afford a few Nubians.

“Good evening to my favorite brother.” Kyla’s email had arrived ten minutes before I’d driven into the driveway. She had picked up where she had left off in her Saturday correspondence: a barrage of reasons I should fly to Alabama and stay with her over the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend. The main reason was to get me away from New Haven and away from 58 Ansonia Road in particular, since time was fast-approaching the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s suicide. Kyla had ended her plea with an argument that I should be the one who reviewed and inspected Dad’s clothes and personal items to determine what goes to Goodwill and what travels to New Haven.

The subject of Kyla’s second paragraph never failed to sicken me in a way nausea never had. It was Kyle Bennett’s 1969 disappearance. She referenced an article in today’s Sand Mountain Reporter (I wouldn’t receive the Tuesday edition until tomorrow at the earliest; probably Thursday). I clicked on a photo Kyla had taken of the brief article. Seeing Kyle sitting in front of a white background in his football jersey carried me back to the moment after the parade, the moment we’d separated and I’d gone home, and he’d gone on to what I now believe was his death.

I read how twin brother Kent was upping his reward offer to half-a-million dollars and that he, with the City of Boaz, was planning a memorial of sorts, an event to honor the life of young Kyle. The date surprised me. Black Friday, the Friday after Thanksgiving, the twenty-seventh. It was to be held at Old Mill Park and would feature songs by Mountain Top Trio and long-delayed eulogies from a few of Kyle’s closest friends. Kent had located the three founders of the once-famous band that had formed in the eighth grade. Until his death, Kyle had been their business manager and events coordinator.

I ate another spoonful of soup and closed my eyes, considering how I felt about traveling to Alabama and attending Kyle’s memorial service. I recalled the decision I’d made a year ago. Kent and the City had attempted this event last year, on the fiftieth anniversary of Kyle’s disappearance. That was before the completion of Old Mill Park. The city had arranged the use of the football field, but for several reasons, including Kent’s emergency trip to one of his plants in Japan, the planning had evaporated. My decision last year not to attend had only added to the guilt I always felt. I decided I was halfway open to attending when the house phone rang.

It was Sophia apologizing profusely for leaving the heat set so high. I told her not to worry. I thanked her for washing my bedclothes and for, as always, making the house smell so clean. “It’s my secret spray.” She said in broken English, although she’d lived in America for over twenty years. Sophia also apologized for losing my place in my book. At first, I thought about the Lawrence Block novel laying closed on my nightstand with bookmark inserted. After two more sentences, I gathered she was referring to Rachel’s diary, the one I had left open, face-down on the coffee table. I had forgotten to hide it this morning before leaving for work. Sophia said it had closed when it fell to the floor, and she didn’t know what to do. Again, I told her not to worry about it. I recalled Rachel saying Sophia could barely read.

I stored my bowl and spoon in the sink and checked on the diary. I returned to my laptop and Kyla’s email. After writing a long paragraph on the therapeutic benefits of closure (her subtle argument for me to travel to Boaz), she referred to another article, one in today’s Huntsville Times I could access via their website. The title, “There’s More than One Way to Skin a Cat,” showed it might be a funny story about a young boy or girl overcoming a speech impediment or outsmarting a playground bully, or a newly discovered Amazonian method of preparing a wildcat for boiling. But I was wrong. And shocked.

I didn’t visit the website but read Kyla’s abbreviated summary instead. The Times investigative reporter had assisted an associate with the Tennessee Sentinel in uncovering a scheme between Knoxville’s mayor and two councilmen, and the developer of Rylan’s, an expensive thirty-store shopping center in the heart of downtown. The scheme involved an elaborate kickback plot. “Wholly unfounded,” was the response from the lawyers for Ray Archer, the mayor, and councilmen. “The evidence will vindicate our clients.” Oh yeah, I bet that’s the truth. Ray’s coattail had gotten caught up in criminal conduct. No surprise there.

I chose not to think about Ray Archer except to wish him a future in prison. Instead, I read Kyla’s last paragraph. It was another long one.

It was almost a blow-by-blow accounting of Lillian Archer’s morning visit. The word ‘scheme’ returned to the forefront of my mind. Kyla had always liked Lillian more than Rachel. Of course, sis had never said this in so many words, but she didn’t have to. I can recall Kyla’s advice to me as we sat next to each other in the Boaz High School auditorium during our Baccalaureate service. “You need to ask Lillian to marry you. Long distance is a relationship killer.” By this time, the University of Virginia had granted me a full academic scholarship, and Lillian had committed to pursuing her dream of becoming a professional cheerleader. She had decided a few months earlier she was going to try out for the Alabama Crimson Tide cheer squad.

Lillian had liked the goats and Kyla’s new front porch swing. In fact, over a Tuna-salad lunch, the wife of Ray Archer had asked about me and whether my sister knew if I was coming to Kyle’s memorial. I must admit; it was good to hear, albeit secondhand, that the beautiful Lillian Bryant, my high school girlfriend of almost two years, had admitted she had made a big mistake in choosing Ray over me.

***

I didn’t tarry thinking about Lillian, given my overwhelming guilt at failing to protect the two most important people in my life: Kyle and Rachel. I sure didn’t need to add to the pile by fantasizing, albeit honorably, about the wife of Ray Archer.

Now, to Rachel’s diary. After deciding against reading them chronologically, I made a quick trip to the basement, returning with ROME. This one was after Rachel’s overdose, the period from April 25, 2019, through November 27, 2019. I sat in my Lazy Boy and flipped to the very last page. It was odd Rachel had written her last entry the day she hung herself. She had been rather terse: “I’m tired of living and hiding my past.”

I read and reread the words a dozen times, yielding nothing but a sense of failure and awareness that I could not give Rachel the peace and hope she deserved. A better person would have been capable of protecting his wife from anything and everything, especially her past. For a second, I became angry. The past. So what? Many people have horrible pasts but live fulfilling lives. It reminded me I was about to embark on a journey to learn about other women who had experienced late-term abortions. What was it about Rachel’s teenage abortion that kept her mind so shackled? It seemed Christian beliefs made this chain around her neck so much worse. Ironic. Wasn’t Christianity all about forgiveness? Yet Rachel, the one who was so open about her faith and Jesus’ promise she would spend eternity in Heaven, struggled mightily. Maybe she open-armed believed Jesus had forgiven her for all her sins yet could not forgive herself.

Rachel spent the first ten days following her failed suicide attempt at Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital. The impressive facility was seven miles from home and a mile and a half from the law school. I had spent every hour the staff would allow at Rachel’s bedside.

After they discharged her, Rosa and Kyla moved in. Until now, reading Rachel’s words, I thought the two-week period was happy and helpful. “I know they mean well, but they are visual reminders of my past.” This statement ended Rachel’s May 16th entry.

The following day, Kyla and Rosa drove away after Rachel insisted she was fine, needed some space, and had a duty to her students (Rachel never returned to teaching). Somehow, my dear wife convinced her mother and sister-in-law that she had learned her lesson.

The next entry was three pages, the longest I’d read so far, including last night. Rachel was reliving a nightmare. Below, I summarize what she had written.

After leaving Boaz at the end of 1969, the plan had been for Rachel and her family to return in two years to the Hunt House for another furlough. That had changed when Randy had moved to New Hampshire to attend the infamous Phillip Exeter prep school (its alumni include people like Mark Zuckerberg, David Eisenhower, Jay Rockefeller, and eighteenth-century Daniel Webster). This would be Randy’s ninth grade year. Rachel’s interest and ultimate decision to move to Charlottesville to attend the University of Virginia also played a role in two things.

One was Rob and Rosa’s decision to skip furlough and move to Taiwan. The second was their decision to lease the Hunt House to Barbara McReynolds and allow her to convert the historic home into a bed-and-breakfast.

What made me question last night’s conclusion that Rachel had been joking about hiding Ray Archer’s pistol, was a statement buried in the final paragraph of the May 27, 2019, entry: “I wish I had somehow traveled to Boaz to better secure the pistol, but Dad had bought my airline tickets and even more important, controlled my allowance. I simply didn’t have the funds. But maybe that’s like a lot of things I worry about that never happen. I doubt Barbara will ever have a reason to notice the board above the doorway at the top of the rear stairwell.”

I almost returned to the basement to grab BERLIN. I suspected it contained additional details concerning the hidden pistol since the time frame included the early January 1970 travel and the family’s first six months of living in Hong Kong.

But I stayed put and questioned why Rachel would write about something that happened so long ago. She was recovering from her overdose and what would naturally be a traumatic ten days in a psych ward. Now, looking back, I wondered if journaling was a way to convince herself she needed to get it all out one final time and finally forgive herself (not only for her abortion but, damn, for obstructing justice). Of course, it is uncertain whether Rachel ever forgave herself. What seems likely is she never could forget. Why else would she hang herself less than six months after her first failed suicide attempt?

Somehow, I fell asleep pondering a single question. A vibrating cell phone awakened me at 10:30. It was Rosa.

“Hello” stumbled from my lips.

“Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“That’s okay. Can you put your phone on speaker where I can talk to you and Rob?” I’d much rather talk with my mother-in-law.

“I’m listening.” Rob responded, gruff as ever. They were a step ahead of me.

I spent at least ten minutes summarizing my legal research and the details of my phone call to the Clerk’s office. My in-laws were unaware of next Tuesday’s hearing. Rob accused the city and the court of conspiring against him. He had a few choice words for Judge Broadside. I tried to convince Rob (Rosa seemed willing to do whatever I suggested) his best option was to take the half-million dollars. I confirmed he had verified the value with a local appraiser. After Rob cooled down and the conversation crawled to silence, I expressed my sympathy and apologized for not being able to do more.

That’s when Rob asked an embarrassing question. “What about our house being a national treasure?” I admitted to myself that I had failed to consider the Hunt House and the National Historic Registry. That issue, an exception to typical eminent domain law, was missing from all the cases I’d read. Something else I kept to myself. I had only read Alabama law.

“I’m not sure if that applies to your case, but I’ll check on it tomorrow.” I said, feeling like a D level law student.

“You do that.” I could see Rob waving his hands in frustration. He must have stepped away from Rosa’s phone, but I clearly discerned his words, “and he calls himself an attorney.”

Rosa apologized for Rob’s comment and behavior. We exchanged a friendly salutation and said our goodbyes. Before I could return my iPhone to the end table, she called again and said she meant to tell me that Rob had spent $250 consulting with a New York attorney. One that Randy somehow found. The man, the New York legal eagle, had advised Rob to use the Hunt House’s historic status as a defense. He said that at a minimum it would throw a wrench into the court’s timetable.

Again, Rosa and I said goodbye. I sat dumbfounded and shook my head sideways. No wonder I stopped practicing law almost twenty years ago. The pressure of being thorough, of being right, was relentless when the lawyer has a client’s livelihood or life on the line.

Professor Stallings was sitting at his secretary’s desk facing the hallway when I exited the third-floor stairwell. He was on the phone, and I was ten minutes early. He motioned me inside and through a wooden arched doorway that led to his giant office in the corner.

I nodded and smiled and settled into a leather armchair facing the large metal desk that was at least fifty years old, likely present when he’d become an associate professor in the early seventies.

Bert Stallings, now approaching eighty-seven years old, was the heart and soul of Yale University’s Law School. He’d shared different aspects of his storied life with me ever since I’d arrived in 2000. He and his wife, Mary, now deceased, had frequently dined with Rachel and me at our home. Although he was an excellent teacher, his claim to fame (my phrase, not his) was his work on behalf of women’s rights. His most notable case was Roe v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave women the exclusive right over their bodies. The Court held women had the unfettered right to have an abortion if it took place during the first trimester of the pregnancy. That forty-seven-year-old case was a world away from the current religious and political environment.

Recently, the Republican controlled Senate had confirmed a far-right winged woman to replace the heroic Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The new justice adamantly opposed a woman’s right to choose. Thankfully, there was Bert Stallings and his exceptionally talented team, who had the courage and humanism to fight the religious takeover of the highest court in the land. I was excited and honored Professor Stallings had asked me to take part. Although limited, it was an honor to play a small behind-the-scenes role in defending the right of every woman to choose what to do with her own body.

While waiting on Bert to end his phone call, I thought of Rachel and what I’d told her at the cemetery Saturday morning. It was only a tiny fib. “I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings with the interviewing.” I had already made my decision, but it would be today before I officially agreed. Sometimes I split too many hairs. Rachel would understand what I had meant by “agreed.”

“Good morning, Lee, so nice to see you.” The man had the energy of a forty-year-old. His head full of gray hair declared he was much younger than three years shy of ninety. He patted me on the back and made his way into a chair equally old as his desk.

I smiled. My eyes glinted as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky. Bert always had the bank of windows along the outer wall open, even in the hottest weather. Today, it was in the upper forties with a stiff breeze. Papers fluttered at the right corner of his desk.

“I just talked to Connie Dalton. She’s open to your call. I told her it would be within a week.” Bert held a yellow sticky note across his desk. I leaned forward in my chair and took it. It contained Connie’s name and two phone numbers. The word “Montgomery” was at the bottom.

A week ago, Bert had called me to his office and provided a quick summary of what he was planning. He asked me to locate and interview as many women as I could, and not just any woman. Bert provided a written profile. The women had an abortion in the past ten years with a story that relayed the importance of late term procedures to end the life of their baby. Bert wanted me to assemble a bank of data that supported his position that not only was Roe v. Wade properly decided, in fact, it didn’t go far enough. Somehow, he knew there was a case to be made for certain abortions after the baby was beyond the first trimester in age.

“One question,” I said. Before I could ask, Bert’s secretary walked to his desk and laid a note in front of him.

“Sorry Lee, I need to take this call.” He scribbled something on the back of a card. “Send your reports to this email address.”

I stood, accepted his note, and gave an affirmative nod. Professor Stallings is a busy man.

***

I always feel guilty when I use over thirty minutes of my law school day on personal business. It’s not rational since, while at home, I often think of case or statutory law that applies to upcoming lessons.

Today, I didn’t have but two classes, so I added a heavy dose of guilt to my already gigantic pile. I spent at least four hours researching the current status of Alabama’s law dealing with the doctrine of eminent domain. At 4:30 p.m. Eastern Time, I phoned the Marshall County Circuit Clerk’s office and spoke with a soft-spoken woman named Edith. Of course, she didn’t know me from Eve’s hamster but was cordial, respectful, and eager to answer my questions.

Normally, a lawsuit isn’t necessary when a city or state invokes its intent to take property from private landowners. Even if they oppose the taking or believe the government agency isn’t offering fair market value, negotiations themselves resolve the issues. It’s only when the property owner refuses to sell that the government makes use of the court system’s power.

This was happening in the City of Boaz vs. Rob and Rosa Kern. My in-law’s adamant opposition (it was mostly Rob) had left the city no choice but to file a civil case: CV—2020—194837. I’d asked Edith to read the Case Action Summary. The city had filed its lawsuit on October 9th. A private investigator by the name of Buddy Hutton had served the Complaint and Summons on my in-laws the morning of the eleventh. Rob, without counsel, had responded less than a week later with a handwritten note adamantly, often rudely, opposing the City’s action. The Circuit Court Judge, Waymon Broadside, had ruled on October 18th that Rob’s filing would serve as the Defendant’s official Answer.

What surprised me was the Judge had set a hearing for a week from today, November the seventeenth. A further surprise came when Edith, acting as though she was my paralegal, relayed the judge had issued a tentative Order. I wasn’t familiar with the details of the Alabama Rules of Civil Procedure, but this act seemed odd.

Edith, at my request, read the tentative Order. Basically, it said unless the Defendants could show cause why the City’s taking was illegal or its offer understated the property’s fair market value, the Court would grant the Plaintiff’s requested relief. In short, it would grant the City of Boaz fee simple ownership in the Thomas Avenue property known as the Hunt House upon payment of $500,000 to the Defendants. It was clear the only way to stop the ownership transfer was for Rob and Rosa to provide a valid reason (“show cause”). If they did, the Court would be in error to grant the City’s request.

With this information in hand, I left the law school at 5:00, skipped takeout from Bella’s, and drove home. I had two things I needed to do. The first was to call my in-laws with an update. Then, focus on the subject I had done my best all day to keep suppressed at the back of my mind: Rachel’s diaries.

Lillian slept until 7:00. After peeing, she slipped on her housecoat and descended the stairs for coffee and a bowl of cereal. She’d forgotten Ray would be home. He had told her yesterday he was going to prepare the prime rib for tonight’s deacon dinner before going to his Main Street office. He was frying bacon when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning. Want some eggs?” He knew she hated pork. He also knew she didn’t like chatter or any other noise so early.

“Cereal.” A one-word answer was sufficient. Then she changed her mind. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Which one?” The bacon was almost burnt.

“The SUV. You know I can’t drive a stick shift.” Ray’s 1972 Corvette was still in mint condition, stored in the detached garage next to the bay filled with a Honda four-wheeler, a John Deere Mule, and an assortment of other deer-hunting gear. He knew Lillian’s driving limitation but liked to make her talk.

“When will yours be ready?”

“Hopefully Friday.”

“You can. Be careful.” He was being extra generous, probably a little guilty about something. But he was right to caution Lillian. The Suburban was big and wide.

“Thanks. I will.”

Lillian filled a bowl with her favorite cereal, picking out a few raisins to eat while they were dry, and poured a half-glass of milk. She would wait for coffee until after her shower. Since Ray was in the breakfast nook, she retired to the dining room.

The separation didn’t last long. She was pouring her milk over the Raisin Bran when Ray entered carrying a Southwestern Omelet. “Mind if I join you?”

Since Ray pressed, Lillian figured this was as good a time as any. “Sit and let’s talk. I’m moving to the Corbett place.” This was a house and ten acres Ray had purchased after Betty and Tommy Corbett had moved to Nashville to finish out their days, closer to their two daughters and their families. For the past year, Ray’s renters had been prompt and dependable, but that had changed a week ago when he had taken the long route to the mayor’s house and saw a Ryder moving van backed up to the front porch. The law had been on Ray’s side given the eighteen months remaining on the lease, but Ray had chosen not to pursue the matter. He preferred staying out of court.

Now, with Lillian, he was defenseless, dependent solely on his charm. He chuckled to himself, realizing that card didn’t have a hand to play. Maybe the facts would work. “You know you lose everything if you file for divorce.”

“Ray, I know the prenup by heart.”

“It’s no different if you lure in a cohabitant.” That was an odd way to put it.

“We can negotiate some more. You owe me for what, three or is it now four affairs?” Ray’s weakness for the opposite sex was Lillian’s ACE. She’d played that hand perfectly in the middle of selling the pharmacy chain. She’d threatened to go public with Ray’s philandering. That wouldn’t have caused the sale to fail, but it would have caused a big hit to Ray’s reputation. He valued it nearly as much as his girlfriends. That’s when Lillian had insisted she receive $50,000 every time he had an affair. He’d quickly agreed, even suggesting an amendment to their prenup. In addition, Ray had promised to stop his philandering and swore to be truthful if, by chance, he ever strayed again.

“It’s three. I’ll pay you by the weekend.” Ray stood and as he returned with plate and cold food to the breakfast nook mumbled to himself, “there’s a point Lillian’s not worth the bother.”

Lillian knew it was four. She’d followed the old Reagan saw, ‘trust but verify.’ Thanks to local PI Connor Ford, she had the philanderer dead to rights, inclusive of audio, video, and stills, not to mention the receipts she’d found scattered about in Ray’s favorite hidey-holes.

***

By 10:00 AM, the weekly women’s Bible study had ended. Lillian attended every Tuesday morning, not for spiritual guidance but to get out of the house and to hear the local gossip.

She and Jane walked together to their cars. It was Jane’s way to check in, private and in person, on the reserved Lillian.

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” Jane asked, reaching inside her purse for keys.

“Sorry, I have some errands to run, but thanks anyway.” Lillian fibbed. She loved the smart and sometime sassy old maid who knew the Bible better than the pastor. It was true Jane had never married, but she wasn’t old. In fact, she was the same age as Lillian, 66, and that was still young by today’s definition. Jane was tall and thin with piercing green eyes. She always wore a cross-cropped dark red wig that came a few years ago after two rounds of chemo. The two had been best friends from first grade through middle school, but it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Lillian had never fully forgiven Jane for being disloyal when Rachel Kern moved to Boaz during the summer before ninth grade. Jane’s excuse for favoring Rachel during that eighteen-month period was God, or more accurately, God’s will. Nearly as important was Jane’s desire to please her Master.

“You know you can talk to me. When you’re not taking part, then you’re troubled.” Jane said, confusing Lillian. She rarely said anything during the Bible study. If she was going to talk fiction, she preferred the John Grisham type. “Oh, I forgot. I saw you and Ray last night in Guntersville.”

“Uh?” Lillian knew this wasn’t true and almost asked questions.

“I was driving south and had just crossed the bridge into downtown. You two were headed north. Huntsville? A late dinner?” Jane opened her Impala’s door and turned to Lillian, expecting an answer.

“Cotton Row.” Again, Lillian fibbed. “Have you ever been?” Jane would never eat at a place that served alcohol. “Later,” Lillian said with a smile, and walked to Ray’s Suburban.

***

Lillian dropped by Y-Mart for coffee. After showering and dressing, she’d chosen to ignore coffee and avoid another encounter with Ray, who was cleaning the kitchen when she exited the Lodge.

Two older teenage boys nearly ran her over as she entered the convenience store. They gawked at her from head to toe. Before the door closed behind her, she heard one of them say, “damn, now that’s a hot old lady.”

Lillian headed for the coffee station with mixed feelings. She knew she hadn’t aged as rapidly as many of her friends. Take Jane, for instance. Lillian’s dark brown hair was silky as ever. And the new bras she had found at Victoria’s Secret gave her boobs that younger look, lifted tight, firm in the imagination, from a distance. But pretty and sexy was vacuous, just thoughtless lust, not anything like genuine romance. Not that she knew anything about that, other than from the clues she picked up from her constant novel reading.

Three containers of Hazelnut creamer and four Splendas. Perfect. Lillian paid her bill and walked outside. The two boys were at the gas pumps. The hood raised on their old Chevrolet pickup. One was pouring in a quart of oil. That one, average height but lean and muscular, cocked his head at her and smiled. His dark hair, red and yellow flannel shirt, and work boots reminded Lillian of Lee Harding. Oh, to go back, to know what she knows now.

Lillian turned to suppress her imagination. She dug seventy-five cents from her pocketbook and bought today’s Sand Mountain Reporter. She walked to Ray’s Suburban, crawled in, almost spilling her coffee in the driver’s seat, and locked the door. An old habit.

She took a long draw on her sweet and nutty coffee before placing it in one of two cup holders behind the gear shifter. She unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, below the fold, was a color photo of Kyle Bennett with a related article titled “Reward Doubled.” Lillian knew it was Kyle’s tenth-grade class picture and not his ninth. She could tell by the red football jersey he was wearing. Red and not crimson. She remembered like it was yesterday. All the new football jerseys had arrived late, just days before the opening game with Guntersville. The delivery had caused quite a stir since the jerseys were red and not crimson and gray. With little choice, Coach Hicks had kept the red jerseys and created quite a stir, more so as the season went by with no change. A year later, Hicks redeemed himself at a preseason pep rally and bonfire by tossing the god-awful reds into the flames.

Lillian first scanned the article. She knew the story well. The city had never forgotten the missing teenager. Neither had his twin brother Kent, who now was offering half a million dollars for information that led to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Kyle’s disappearance and death. Even though the police didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone murdered Kyle, what other conclusion could a reasonable person draw?

The article summarized the story. Lee and Kyla Harding and their mother had seen Kyle just after the December 12th, 1969, Christmas parade. The police questioned all three, raising no suspicion. Lee and Kyla had said Kyle was going to the Young Supply Warehouse at the corner of Thomas Avenue and Brown Street to help dismantle the tenth graders’ float and to help Ray Archer return a borrowed PA system to First Baptist Church of Christ.

Ray had admitted Kyle and Lee Harding had promised to meet him at the warehouse and help with the PA system, but neither had shown up. Rachel Kern had alibied Ray’s whereabouts the entire evening until shortly before midnight. She helped him remove the PA System, including delivering it to the church in his pickup. Afterwards, the two drove to a secluded spot-on Cox Gap Road, a property owned by Ray’s father. There, they’d built a campfire and roasted some marshmallows, and spent two hours staring at the stars and the full moon.

Kent now lived in Houston and was a multi-millionaire. After receiving an aeronautical engineering degree from Auburn University in 1976, he spent ten years at NASA. Next was twenty years with Boeing in Seattle. In 2006, he had formed K2, Inc., a high-tech firm that manufactured satellites and drones for the U.S. military.

Lillian refolded the newspaper, took another draw of the still-steaming coffee, and headed east on Mill Avenue. She wanted to see Kyla. At the McVille and Beulah Road intersection, Lillian remembered that night. Lee, Kyle, and she had watched the parade through the windows upstairs at Fred Kings. Kyle was always quiet, but that night he was preoccupied. She and Lee had teased him, accused him of having a secret girlfriend, suggesting she was so ugly he didn’t have the courage to expose her. Now, Lillian pondered Kyle’s response to an off-color question Lee had asked while the Albertville High School cheerleaders and majorettes danced and twirled on the street below. “Courage can be deadly. Sometimes stupid and scared is the wiser path.”

Turning left into Kyla’s long driveway, Lillian pondered whether Kyle’s words had been his feeble attempt to ask for help.