A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell

would not officially re-open the Teresa Ewing case until he found out more about those underpants.
    He started to gather up all the old photos. He’d just put the cold case file back in its box when he heard a knock on his door. Wondering if Whaley had found something, he said, “Yeah? Come in!”
    The door opened. His wife, Ginger, stood there in a yoga outfit, holding Chloe on one hip. “Ready for a surprise?”
    Cochran loved surprises from Ginger. Sometimes she brought apple strudel, sometimes fresh coffee, sometimes, in the privacy of their bedroom, treats of a different nature. He closed the case file. “Bring it on.”
    â€œGet the camera on your cell phone ready.”
    Cochran reached for his phone. “Ready.”
    â€œOkay. Hit record!”
    Cochran turned to the open doorway. Ginger put Chloe down and pointed her at Cochran, saying, “Go on, honey. Go see Daddy!”
    As Cochran filmed, the chubby little red-headed baby walked toward him, wobbling as if she’d had too much to drink.
    â€œShe’s walking?” Cochran cried. “All by herself?”
    â€œShe started when I got home from Mary’s speech!” said Ginger. “She let go of the dining room table and walked into the living room, all on her own.”
    â€œChloe!” Cochran called, keeping his phone trained on the child. “Look at you, sweetheart! You’re walking!”
    Chloe listed far to the right, but then regained her balance, heading straight for Cochran. “Daaa-deeee!” she cried. She walked a few more steps then fell laughing into his arms.
    â€œWhat a big girl!” he cried, scooping her up, nuzzling behind her ear. How he loved her! The way she smelled, the way her hair curled when her neck grew damp, the way she slept, her little rosebud mouth quivering as she dreamed. He’d thought that Ginger had completed him; then Chloe came along and he wondered how they had ever lived without her. He lifted her high in his arms. As she squealed with delight, he brought her down, catching a glimpse of the Teresa Ewing file on his desk. He thought of the girl’s father, Bob. He’d probably once held his arms out to his toddling daughter and thought that he would provide all the shelter and protection Teresa would ever need until she was grown and gone.
    How wrong he had been about that, thought Cochran, remembering the picture of the little girl’s body under that tree. How very, very wrong .

Six
    Grace Collier was gripping the steering wheel of her car so hard that her fingers had gone numb. She and Zack had fled the Salola Street yard sale immediately after their encounter with Leslie Shaw, Zack cradling his box of old videotapes as another man might carry a child. For a long time Grace just drove—over to the college, then up into the Reservation, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them and their old neighborhood.
    â€œIt’s good they’re tearing all those houses down,” she said to no one in particular. “That street’s been cursed ever since Teresa.”
    Teresa. The name stuck in her throat—she hadn’t spoken it in years. Te-reee-saaaa. The syllables themselves seemed to give voice to the tragedy—an explosive T , then a reee like a scream, then a lingering soughing of sadness and mystery. Never had the little priss been Terry, or Tee, or any of the sweet nicknames she might have engendered. Always, she was Teresa. First shouted by the searchers, then cried by her mourners, then whispered for what seemed like forever. What do you think really happened to Teresa Ewing? Where was she for those three weeks? How do you think Zack got away with it? He’s retarded, you know. Dumb as a post but strong as an ox. And he loved her …
    â€œMama!” Zack cried from the backseat, interrupting the soundtrack playing in her head. “Watch out!”
    Grace’s attention snapped back to the