if you’re goin’ over
that stuff. I’ll come back.”
“Message deleted.
Message number three …”
The phone plays
silence for fourteen seconds followed by the click of a terminated connection.
“Nice,” Beth says,
barely audible.
“Message deleted.
No more messages.”
Beth fits the
headset to her ear and presses speed-dial one. She leans back and clasps her
hands behind her head as she waits for the connection. She hears the unique
call-waiting ring. He better answer.
* * *
Elliot checks the
caller ID, cuts his call short with Frank and answers Beth. “Hey, hon.”
“I’m at the
office; come over and we’ll go through the materials I collected from Mrs.
Freedman’s daughter’s house. I’m starting now.”
“OK, I’m on my
way.”
* * *
Now, let’s
check out this notebook. Beth opens the notebook and finds several pages
missing. Someone was in a hurry when they removed these.
The pages have
ragged edges as if they were grabbed in one hand and torn out with haste. Ten
to fifteen pages remain intact and on one is written, “You will never find us!”
“Hmm, that’s odd,”
Beth says to herself. She puts the notebook down. I wonder what was on the
pages that were ripped out.
Beth takes the
bundled pictures and letters out of her purse. She removes the rubber bands and
places them in three neat piles on her desk. Two of the stacks are pictures. People
posing. She flips over the pictures and checks for names, dates, or
anything that can identify Vicky or her mother. None of these pictures were
taken without false studio backdrops. One background is a time-lapsed photo
of a stream running over a gray stone waterfall through a lush forest. Another
scene is cotton-ball clouds floating in a surreal blue sky. All of the
supposed parents and their children are dressed for a funeral and smiling
cheese. No cluttered bedrooms or kitchens. No Christmas trees with presents
underneath or pictures of porches with jack-o’-lanterns and autumn leaves. No
cakes with candles surrounded by smiling children. There’s nothing here.
The third stack
contains handwritten letters on lined paper. She removes the band and reads a
poem and love letter, both with the emotional depth of a newspaper obituary. The
letters were written in a dry, condescending prose and are signed, “Love, Mom.” No surprise there.
Finally, Beth’s
attention focuses on the locked photo album. She reaches into the back of the
bottom right drawer and pulls out a small locksmith’s set. She searches for the
correct instrument. Ahh, this should do it. She inserts the pick and
turns it aptly to align the lock’s mechanism as if using a key and it clicks
open.
Beth ponders each
picture in order as their story unfolds. Baby toys, Easter bunnies, and
inflatable wading pools pass by, revealing the lives of a man, woman, and
child. Beth finds Vicky’s name printed on the back of one with the face of a
young girl peering through the oval, cutout face of an astronaut in a large
white spacesuit. One has a date printed neatly on the back and others have a
digital time stamp in red within the picture. She closes the album, still
musing. “These are the real deal.”
Beth reaches for
the locket that she pulled out of Vicky’s nightstand. This is more difficult
than is appears. She presses her thumbnail against it with enough force to
shave a piece off and then the clasp gives way with an audible snap. Inside,
the tiny family portrait adds the final punctuation mark to the pictorial
documentary of their lives. Nothing substantiates Mrs. Freedman’s
accusations. Why would Vicky’s mom disappear? There is no evidence
of the usual drama kings or queens from broken homes where desperate moms make
so many bad choices in the name of survival. Where’s her father? His last picture
is no more than two years old. Beth’s mind continues arranging the pieces
of the puzzle as she reclines and closes her eyes. The minutes
that stuff. I’ll come back.”
“Message deleted.
Message number three …”
The phone plays
silence for fourteen seconds followed by the click of a terminated connection.
“Nice,” Beth says,
barely audible.
“Message deleted.
No more messages.”
Beth fits the
headset to her ear and presses speed-dial one. She leans back and clasps her
hands behind her head as she waits for the connection. She hears the unique
call-waiting ring. He better answer.
* * *
Elliot checks the
caller ID, cuts his call short with Frank and answers Beth. “Hey, hon.”
“I’m at the
office; come over and we’ll go through the materials I collected from Mrs.
Freedman’s daughter’s house. I’m starting now.”
“OK, I’m on my
way.”
* * *
Now, let’s
check out this notebook. Beth opens the notebook and finds several pages
missing. Someone was in a hurry when they removed these.
The pages have
ragged edges as if they were grabbed in one hand and torn out with haste. Ten
to fifteen pages remain intact and on one is written, “You will never find us!”
“Hmm, that’s odd,”
Beth says to herself. She puts the notebook down. I wonder what was on the
pages that were ripped out.
Beth takes the
bundled pictures and letters out of her purse. She removes the rubber bands and
places them in three neat piles on her desk. Two of the stacks are pictures. People
posing. She flips over the pictures and checks for names, dates, or
anything that can identify Vicky or her mother. None of these pictures were
taken without false studio backdrops. One background is a time-lapsed photo
of a stream running over a gray stone waterfall through a lush forest. Another
scene is cotton-ball clouds floating in a surreal blue sky. All of the
supposed parents and their children are dressed for a funeral and smiling
cheese. No cluttered bedrooms or kitchens. No Christmas trees with presents
underneath or pictures of porches with jack-o’-lanterns and autumn leaves. No
cakes with candles surrounded by smiling children. There’s nothing here.
The third stack
contains handwritten letters on lined paper. She removes the band and reads a
poem and love letter, both with the emotional depth of a newspaper obituary. The
letters were written in a dry, condescending prose and are signed, “Love, Mom.” No surprise there.
Finally, Beth’s
attention focuses on the locked photo album. She reaches into the back of the
bottom right drawer and pulls out a small locksmith’s set. She searches for the
correct instrument. Ahh, this should do it. She inserts the pick and
turns it aptly to align the lock’s mechanism as if using a key and it clicks
open.
Beth ponders each
picture in order as their story unfolds. Baby toys, Easter bunnies, and
inflatable wading pools pass by, revealing the lives of a man, woman, and
child. Beth finds Vicky’s name printed on the back of one with the face of a
young girl peering through the oval, cutout face of an astronaut in a large
white spacesuit. One has a date printed neatly on the back and others have a
digital time stamp in red within the picture. She closes the album, still
musing. “These are the real deal.”
Beth reaches for
the locket that she pulled out of Vicky’s nightstand. This is more difficult
than is appears. She presses her thumbnail against it with enough force to
shave a piece off and then the clasp gives way with an audible snap. Inside,
the tiny family portrait adds the final punctuation mark to the pictorial
documentary of their lives. Nothing substantiates Mrs. Freedman’s
accusations. Why would Vicky’s mom disappear? There is no evidence
of the usual drama kings or queens from broken homes where desperate moms make
so many bad choices in the name of survival. Where’s her father? His last picture
is no more than two years old. Beth’s mind continues arranging the pieces
of the puzzle as she reclines and closes her eyes. The minutes
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