soaked with water and melted snow. The headline read: HOLIDAY OF HORROR : OREGON MURDER FARM DIES A SMOLDERING DEATH . A second photo, inset into the two-page bleed of the burned building, depicted a volunteer fireman. Stuck on the butt of his axe was a little boy's shoe.
"I think that's one of Danny's shoes," Hannah said as she took the magazine and placed it on the top of the refrigerator, out of view.
Ethan put his arms around his wife's shoulders. She seemed so small and very frail. She didn't make a sound, but she sobbed.
"There's something else," Hannah said, finally, pulling away and reaching for her purse. She unzipped a side pocket. "I got this from the receptionist handling the phones during the lunch hour." She held out a slip of pale pink paper folded in half.
Ethan fixed his eyes on Hannah and unfolded it. Across the top were the familiar words: WHILE YOU WERE OUT . U nderneath were the date, Hannah's name, and a box with "Called" checked. The message was only two words, but they were heart stopping.
Your mom.
Chapter Four
Despite her worries, unfounded as she knew they had to be, Hannah Griffin was about to find out that hell had frozen over. And that was a good thing.
Ted Ripperton hadn't done anything right since 1993. And most of the observers in the Santa Louisa County Courthouse who were not related to him readily conceded as much. Ripp, with his leathery tan face and eyes popping from white rings of flesh left by tanning goggles, had his head so far up his ass that he needed a snorkel to breathe. At least most thought so. Hannah kept her opinions to herself, but she never defended him when others complained about his work ethic (as lax as could be), his personality (boorish and cocksure), even the way he dressed (Hush Puppies with black socks, khakis, white shirt, and a navy suit coat). Ripp was tolerated because he had to be. But a few days into the Garcia investigation he surprised them all, including Hannah. He stopped her in the hall on her way to the cluttered warren of cubicles and minuscule offices that were supposed to support the functions of the DA's office, but really kept people apart like eggs in too-tight cartons.
He held up a manila folder. "Did you know Mimi Garcia had a little brother?" he asked. Coffee rings on the folder and powder from a bakery donut on his navy sleeves indicated what he'd had for breakfast.
Hannah didn't know what he was talking about. Police interviews hadn't disclosed anything about a son. Her brown eyes fixed on the white goggle-rimmed eyes of the county's best, worst, and only full-time gumshoe.
"Here it is," he said. Ripperton handed over the file slowly as though he was passing it on to a co-conspirator. He looked around. "And that's not all. He's dead."
"Dead?"
"Yeah. Died of SIDS two and half years ago over in Landon. I found mention of it--I mean found mention of the kid --when I ran a DMV search on Berto Garcia. Came back that'd he'd been stopped for speeding and was cited for not having his son in a car seat."
"His son?" Hannah fanned the pages and set her purse on the floor. "Jesus," she said, "Joanne never said a word about a son." Her mind flashed to the Tonka truck on the room divider. Too new to be Berto's childhood relic; not played with enough to belong to Mimi. The toy, she thought, must have been the little boy's.
"Nope," Ripperton said, a smug smile now in place. He'd found something good and he knew it. "I guess she had reason to keep her mouth shut on that."
Of course she did. Hannah Griffin had worked another case at the beginning of her career with similar facts. A child had been beaten up and hospitalized with a broken collarbone. X-rays revealed a previous fracture of the tibia that had healed long before, despite the fact that it hadn't been set properly. The child survived, but further and long-overdue investigation by Hannah and her paralegal indicated he hadn't been the first to suffer in the household. It turned out that
"I think that's one of Danny's shoes," Hannah said as she took the magazine and placed it on the top of the refrigerator, out of view.
Ethan put his arms around his wife's shoulders. She seemed so small and very frail. She didn't make a sound, but she sobbed.
"There's something else," Hannah said, finally, pulling away and reaching for her purse. She unzipped a side pocket. "I got this from the receptionist handling the phones during the lunch hour." She held out a slip of pale pink paper folded in half.
Ethan fixed his eyes on Hannah and unfolded it. Across the top were the familiar words: WHILE YOU WERE OUT . U nderneath were the date, Hannah's name, and a box with "Called" checked. The message was only two words, but they were heart stopping.
Your mom.
Chapter Four
Despite her worries, unfounded as she knew they had to be, Hannah Griffin was about to find out that hell had frozen over. And that was a good thing.
Ted Ripperton hadn't done anything right since 1993. And most of the observers in the Santa Louisa County Courthouse who were not related to him readily conceded as much. Ripp, with his leathery tan face and eyes popping from white rings of flesh left by tanning goggles, had his head so far up his ass that he needed a snorkel to breathe. At least most thought so. Hannah kept her opinions to herself, but she never defended him when others complained about his work ethic (as lax as could be), his personality (boorish and cocksure), even the way he dressed (Hush Puppies with black socks, khakis, white shirt, and a navy suit coat). Ripp was tolerated because he had to be. But a few days into the Garcia investigation he surprised them all, including Hannah. He stopped her in the hall on her way to the cluttered warren of cubicles and minuscule offices that were supposed to support the functions of the DA's office, but really kept people apart like eggs in too-tight cartons.
He held up a manila folder. "Did you know Mimi Garcia had a little brother?" he asked. Coffee rings on the folder and powder from a bakery donut on his navy sleeves indicated what he'd had for breakfast.
Hannah didn't know what he was talking about. Police interviews hadn't disclosed anything about a son. Her brown eyes fixed on the white goggle-rimmed eyes of the county's best, worst, and only full-time gumshoe.
"Here it is," he said. Ripperton handed over the file slowly as though he was passing it on to a co-conspirator. He looked around. "And that's not all. He's dead."
"Dead?"
"Yeah. Died of SIDS two and half years ago over in Landon. I found mention of it--I mean found mention of the kid --when I ran a DMV search on Berto Garcia. Came back that'd he'd been stopped for speeding and was cited for not having his son in a car seat."
"His son?" Hannah fanned the pages and set her purse on the floor. "Jesus," she said, "Joanne never said a word about a son." Her mind flashed to the Tonka truck on the room divider. Too new to be Berto's childhood relic; not played with enough to belong to Mimi. The toy, she thought, must have been the little boy's.
"Nope," Ripperton said, a smug smile now in place. He'd found something good and he knew it. "I guess she had reason to keep her mouth shut on that."
Of course she did. Hannah Griffin had worked another case at the beginning of her career with similar facts. A child had been beaten up and hospitalized with a broken collarbone. X-rays revealed a previous fracture of the tibia that had healed long before, despite the fact that it hadn't been set properly. The child survived, but further and long-overdue investigation by Hannah and her paralegal indicated he hadn't been the first to suffer in the household. It turned out that
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