Page 6 of 4th Silence

Talk about a double-whammy.

I remove the lid from the box. “I’m fine. The distraction will be good.” I wave her off. “Just, you know, keep the coffee coming.”

Charlie gives me ten long seconds of eye contact while Mom grabs the last box from the cart.

“We’re good,” I say. “Really, I’m fine.”

She shakes her head and points. “Two hours. Then you need sleep.”

Good luck, girlfriend. “Sure. No problem. And, please, deal with that phone. I can’t take it.”

“I’ll turn the ringer down and ask Haley to go through the messages. We’ll come up with a plan on how to manage it. Mom, if we lose Haley, you’re helping me beg her to stay.”

“Yada, yada,” our mother says. “Whatever.”

Clearly unhappy with us, my sister spins on her pricey heel and heads to the door.

“Maddening,” she mutters. “The both of you.”

Once Charlie clears out, I turn back to the box, staring down at the contents that nearly spill over the top. “Wow. Mom, what is all of this?”

She edges the box sideways. “That’s box one. I labeled them.”

Of course, she did.

“Witness statements. The Hartmans were having their annual Christmas bash. Two hundred of their closest friends.”

“Two hundred!”

The Hartmans are one of those uber-wealthy D.C. families who aren’t politicians but have enough money to ensure their candidate of choice is elected. Which bodes well for them, since their wealth is built on oil and gas, and they need politicians in their pocket.

“I haven’t been able to put together the complete guest list,” Mom says, “but I’m eighty percent there.”

I lift a manila folder and open it. Inside is a half inch-thick, heavily redacted transcript of an interview with Irene Hartman, the now-deceased matriarch of the family and great-grandmother of the victim.

Some may think my mother is crazy, but she gets shit done. “Mom, how did you get this?”

“I FOIA’d it.”

FOIA. The much-loved Freedom of Information Act allows citizens, particularly journalists, to request copies of records. And the government is required to release them. Sure, there are certain exceptions, but for the most part, unless a government entity wants to battle a lawsuit, they have to comply.

My mother loves a good FOIA request.

“Go, Mom.”

Anxious to see what she’s collected, I set the folder on the conference room table and flip through articles and news clippings. A photo of a smiling Tiffany, her two front teeth missing. It’s like a knife to my chest. I set the image aside and … whoa.

“The nine-one-one call,” I say.

“Yes. That’s one of the few that wasn’t redacted. The bastards. Mary Hartman made it. She took over when Irene died.”

That name. I spin it around, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Folder in hand, I step to the doorway. “Charlie!”

“What?” my sister calls from her office.

“Mary Hartman. How do I know that name?”