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HAZLETON, Pa.—A man was found stabbed to death yesterday inside the home he shared with his wife and stepdaughter. Responding to emergency calls, Hazleton police found Earl Potash, 46, dead in the kitchen of his Maple Street duplex, the victim of multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach. Authorities have ruled the incident a homicide. The investigation is continuing.
I press a hand to my forehead. My skin is hot to the touch. That’s because of the reference to Blackthorn in the first article. The name always makes me break into a nervous sweat. Although I can’t remember how, I know I’ve heard about those murders in the woods. They took place a year or so before Pine Cottage, in the very same forest. Why Lisa kept this news clipping in a folder devoted to Sam is beyond my comprehension.
A second read doesn’t make things any clearer, so I tuck the clippings back into the folder and put it away. Now it’s time for the white folder.
My folder.
The first thing I see upon opening it is a single sheet of paper. My name is on it. So is my phone number. Now it starts to make more sense. Now I know how Sam got my phone number to call me the night she was arrested.
Next are articles about Pine Cottage, fastened together with a pink paper clip. I flip the stack over without looking at it, fearing I’ll see another picture of Him. Beneath the articles is a letter.
Theletter.
The bad one that made even Coop nervous.
YØU SHØULDN’T BE ALIVE.
YØU SHØULD HAVE DIED IN THAT CABIN.
IT WAS YØUR DESTINY TØ BE SACRIFICED.
Shock blasts through me. I start to gasp but stop myself, afraid Nancy will be able to hear it. Instead, I stare at the letter, not blinking, those out-of-place zeroes like several sets of eyes staring back.
A single question stabs into my thoughts. The obvious one.
How the fuck did Lisa get a copy?
Another, more pressing question follows.
Whydid she have it?
Behind the letter, also paper-clipped, is the transcript of a police interview. At the top is my name and a date. One week after Pine Cottage. Neatly typed below that are the names of two people I haven’t thought of in years—Detective Cole and Detective Freemont.
Nancy’s voice rings out from the end of the hall, on the move, getting closer.
“Quincy?”
I shut the folder with a snap. I lift the back of my shirt, press the folder flat against my spine, and shove it down the seat of my pants far enough so that it won’t flop out when I walk. I then tuck in my blouse, hoping Nancy won’t notice how it was untucked when I arrived.
The other two folders are dropped back into the filing cabinet. The drawer is shoved shut just as Nancy sweeps into the room. She eyes the boxes first, then me, rising from my crouch in front of Lisa’s closet.
“Your time’s about up,” she says.
She’s back to looking at the boxes. Both are only partially filled. One of them has a pair of Lisa’s jeans flopped over the side.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get more done,” I say. “Packing up Lisa’s stuff is harder than I thought it would be. It means she’s really gone.”
We each carry a box to the living room, me letting Nancy lead the way. When we say our good-byes at the door, I worry she’ll attempt a hug. I stiffen at the prospect of her bony arms sliding over the folder jutting at my back. But apparently she’s like Coop when it comes to hugs. She doesn’t even shake my hand. She simply purses her lips, the wrinkles around them bunching.
“Take care of yourself, hon,” she says.
ONE WEEK AFTER PINE COTTAGE
Good Cop and Bad Cop stared at Quincy, expecting something she couldn’t provide. Detective Freemont, that old bulldog, looked rough around the edges, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Quincy noticed he wore the same jacket from their first interview, its glaring mustard stain still intact. Detective Cole, on the other hand, remained a handsome devil, in spite of the bristle on his upper lip that wanted to be a mustache. Its edges flared when he smiled at her.
“You’re probably nervous,” he said. “Don’t be.”
Yet Quincy was very nervous. Only two days out of the hospital and she was in a police station, pushed there in a wheelchair by her exasperated mother because it still hurt to walk.