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She waited for Patton to break eye contact before leaving. As she walked down the hall toward the exit, she felt confident that by showing up here today she had made a difference. And she was prepared to come back every twenty-four months as he became eligible to appeal again. Between her intention and a thing called justice, Darrell Patton would serve out his full fifty years.
TWO
The drive from the USP back to Washington, DC, where Sandra lived, took three hours. On the way she’d received a text from Olivia asking how things had gone, and that she was at her best friend Avery’s house. Leave it to a sixteen-year-old to message over calling.
Sandra dictated a response to the voice-activated system in her Mercedes. “I think things went well, and just remember to be home by curfew at ten. I’m going to spend some time with grandma before going home. Call if you need anything.”
The voice of her vehicle confirmed, “Message sent.”
Technology sure had changed in the last thirty-three years. Sam would be lost if he were to return to this world.
It was six o’clock by the time Sandra was pulling into the driveway of Davenport Manor. It was an estate mansion, more than any ordinary house. It had belonged to her adoptive father’s family for generations and was like another member of the family. It was this generational pride that had their adoptive father insisting that Sandra and Sam take on the Davenport name, but only adding to the one they were born with. They grew up with hyphenated names before it was even much a thing. Vos-Davenport.
The Davenports had taken in Sandra and her brother after several desperate attempts to have a child of their own had failed. They had been thirty-eight at the time but had generational money going back to the early eighteen hundreds when the family got into logging and was made wealthy. This provided them with more than enough funds to afford children, and they possessed an abundance of love.
William Davenport, Bill to his friends, Dad to her and Sam, had died ten years ago of a heart attack. But his wife, Margo, now seventy-one, still lived in the manor. Despite her declining mental health due to a battle with Alzheimer’s, she refused to leave her marital home. Instead, she used the family’s wealth to pay for round-the-clock in-home care.
Sandra parked and ducked inside, with a quick rap on one of the double dark mahogany front doors on her way through.
Margo’s live-in nurse, Dana Ford, greeted her in the entry. She was a clear example of why no one should be judged by appearance. At only five three and of tiny build, it would be an error to assume she wasn’t strong. She could probably bench press Sandra’s one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Dana was also in her forties, though closer to forty than Sandra, who was creeping up on fifty at forty-seven.
Dana was a registered nurse, but she also stepped in for basic household responsibilities as called upon. This included things like getting the door and serving up meals, snacks, and drinks for Margo and any guests. In addition to Dana, Margo employed other staff. A cook came in a few times a week and prepared meals, which Dana heated up and set out. There was a cleaner who came in once a month to dust down the ornate woodwork of the home and all the fine pieces of furniture. A specialized cleaner tended to the art collection that spanned the walls. And a regular maid cleaned the home a bit every day, doing so in curated rounds, so by week’s end the entire place was finishedonly to start again. Of course, there were also outdoor crews that tended to the yard with its extensive gardens and cherry trees.
“How is she?” Sandra unwound her scarf and took off her coat, handing both over to Dana.
“More good than bad today, though you know what the evening is often like.”
Sandra nodded. Any time after six PM, Margo’s mind seemed to tire out and retreat. But that didn’t stop Sandra from wishing to believe her mother was aware on a certain level. Even if it only brought a fleeting moment of recognition and happiness. She wouldn’t want her to suffer one moment thinking her daughter didn’t care enough to visit. Though, she could tell by the absence in her eyes sometimes that she didn’t always know. In the least, company alone seemed to lift Margo’s spirits.
Dana secured Sandra’s clothing over her arm. “You look tired. Could I get you a coffee? A light snack? Your mother’s already eaten.”
“Both would be much appreciated,” she told Dana.
“I’ll bring it to you. She’s in the parlor.”
“Thank you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sandra would grab a meal when she got home, then collapse on the couch. The coffee just might get her there. Her day had started at five AM with a run next to the Potomac. It was a personal regimen born of necessity. The fresh air and workout got her heart pumping and cleansed her mind and soul. It had a way of purging most of her demons, even if they were just put off for thirty minutes or so. She looked forward to the morning when she could get back out there again. Though the stress from today’s events might require an exorcist.
Sandra walked through the beautiful house, a place she’d called home since the age of twelve. Not that she had taken to it right away. Or to the Davenports themselves, for thatmatter. Her life before had been far different. Their father was a policeman and had died in the line of duty. He’d always believed it would be Sam who would follow in his footsteps. While he never got the chance, Sandra entered law enforcement. By taking the oath to God and country, it was as if she carried both men whom she had loved so very much with her. It was for the same reason the gold St. Michael pendant never left her neck. All this also brought her closer to her mother, who had fallen into an eternal slumber after taking an entire bottle of sleeping pills in grief over the loss of her husband.
Sandra reached the doorway to the parlor, a grand room, and Margo’s favorite for good reason. The furnishings were antique and, like the house, had been passed along from generation to generation of Davenports. The house overall was shadowy, encouraged by the dark wood walls and fixtures, but this room was the exception. Margo insisted on the removal of the original heavy, burgundy drapes. Their absence allowed sunlight to drench the space through the floor-to-ceiling windows and offered an unrestricted view of the backyard. During early spring, it was especially captivating when the blossoms on the cherry trees were in full bloom.
Margo was sitting in a plush chair, a blanket over her lap, a book in hand, next to the window and across from the fireplace. Its mantel, defined by modern standards would be oversized and gaudy, but from an architectural and historical standpoint, it was a thing of beauty.
“Mrs. Davenport,” Sandra said as she approached. She didn’t want to call her Margo or Mother out of mercy in case she didn’t remember her.
Margo looked up, setting her book in her lap, and a huge smile graced her face. “Sandra, dear, why are you being so formal?”
“It’s how you raised me. To be a proper young lady.” She smiled at the woman who had seen her through her adolescence and who was so warm a creature that she’d harm no one. She was bred to pinch the handle of her teacup with her index finger and thumb, while leaving the burden of the weight to her middle finger. One day, many years ago, Margo had told her, “It’s how the British royals drink their tea.” Yet despite the formal upbringing, Margo had retained her humble and sweet nature. Nothing about her was pretentious. In her older age, she’d physically shrunk, and her light complexion turned an almost translucent white and became speckled with age spots.
“Posh.” She waved a hand. “Dear, sit, sit. Tell me all about your day. Mine hasn’t been terribly exciting, I’m afraid.”
“It was a long one for me. Lots going on.” There was no way she was bringing up Darrell Patton wanting early parole for fear her mother remembered he was the one who took Sam from them. She didn’t want to upset her, or have the need to tell her yet again that Sam was gone. She’d already watched that pain wash over her face more times than Sandra cared to count. That line in her speech about their mother being haunted by the decision to allow Sam to go out was the truth when moments of lucidity rolled in.
“At work?”