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"I just wanted to share my ideas with you, that's all."

"What ideas?"

"About your mother, the case. I told you why it intrigued me, and it has nothing to do with making fun of you. Not everything has to be about you. That's what my mother's always telling me about myself," he added, smiling.

"Okay, what?" I said, folding my arms under my breasts and shifting my weight to my right leg. Aunt Zipporah told me my mother used to do the same thing when she was a little annoyed.

"Come on back to my room for a few minutes. I have something to show you," he said and turned and walked back as if there was no doubt I would, too.

He's pretty damn sure of himself; I thought, but instead of concluding he was simply another arrogant boy, I envied him for his self-confidence and followed. He was sitting at his desk.

"Come on in," he said. "I won't bite."

"Aren't you worried that I might?"

He laughed. "I might enjoy it."

"Very funny. What do you want to show me?" I asked, stepping over to him. He reached down and opened the drawer on his right to pluck out a folder. Then he put it on his desk and opened it. The top page was a copy of a news story about the Pearson murder. I thought the headline was gruesomely tongue-incheek: "Prescription for Death, Druggist Murdered in Sand- burg."

"You ever see this stuff?"

I shook my head.

"I duplicated as much as I could at the public library. Here," he said, standing. "Sit down and read it. There's more in the folder. You'll even find the police report."

I looked at him, surprised.

"How did you get that?"

"Someone at the police department has a brother working for us at the lumberyard and did me a favor. Do you know, were you aware of the fact that your grandfather worked for my grandfather at the lumberyard?"

I shook my head.

"Yes, it's true. He died young. You knew that, right?"

I was ashamed to admit how little I knew about my mother's family, so I didn't respond.

"Go ahead. Read some of it. You want something to drink? A soda, juice?"

"Just some cold water;" I said, staring down at the papers on the desk. It was truly like a magnet drawing my eyes. I slowly lowered myself to the chair.

"I'll be right back. Take your time."

I could see how excited he was that I was going to read all this. I heard him charge down the stairs to get my water and get back. I smiled to myself, and then I began to read what was in the folder. It was truly like opening a forbidden door.

The first story told about the discovery of Harry's body and then the search for my mother. There were follow-up stories about the continual search, each story repeating the gruesome details. From the dates on the paper, it looked like not a day had gone by without something being written about the case. The reporter who was writing the stories made reference to the Doral case, as if somehow they could be related. It was the only other famous murder in the village, and here I was living in the Doral House, ironically touched by both crimes.

My aunt Zipporah was never mentioned by name, but references were made to a "close friend" who claimed this and claimed that. It was obvious to me who that was. There were many quotes attributed to Darlene Pearson, who was in and out of a state of shock, according to the reporter. In every instance, she had no explanation. According to her, it had all come as a big surprise. For a while at the very beginning, she even doubted my mother had done it and was worried that maybe she had been kidnaped by whoever had. That idea quickly disappeared when someone leaked the information that my mother had fled to New York City.

And then finally there was the story of the police picking her up. Someone in the police department, quoted as an anonymous source, revealed that she had been hiding in the attic of the Doral House, and once again, the possible murder of Brandon Doral was discussed as if there was some direct tie-in to the Pearson case.

Craig had everything, including the follow-up stories about the court procedure

s and my mother eventually being remanded to a mental institution.

"What do you think?" he asked, handing me a glass of water.

I took it and sipped some. "What do you mean?" "Anything you didn't know?"