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Alone at home, Vern Hamilton was concentrating on his computer monitor.

He’d closed his wooden shutters, muting the light in his study. As he read to the end of the online edition of Denise Diaz’s story, his body sagged. This was not the rehash Bob Ellerd had anticipated.

It was an in-depth investigative article, and it was good.

She’s nailed everything.

He sipped his glass of whiskey, then dragged the back of his hand over his lips.

Well, almost everything.

Vern looked at the framed photo of Doreen next to his computer, then the one with Carrie, Luke and Emily. He glanced at his prescription bottles. Ice rattled as he drank, scrolling the article, words and photos reflecting in his glasses like a running river, carrying him back to that day…

The doorbell rang.

Vern wondered who it could be until he saw Carrie’s car through the window.

He opened the door to see her standing there with Emily in her arms.

They went to the living room.

“How’re you today, Dad?”

“Physically, or mentally?”

“You know what I mean.”

The edges of his mustache had drooped, his expression sober. Across the room, through his study’s open door, Carrie saw his glass by his computer and caught the smell of alcohol when he let out a breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me this story was coming?” Vern asked. “That you talked to the reporter and went back into those woods with her?”

Unshouldering her bag, Carrie put Emily down, then withdrew a picture book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar , and gave it to her.

“I’d heard she was nosing around,” Vern said. “But not a word from you. Why?”

“You would’ve tried to talk me out of talking to her.”

“You’re right. Because it’s behind us. Why do this?”

“She had the case files and I needed answers.”

“Why? You don’t need to remember. You should stop this. It’s over.”

“Not for me. I’ve gone back to that day so many times, trying to remember. Dad, it’s like the day you came to my school to tell me Mom died.”

His jaw tensed and he raised his head slightly.

“It changed me,” she said. “It changed both of us.”

Vern blinked at his own dark thoughts.

“And that day I went into the woods, the not knowing, is always with me.”

She stared hard at her father.

“Can you understand? I need to know why we were in the woods.”

Vern rubbed his chin and asked: “Did you get the answers you need, going back there with the reporter? Did you remember?”

Carrie paused.

“A few more pieces came back.”

Vern tilted his head. “What pieces?”

“Abby and Erin said they needed to talk to me in the woods.”

“You said that in the story.”

“Why would they want to meet me secretly?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, it hasn’t come back to me. Do you know?”

Vern stuck out his bottom lip.

“Why would I know? It could have been a world of reasons. You should put a stop to this remembering stuff. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me, Dad. I want to know why we were there. Why did they want to talk to me?”

“I don’t know.”

Carrie shifted the subject. “You went to see Hyde on death row. Why?”

“Time was running out. All the evidence pointed to him, like the story says.”

“How did you get him to confess?”

“All of his appeals had failed. I told him this was the time to clear his conscience.”

Carrie looked at Vern, processing his answer when soft chattering drew them to Emily. She’d pattered into the study. Carrie went after her, getting a pen and paper from her father’s desk, letting Emily sit on the floor and scribble.

Carrie took in the room; the air held Vern’s cologne, loneliness, heartbreak and resignation to his condition. She saw the photos beside his computer. Being in this room stirred Carrie’s childhood memory of how she used to toddle into the study and crawl up onto her dad’s lap.

Carrie’s mind went to other memories. When she was a little older, she’d sometimes find his homicide textbooks open. As a little girl, she was chilled by the graphic photos of murder victims—shot, burned, drowned, stabbed, eviscerated. But she was also fascinated and engrossed, reading details until her mother found her. Doreen always put the books up out of reach, then scolded Carrie’s dad.

For heaven’s sake, Vern, do not leave these things lying around for Carrie to see!

She glanced at her dad’s bottles of medication, then turned to him. Vern had joined them in the room, lowering himself into the sofa chair, his eyes crinkling as he watched Emily.

“Are you taking your pills, Dad?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking, period.”

“You’re right—it might kill me.”

“Dad.” Carrie raked her fingers through her hair. “I know the story could raise those disgusting rumors of how a lot of people thought Mom died because you—hurt her. I’m sorry. That must’ve been painful.”

Vern pushed back a surge of anguish.

“I admit that I was quick to anger with her at times. I had my reasons. But despite what small minds in a small town whip up, I did not hurt her.”

Carrie was weighing his response when he turned to face her.

“In some ways, you’re like me, quick to anger.”

“What?”

“You argued with those girls in the cafeteria. They were older, more popular, but you got in their faces over their bullying.”

“It wasn’t anger so much as doing what I thought was right.”

Carrie surveyed Vern’s study, the plaques, citations and mounted guns, the shelves lined with those books and journals of horrendous criminal histories. She scanned titles like: Criminal Investigative Analysis ; FBI Academy: Serial Offenders ; Forensic Techniques ; Homicide Investigation ; and Crime Scene Processing and Investigation .

“Why can’t I remember why they wanted to talk to me, Dad?”

“You don’t have to remember. Hyde confessed. It’s all buried. You don’t have to remember.”

“Yes, I do. Because I nearly died, too.”