Page 58 of The Women of Oak Ridge

CHAPTER TWENTY:LAUREL

AUNT MAE’S TELEPHONErang in the kitchen, startling me where I sat at the table, the books I’d borrowed from the library about Oak Ridge’s history spread across the surface. Aunt Mae had gone to visit the couple down the street whose baby was due to arrive any day, so I stood to answer the call.

“Hi, Laurel,” Jonas said. “I’m glad you answered.” His voice sounded tense.

“Is everything okay?”

“Are you free right now? Could you come down to the station? I found something I think you need to see.”

Surprise surged through me. “About Sylvia Galloway? That was fast. Can’t you just tell me about it over the phone?”

“It’s actually about your aunt,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’d rather talk about it in person.”

That didn’t sound good. “Of course, I can be there in twenty minutes.”

I hurried to freshen up and change from shorts to jeans, thenscribbled a note to Aunt Mae, letting her know I would be out for a while. The fact that Jonas had found something he wasn’t willing to discuss over the telephone stirred up an anxious feeling inside me.

He met me in the front lobby of the police station, his expression sober.

“Thanks for coming.”

I nodded, my concern growing. “I confess you have me worried.”

He led the way down a hall to a small room with a table and three chairs. A file lay on the tabletop. “We’ll have some privacy in here,” he said as he closed the door.

“Jonas, what’s going on?”

He motioned me to a chair while he settled in the one opposite from me.

“After you told me about Sylvia Galloway and the article asking for information on her whereabouts, I did some digging. Records from the 1940s are stored in cardboard boxes, so locating a specific case file is no easy task.”

“But you found something?”

He nodded. “I found the box that held records from the last half of 1944. There’s not a file on Sylvia. At least, not about her specifically.”

My brow tugged. “I don’t understand.”

He reached for the folder that lay on the tabletop between us, opened it, and took out a single sheet of paper. “This is a report from December 1944. It was filed with the MP’s office by someone named Clive Morrison.” He met my confused gaze. “It’s a complaint against your aunt, Maebelle Willett.”

“A complaint? For what?”

“Mr. Morrison claims your aunt broke into his home.”

I stared at him, my mind spinning. “That’s absurd. Aunt Mae is not a thief.”

“It says nothing of value was stolen, but—”

“Then why file a report?”

A look of remorse filled his face. “Because Mr. Morrison claims your aunt was his scorned lover, and she wanted to discredit him in some way.”

It felt like the air evaporated from the room with his words.

I shook my head. “That can’t be. Aunt Mae wouldn’t...” Whatever else I was going to say faded in disbelief. I simply shook my head again. “She wouldn’t.”

Jonas glanced at the report. “Mr. Morrison’s statement goes on to say that Mae was jealous when he broke things off with her and started to date her roommate.” He paused. “Sylvia Galloway.”

When I didn’t appear surprised by the revelation, he studied me a long moment. “You knew Sylvia was Mae’s roommate.” It wasn’t a question.