Page 18 of What She Saw

“Sure. Who hasn’t? It was a big case back in the day.”

Surprise wrinkled his brow. “Most people don’t know about it. Which is a good thing. Tourists were afraid of Dawson for a long time after that.”

I bit into the toast, willing my stomach to settle. “Time papers over a lot of the facts.”

“I never thought anyone would forget that festival. It was the worst thing that could have happened to Dawson. After the furniturefactory closed, we needed to bolster tourism. But the festival shut all that down.”

“I read about the factory. It employed fifty people.”

“My brothers worked there.” The guy nodded as he wiped his hands on his apron. “You don’t act like her.”

Silent, I mixed more cream into my coffee, hoping it would soften the bitterness, before asking, “Do I know you?”

“I’m Buddy. I own this place.”

I nodded. “Who’s my twin?”

“Patty Reed. She worked here thirty-two years ago.”

“That’s awesome recall after all that time.”

He drew in a breath. “Hard to forget Patty.”

I picked up a triangle of toast. “Why?”

“She was one of the Mountain Music Festival victims.”

That was the final detail in Patty’s brief biography. Patty Reed, nineteen, last seen at the Mountain Music Festival. Presumed dead. But those few words didn’t paint an accurate portrait of a woman who had been a force. “Tell me about her.”

He shook his head. “Why do you care?”

“You brought her up, not me. I’m making conversation now.”

Wagging a finger at me, he asked, “Are you related to Patty?”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Good interviewers deflected back to the inquirer.

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“Curious.”

“Let me fill a few orders, and then I’ll be back.”

I nibbled on toast as Buddy filled more coffee cups. He set several breakfast plates down on the counter and rang up tabs. I kept eating, unsure if my stomach felt unsettled because I’d not eaten since the tomato soup, or if my body was reacting to the case. As I’d gotten closer to Dawson, I’d felt sicker.

Most of the victims I wrote about weren’t saints. Some were, but most had crossed a line. They’d slept with or sold themselves to the wrong guy. They’d taken drugs, wandered into a sketchy bar, or blindly trusted a predator. None of these victims had deserved what happened to them.

“I keep this posted in my office,” Buddy said. “I should have taken it down a long time ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Didn’t want her forgotten.” He handed the image to me.

The rumpled color photo had a torn corner and a coffee ring stain. The background was this diner. There were a few folks sitting at the bar. A gal with permed blond hair wore a loose-fitting pink-and-white-striped sweater. A guy sported a bushy mustache and a black Bon Jovi T-shirt. In the background there was a pay phone.

The photo’s details faded from view as I studied a young woman with a bright smile who stood closer to the camera. Her thick black hair was like mine, and our vivid blue eyes were the same shade. My gaze narrowed into a tunnel as I searched inside myself for a flicker of love or regret. If anything on this planet could ignite feelings inside me, it would be a picture like this. I suspected most people would have felt sadness, outrage, or fury. But I felt nothing. I angled my phone over the picture and snapped.

“You look like Patty,” Buddy said.