Page 19 of What She Saw

I lifted my gaze. “You said Patty vanished at the festival.”

“That’s right.” Buddy tapped the counter as he stared at me. “Patty had a kid. A daughter. And she’d be about thirty-two now.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you Sloane Reed?”

“I am, but the last name is Grayson.”

Buddy’s gaze grew distant—as if he’d been transported back three decades. A customer summoned him, but he didn’t respond. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Why is your last name different?”

“I took my grandmother’s surname. Reed was my grandmother’s first husband, and Grayson was her second or third.”

“Why are you here?”

I glanced into the face of the young, vibrant, hopeful woman in the photo. She looked nothing like the woman described by the media.

Many reporters focused on Patty’s relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Larry, who had several assault charges filed against him. They also mentioned Patty’s underage drug charge and her out-of-wedlock child. They’d all painted her as a troubled woman living on the edge. The general tone hinted that good girls were safe from danger, and bad girls got what they deserved.

“I’m writing about the Mountain Music Festival victims.”

“It’s been thirty-one years. The killer is rotting in prison.”

“And the bodies were never recovered. There’s no closure for the families.”

“You think a collection of bones will help anyone now?”

“It might. And all those women deserve to be found.”

A patron held up an empty cup, but Buddy ignored him. “I liked Patty. She was a ray of sunshine. Never had a frown on her face or a sour word. After you were born, she brought you to work and waited tables with you strapped to her chest. You were fat and had no hair.”

My grandmother had plenty of pictures of me when I was a baby but only one image of Patty holding me. When I was seven, I found it in her bedroom drawer and took it. I reached in my wallet, pulled out the cracked photo, and laid it on the counter.

A smile lifted Buddy’s lips. “Yeah, I remember you.”

In both images, Patty’s hair was in a ponytail, but I wondered what it had looked like down. I wondered if she had a signature scent. If her hands were soft or calloused. Did she have a favorite song?

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

“The time I remember most was earlier in the day. We were boxing up supplies for the booth at the festival. Her sitter had canceled, and she’d brought you to work for a few hours.”

“What happened that morning?”

“I kept a playpen in the back for you and anyone else’s kid who needed a temporary place to land. You didn’t like the pen. You hated naps. That morning you were playing with a few wooden spoons and a bowl. I always figured you’d be happier with a blowtorch and a knife. Never a dull moment with you.”

He wasn’t far off the mark. I’d not been a normal kid. I didn’t care about birthdays, dolls, or games. I was more interested in looking through my grandmother’s dresser drawers, purse, or the glove box in her car. And after I’d searched every inch of our house, I broke into my neighbors’ homes.

“What were you discussing?”

“Hamburger buns,” he said more to himself. “She wanted to stock more. I was worried about getting stuck with too much inventory. She was right, of course.”

Later it would come out in testimony that Buddy and Patty had been having an affair. Grainy security footage caught Buddy pulling Patty into a supply closet while I’d played in that playpen with my kitchen supplies.

Patty had resisted, but Buddy had kept tugging. Patty had glanced back toward me. Finally, she’d relented. Fifteen minutes later, they’d emerged. He was smiling. She looked stressed. I was beating the spoon against the bowl.

Patty had wanted to end it with Buddy, other employees of the diner had said. But a woman with a child had to weigh her choices carefully, especially when she was one paycheck away from being homeless. The older I grew, the more I admired how she’d handled her tough journey.

“You arrived at the festival around ten p.m.?”