Page 83 of What She Saw

“Helps me understand Tristan.”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Sure. Help yourself.”

I moved to the largest wall in the den, covered in at least twenty color and black-and-white photos of the Fletcher family.

The sisters looked very much alike, but it was clear Tristan had a dancer’s elegance. “Why the swing set in the backyard?”

“The kids next door come by after school sometimes. Their mother works two jobs. I put the set up for them.”

“Nice of you.”

“Nice to hear children’s voices again. I miss that.” He met my gaze. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“If you get the chance, take it. It’ll make your life better.”

I didn’t have what it took to care for a child. “You’d say that even after losing a child?”

“I wouldn’t wish away the years with the girls for anything.”

Fletcher’s cell phone rang from his back pocket. He glanced at the display. He frowned and sent the call to voicemail.

“You didn’t go to Rafe Colton’s trial, did you?”

“No. I didn’t have the stomach for it.”

Representatives from the other families had all been at the trial at one point or another. Monica Carr and Sara had been fixtures in the courthouse. When I looked back on those days, I realized she enjoyed the trial more than mothering me—the distant, moody child.

But no one from the Fletcher family had attended the trial or the sentencing hearing.

“I don’t want you to mention Tristan in your article,” he said.

“The focus of the piece is the victims.”

His jaw clenched. “Why now? Why after all this time?”

“I want to find their bodies. I want to bring them home.” I knew Tristan had a marker in the cemetery, but the coffin was empty. Mrs. Fletcher’s grave was to the left, and a marker-in-waiting was there for Mr. Fletcher. None for the sister, but maybe she’d decided to draw the line with spending time with the family in the afterlife.

“Is an empty coffin enough for you, Mr. Fletcher?”

His brow furrowed with a mixture of frustration and surprised anger. “None of it is enough, Ms. Grayson. That festival blew my family apart. And anyone who thinks bones in the ground will fill the hole inside of me is a fool.”

Taggart had been a linear thinker. His tunnel vision was locked on finding the killer. He’d found enough evidence to prove his case in court. End of story. But he’d not found the missing women. Beyond the families, the remains were a mild curiosity for the world.

Taggart caught his killer, but he had failed the victims.

I would not.

Chapter Twenty-Six

CJ Taggart

Tuesday, May 24, 1994, 1:00 p.m.

3 Days After

Taggart tracked down Patty’s ex-boyfriend, Larry Summers, to his family-owned business near Staunton, Virginia, about a forty-five-minute drive west of Dawson. Summers had left Dawson, Patty, and his child, but he was close enough to keep tabs on them both.