Chapter Twenty-Three
Olivia stared out the windshield. On both sides, the forest was too thick to see much.
Lincoln slowed to a crawl, the tires grating over rocks and sticks. Following the GPS’s instructions, he made a right turn onto a dirt road. The SUV bounced over a pothole the size of a golden retriever.
In the passenger seat, Olivia’s teeth rattled. She grabbed the chicken strap. “I’m glad you borrowed Lance’s SUV.”
He nodded. “It’s built to handle the terrain.”
“We are in the middle of nowhere,” Nicki said from the back seat.
The forest opened up into a sloping meadow on one side.
Olivia spotted a lake in the distance. Another slow mile later, and a rusty, numbered mailbox on a bare four-by-four marked the entrance to Conway’s property.
Lincoln eased the car over a deep rut. In the center of a square patch of mowed grass sat a tiny one-story house.
A row of mums brightened the flower bed, and two rocking chairs sat on the front porch.
Behind the house, whitecaps topped the lake.
A pair of kayaks sat on the back lawn within dragging distance of the water.
“This is more quaint than I expected.” Lincoln parked in front of the house.
Nicki said, “It’s cute.”
Olivia agreed. The encroaching vast wildness juxtaposed with the tidiness of the yard.
They got out of the car. An icy blast tore at her hair.
She fished a scrunchie out of her pocket and tied it back in a ponytail.
There were no road sounds. No voices. Just plenty of absolute silence broken by the occasional rustle of foliage and the tweet of a bird.
They’d left civilization behind miles ago.
She wondered how long it took for law enforcement to respond way out here.
The shiver that traveled up her spine was half cold, half apprehension.
Olivia looked at Nicki. “You could wait in the car with Lincoln.” They’d already discussed that he looked too much like a cop to interview Conway.
Nicki’s face was completely covered by the hair whipping around her head. “Today, I’m your assistant. I’m here to take notes. Besides, even with Sharp in the car, isn’t it safer if you’re not alone? Teenage horror movies demonstrate that separating is a bad idea.”
Before Olivia could respond, Sharp butted in. “I agree. You two should stay together.”
“See?” Nicki started toward the house.
“Fine.” Olivia hurried to catch up. They climbed the single step to the porch and knocked on the door. The floorboards looked new, and the trim on the house had been freshly painted.
A woman of about fifty answered the door. “Yes?” She wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and wool slippers. Her face was clear of makeup, and her graying brown hair was coiled into a loose bun. Her gaze held suspicion but no hostility.
“We’re here to see Conway Hamilton.” Maybe they had the wrong address, Olivia thought.
“You must be Olivia Cruz.” The woman nodded. “Could I see some ID, please?”
“Sure.” The request caught Olivia off guard. Did she want to give this woman her address? No. She opened her backpack and dug out her business card and an old journalist ID. As she offered them, she gestured to Nicki. “This is my assistant, Natalie.”
Nicki raised a brow at the impromptu alias, but she was smart enough to say nothing. She would only have a driver’s license, and Olivia didn’t want her to reveal her name or address. Conway was a convicted criminal who might have killed his own daughter.
The woman scrutinized it, then handed it back.
“I’m sorry. Since Conway was released, he’s had nonstop harassment from true crime junkies, bloggers, and reporters.
People were standing on our sidewalk chanting ‘murderer.’ Someone threw a brick through our window.
We left our house in town and came up here to get away from them.
They haven’t found us, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. ”
“This isn’t your full-time residence?” Olivia asked.
“No.” She opened the door wider and gestured for them to enter. “This is our vacation home. We come up here in the summer to get away from the heat. We fish and kayak, et cetera.”
“You and Conway?” Olivia stepped across the threshold.
“No. My husband and I.” She closed the door after Nicki. “I’m Eleanor, Conway’s cousin.”
“Nice of you to take him in,” Nicki said.
Eleanor lowered her voice. “My husband wasn’t happy, given Conway’s history, but I’m his only living relative—and it won’t be for long.”
“He’s moving?” Olivia unbuttoned her jacket.
Eleanor shook her head. “He’s dying. Lung cancer.
He only has a few months to live. Otherwise, my husband would have insisted he go somewhere else.
” She walked through a living room to a glassed-in back deck with a spectacular view of the lake.
Conway sat in a recliner, attached to an oxygen tank on wheels by a tube.
Eleanor waved toward a love seat facing him.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” She left the room.
Nicki sat on the love seat and took a small notepad out of her pocket.
Olivia extended a hand toward Conway. “I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He waved off her introduction and her offered hand. “Sit.”
Since he wasn’t hung up on formalities, Olivia didn’t bother to introduce Nicki. She perched next to her niece, leaning forward, hands clasped on her knees.
“I don’t have a lot of time before I take my next dose of painkillers.” He shook his head and wheezed. “It’s funny. They sent me to prison for selling drugs. Now they give me as much as I want.”
Olivia spotted hospice papers on the end table. “I’ll get right to the point then. I’m following up for Zoe March. She called you.”
“Yep,” Conway said. “I called her back weeks ago. She was supposed to come here and interview me, but she never did.”
“I’m sorry Zoe didn’t get back to you. Would you mind answering a few questions for me now?”
Next to Olivia, Nicki clicked her pen and assumed a ready-to-take-notes position.
“This is about Jennifer’s murder, right?” Conway didn’t sound emotional, not one bit.
“It is,” Olivia said. Interviewing victims’ families was tricky.
Some wanted to talk about their loved one.
They could be frustrated by the lack of progress in official cases or angry that law enforcement was unable to obtain justice for their loved one.
Others refused. Olivia always tried to feel them out before asking any hard questions.
She didn’t want to traumatize anyone all over again.
They’d suffered enough. On the other hand, Conway was a suspect in his daughter’s death.
Olivia wanted him to talk, so she erred on the side of compassion.
“I know it’s been a long time, but I’m sorry for your loss. ”
“Sure. Right.” His voice reflected no grief. Once in a while, a reaction just didn’t feel genuine. Not all parents are good ones. “Are you calling because they caught the guy who killed her?”
She froze. Had she heard him correctly? “Excuse me. Did you say they caught the killer?”
“Yeah. The cops were here a couple of days ago. Some truck driver got arrested in Maine for killing a girl. His DNA matched some found on Jennifer’s body. Motherfuckers didn’t even apologize for accusing me of killing my own kid.” He sounded indignant.
“I’m sorry.” Olivia didn’t know what else to say. “Were you close to Jennifer?”
“Um. Yeah.” Again, there was no emotion in his voice. He could have been responding to a question about his favorite sandwich. His eyes weren’t the least bit misty.
Olivia wondered how well he had even known his daughter and if he’d shed tears when she died. “Can you tell me a story about Jennifer?”
Conway leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes went small, and his posture stiffened in defiance. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend. I’d be happy to give you the inside scoop—every dirty detail—for a price.”
Speaking of motherfuckers . . .
“You want to sell the story of your daughter’s murder?
” Olivia wasn’t against sharing the proceeds of her work.
When she’d written about the Chelsea Clark kidnapping, she’d shared the royalties with the family.
They’d needed money for therapy and medical expenses and to move away from the place where the trauma had occurred.
Plus, Chelsea had spent dozens of hours answering Olivia’s questions and telling her story.
No one had offered to sell the “dirty details.”
Olivia had also made sure the book factually represented Chelsea’s experience, without embellishment or sensationalism.
It encompassed the toll the kidnapping had taken on Chelsea and her entire family.
The book had been a solid bestseller. Chelsea and her family were able to get the care they needed.
They’d had the money to relocate to be near Chelsea’s parents.
Also, Chelsea had said that telling her story had helped her recover.
She’d gone public with the truth to ward off misinformation and because she’d had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.
Her kidnapping was 100 percent the fault of the man who’d hurt her.
Chelsea’s truth was part of Olivia’s motivation for telling her own story.
Put the truth into the world. Own the trauma.
Accept it as part of you and understand that it always will be.
There was no way to run from your own memories.
“Me being broke won’t do her any good. I got needs.
Medicare doesn’t cover luxuries, and I’d like a few while I’m dying.
” Conway shrugged. He just wanted to make a buck, and he didn’t care how.
“And I ain’t got time to wait for you to write your article or whatever neither.
I don’t have a lot of time left. I got stuff I want to do. ”
“What was Jennifer’s favorite food?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t remember,” he snapped. “Chicken nuggets, maybe. It’s been twenty years. If you want any more answers, you’ll have to pay up!”
Olivia would bet a thousand dollars he’d never known what his daughter’s favorite food was, but also that he would make up whatever details he thought might pay the best. “If I have any further questions, I know how to reach you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Hey, don’t you want my story?” he protested, his face reddening.
“No, I was interested in Jennifer’s story.” Olivia rose.
Nicki shoved her notepad into her pocket and followed Olivia from the room. They passed Eleanor in the living room. “Done already?” she asked.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “It seems he doesn’t have the information we’re looking for. Thank you anyway.”
Eleanor walked them to the door. “I’m not surprised. He’s usually full of shit and always focused solely on himself.”
Nicki snorted. “Thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry he wasn’t much of a help. Then again, he’s never been anything but a leech his entire life.” Eleanor closed the door behind them.
They left the house, walked back to the car, and summed up the interview for Lincoln.
Nicki said, “People suck. He didn’t care about his dead daughter at all.”
“I suspect he didn’t know his daughter that well. Somewhere in the case materials,” Olivia recalled, “Zoe noted that Jennifer was mostly raised by her mother.”
“So, Conway would just make up stuff to get more money, whether it was true or not.” In the back seat, Nicki fastened her seat belt with hostility. “You’d never be able to trust anything he said.”
“You’re right. That could have been one of the reasons Zoe abandoned the case.”
Nicki used both thumbs to work her phone.
“Her theory about who killed Jennifer was spot-on, though.” She leaned forward and thrust the phone between the seats.
“Here’s the story in the Scranton Press.
DNA solves twenty-year-old murder. It says the killer has been linked to more than two dozen cases so far. ”
“Zoe has a nose for the truth,” Olivia said.
“That’s why her show is successful.” Lincoln turned the SUV around and headed back down the dirt road.
Olivia watched storm clouds gather on the horizon, looming heavy and dark, like harbingers of doom. She hoped the rain held off until they got back to the main road, but luck was not on their side. Drizzle began to dot the windshield.
Nicki withdrew her phone and sat back. “Zoe didn’t run because she’s afraid of Conway Hamilton. Hopefully, the Brown case will have the answers.”