JOSIE
When I walk into the precinct, heads turn in my direction. There are fewer than a dozen officers in this town, but the place seems crowded. Several undercover cars are parked outside. Two guys in civilian clothes are talking to the chief—I’ve never seen them before.
The chief spots me and walks up.
“Can I pick up my phone?” I ask.
“Good morning to you too.” He smiles, then snaps his fingers at one of his officers, telling him to bring my cell. “How are you?” Hands on his hips, he studies me with concern, like I’m the one who was found in the basement.
“I’m fine. Grandma had an episode.”
“I know.”
I’m about to ask how but then I remember that 911 calls are forwarded to the local precinct.
“I heard the address on the scanner,” he says. “They updated me. She’s fine?”
“Yeah. Just a little scare.”
He nods, his eyes on me, making me self-conscious.
“So, any news? About that guy?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Doing cross-references. It doesn’t look good. The guy has offenses in multiple states, so we are on full alert.”
“What kind of offenses?”
“Sexual harassment, domestic dispute, stalking, fraud, credit debt. All the good stuff.”
“And the woman? From his house?”
“She was released.”
I raise my brows. “You think she’s safe?”
“We’ll have a patrol unit check on her daily.”
“Can I get her address?”
He smooths his beard with his fingers. “Josie, this is an active investigation. Why and how you are connected to this man is still to be determined. I don’t think you should go anywhere near that house or the woman.”
“Did you find out more about him? Fingerprints and all?”
“It takes time. Especially in a small town like ours.”
“And the FBI?” I flick my eyes at the men in civilian clothes. I’m not dumb. I’m sure this case is not local anymore.
“Josie.” Irritation crosses the chief’s face. “Let us do our job. You are already involved in a way that makes things complicated considering your family’s past.”
Here we go.
Officer Miles walks up to us and hands me a Ziplock bag with my cell phone in it.
“Anything interesting?” I ask bitterly and glance at the chief.
“We’ll update you once we have more information. As I asked before, do not discuss this with anyone.”
“Right.” I wait for more information, but the chief and Officer Miles are already ignoring me, discussing something else.
Well, that’s that.
I walk out into the drizzling rain and get in my car, drive to the diner, park, and sit in my car for some time, thinking things over as the soft music from the radio laces with the rain drizzle against my windshield.
I’m going to ask Grandma about that guy from the news. She might refuse to tell me more about what went down years ago, but I will insist. She was definitely affected by him showing up on TV.
Of course, there are other ways to find out more. Since Mallory Blain is a local, someone will know more about her and how she might fit in. It’s time to do more digging.
I open my phone’s internet browser and put “Mallory Blain” in the search bar. Nothing comes up besides obituaries and a random person in Florida with the same name.
I put in other keywords, “Burnville,” “kidnapping,” the date, and find the online article from the regional newspaper. I scan the same information I’ve seen on TV, and there it is, what I was looking for—James Derek Sickler.
I put his name in the browser search next. More articles pop up, all about what happened last night in Burnville, but nothing mentioning the name until I scroll to the bottom of the second search page and find the name highlighted in the article from—
My heart rate spikes. The link is to the online archives of the local newspaper dating back twenty-five years ago.
I click on the preview and read about the fire and the trial.
My grandmother’s name, Karen Boots, is all over the preview part of the article.
But the full version that mentions James Derek Sickler is for subscribers only.
Ugh!
Nothing I know about what happened all those years ago came from my grandma. She always shut down any attempts of mine to talk about it.
“It’s in the past,” she’d say, and that was that.
But everyone in town knew. And they liked to talk. They teased me in school. The joke “set someone on fire like Karen Boots” always made me shiver with unease.
Sandy, pretty much my only friend in high school, whose mom collected newspaper articles, once snuck out her mom’s scrapbook.
It still baffles me that people collect that sort of stuff—newspaper clippings of gory accidents, disasters, police busts, murders, kidnappings.
Sandy’s mom’s scrapbook was Burnville’s wall of shame.
And sure enough, there were pages and pages about the bar fire, the murder, the trial.
My grandma’s mugshot, too, her face so much younger.
So pretty, I thought back then, something no one ever thought about mugshots.
But she did also look like a mobster, or an assassin, her face sharp, indifferent, like the arrest was no biggie.
Those articles would be in the online archive, and without hesitation, I press the “subscribe” button on my phone screen, put in my credit card information, and within seconds, I have access to the local archives going back 100 years.
Impressive. I raise my brows in disbelief, wondering what could possibly be reported about this small town a century ago.
But then, this used to be a coal town, one of many, and actually one of the busier ones.
If I’m ever bored out of my mind, I might look into the 1920s in this town. It could be entertaining.
Right now, I put “James Derek Sickler” into the search field and hold my breath, waiting for the results to load.
Several links appear on the screen, from the newest to the oldest.
I click on the first one.
TRIAL OF LOCAL BAR OWNER LEAVES RESIDENTS RAGING
The article is about the verdict that sent my grandmother to prison for a year. The heavy charges were dismissed except for the insurance fraud, and arson in the first degree with the aggravating factor.
I’ve read this one before, in the infamous scrapbook.
It’s the “aggravating factor” that everyone in town was talking about back then.
That’s why the Hartzels still hate my grandmother.
Why no one believed in the insurance fraud.
Why many thought that Karen Boots was a monster who escaped the harsh punishment for murder.
I said awful things to my grandma growing up. Teenage rage doesn’t spare anyone, even loved ones. Especially loved ones. Unjustified too. I apologized to her so many times afterward, when I got older, wiser, or so I want to think.
When I moved to Pittsburgh, life seemed full of opportunities.
And when I had my first viral video, when I sang at the Deutschtown Festival for the first time, the first person I shared my excitement with was Grandma.
I never believed all the nasty rumors or the verdict of the trial.
None of it. Most people in my grandma’s close circle didn’t either.
“If you know Karen Boots, you know that was all bullshit, a setup,” I heard someone say once. I agree, though I’m definitely biased.
I click on the next article. It’s the one about my grandmother’s arrest. But James Derek Sickler is only mentioned as being a person of interest in regard to the investigation and never being found.
I hear a car swerving fast into the parking lot, the tires screeching against the wet pavement.
The red car pulls into the spot in front of the diner windows.
The door opens, and the first thing I spot is the blue hair.
Rika. Red car, blue hair—she definitely likes to stand out in this gray town.
And she’s at the diner again. Despite the rain, she confidently strides toward the diner door and disappears inside.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and, without zipping up my parka, scramble out of the car. I intend to stride as confidently under the rain as Rika, but after several feet, I trot toward the employee entrance as fast as I can.