Kathleen Long - Christmas Confessions

Simply put, the card offered nothing distinctive. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except the image of Melinda Simmons, a young girl the rest of the world had forgotten years ago.

The photograph itself was the only unique aspect of the card, and without further cause, no crime lab was about to waste precious time on an analysis of paper, age and adhesive.

The thought of tracing fingerprints was a joke. What better way to wipe out any prints than by sending a postcard through the United States mail?

Yet, how had the sender managed to avoid the card receiving a postmark? Luck? Not likely.

Had the card been hand-delivered? If so, whoever was responsible might be close. Too close.

Jack took another bite of cold pizza and groaned before he tossed the rest of the slice back into the box.

He slid the copies of his old case notes from his bag, spreading the contents across the hotel room’s desk.

Five faces stared back at him from the case photos. Five victims, all struck down within a ten-day period years earlier. There had been no known victims since, so why had Boone broken his silence? Why now?

Jack studied the photos taken of young, vital women—Emma included—during happier times. Each shot had been provided by a grieving relative—a relative who had trusted Jack and the investigative team to bring their daughter’s killer to justice.

Jack pulled the mug shots of Boone Shaw free from the file and stared down into the man’s dead eyes. Shaw had been a big man, strong, yet fairly nondescript as far as physical features went.

Even eleven years ago, he’d been all but bald, and his round face had offered no unique features or scars. His manner of dress had blended seamlessly into the New Mexico culture.

For all intents and purposes, Shaw had been exactly what he claimed to be—a photographer out to build a business as he helped young wannabe models get their starts.

Jack knew better. He knew it, felt it, believed it.

Boone Shaw had been as guilty as they came.

Yet, when push came to shove, the lack of DNA evidence and Shaw’s airtight alibi had been enough to let the accused walk.

Jack had waited every year, every month, every day since the trial ended for the chance to go after Shaw again. The Melinda Simmons card might not be much, but Jack planned to work it for everything he could.

Jack flashed back on the image of Abby Conroy.

The woman looked more like a waif than the co-owner of the thriving Internet site. Short and slender, she’d sported a navy knit cap, pulled low on her forehead, the pale blond fringe of her bangs peeking from just below the hat’s ribbed edge.

Her long hair had been tucked behind her ears, and her nose, reddened by the cold, had matched the bright circles of determined color that had fired in her cheeks as she defended her actions.

A real spitfire.

Yet her ice blue eyes had remained as chilly as the temperature outside, faltering only when she realized Jack was telling the truth.

She’d been carrying around the photo of a dead girl, and she’d done exactly what the killer had wanted by publishing his message.

Even so, the woman had made it clear her first priority was the integrity of her site and the anonymity of the site’s supporters, but she’d no doubt change her tune as soon as another card arrived.

And it would arrive.

Jack hadn’t been so sure about anything since the day he’d first looked into Boone Shaw’s eyes and known the man had killed Emma.

Abby Conroy might think her precious blog site innocent in the sins of the past, but as long as she encouraged confessions, she sure as hell wasn’t innocent in the sins of the present.

And Jack had no qualms about blowing Abby Conroy and Don’t Say a Word sky-high.

He’d vowed long ago to do whatever it took to bring Emma’s killer to justice.

Now all Jack had to do was sit back…and wait.

ABBY RETURNED TO the broken photo frame after Dwayne left.

For once, her neighbor hadn’t lingered. Matter of fact, Abby was used to the man being quiet, but tonight he’d been more distant than ever. If Abby hadn’t known better, she’d swear there’d been something he wanted to tell her, a secret he wanted to share.

Abby knew Dwayne regularly read the blog. He’d told her so on various occasions over the past year—while they shared a glass of iced tea after he’d worked in her yard, or on the occasional evening she offered him a quick sandwich when he’d bring over her mail.

He’d never told her much about his life, his work, his past. Perhaps that was better.

The man was a loner in the true sense of the word, and yet he’d befriended Abby. He looked out for her, kept an eye on her property, trusted her.

He even went so far as to take Abby’s personal mail from the small box by her front door if she worked too late. He had a fear of the mail sitting out all day.

Perhaps he’d once been the victim of identity theft—who knew—but on the occasions Dwayne did take in her mail, Abby would thank him for his kindness and write off the odd practice as a quirk of a lonely mind.

The fact Abby hadn’t put a stop to the practice drove Robert and Gina insane, but Abby knew Dwayne was only trying to be neighborly.

Both Robert and Gina felt Dwayne’s overfamiliarity was just that. Overfamiliar. Robert had gone so far as to say Dwayne’s behavior bordered on stalking, but Abby didn’t agree.

Dwayne was lonely and more than a little paranoid. End of story. And as far as Abby knew, none of the other neighbors gave Dwayne the time of day.

Well, she, for one, wasn’t about to ignore him.

Abby dropped her gaze to the scarred picture of herself with Gina and Vicki. Just look where ignoring a friend had gotten her once before.

Vicki’s death was the reason Abby spent so much time with each postcard she received. She tried to put herself in the sender’s position, tried to imagine the anguish, the guilt, the relief each felt at finally coming clean.

She was no therapist, nor did she profess to be one, but she could offer space. Space to come clean. Space to confess. Space to shed the burden of a secret’s weight carried for too long.

Abby understood the pain of holding a secret inside, she understood how the truth could slowly eat away at you, uncoiling like a snake.

She’d never told a soul—not even Robert or Gina—about the call she’d ignored from Vicki.

Perhaps someday she’d send herself a postcard.

She laughed at the irony, glad she could laugh at something today.

A mental image of Detective Jack Grant flashed through her mind and her belly tightened. The man’s intensity was breathtaking, albeit foreboding. If he hadn’t scowled so intently the entire time he’d been at the office, she might be tempted to call him handsome. But she wasn’t about to make that leap, not anytime soon.

She thought again about the case information she’d uncovered on the New Mexico murders.

Seemed Detective Grant had left out a bit of information himself. So much for full disclosure.

No matter. Abby recognized his type.

He’d tell her what she needed to know, when he thought she needed to know it. He probably believed he was protecting her by sparing her the gory details—like the killer’s signature.

She shuddered at the thought.

Abby had been too harsh with the detective, too defensive about her work and the site, and she knew it.

The detective had called briefly later in the day, asking to go through the archives in order to check each postcard for any sign the sender had reached out before.

Abby thought the exercise would be nothing but wasted time, but if that’s what Jack Grant wanted to do, that’s what she’d help him do.