Now she understood the curious glances, the troubled reactions of the townspeople. Her mother had been murdered on their quiet island. In a community of this size, it must have caused quite a sensation. No wonder they weren’t sure what to make of her presence.
But it still didn’t explain the hatred she’d seen in the eyes of one of their residents—the stranger on the highway, the man on the docks. Why would her return evoke such a strong reaction from him?
The bottom of her car scraped the ground as she hit a deep rut. She slowed the car to a more manageable speed, forcing the troubling thoughts from her mind. She only hoped that she’d made the right choice.
Despite the shock, she’d decided to stay. Now more than ever she had to find out the truth. Her mother had been murdered…and she had no recollection of any of it happening. She was left with nothing but the dreams that haunted her and a crippling inability to trust others.
She needed to know why.
Turning onto the main road, she drove the short distance into town, slowing when she came to Main Street. She parked her car in a public lot near the city hall, then she strode across the town’s square to the brick building housing the library.
Even in a small town there had to be a local newspaper, Jessie reasoned. Her best bet of researching her mother’s murder was to check out the back issues. She climbed the steps to the entrance and pulled open the heavy wooden door. The library was small compared to the ones in Atlanta. But it held the same quiet hush, the same musty odor of old books. Her tennis shoes squeaked against the tile floor, unnerving her as she made her way to the front desk.
A young red-haired woman, looking to be close to her own age, greeted her with a smile. “Good morning. You’re up early.”
Despite the emotions churning in her stomach, Jessie managed a smile in return. At last, a friendly face. Someone who was too young to remember the scandal that had rocked the community nearly twenty-five years ago. “I need to do some research on a project. I was wondering if you had any back issues of the local newspaper.”
“We certainly do,” the librarian said proudly. “All the papers have been transferred onto microfilm. What year were you looking for?”
Jessie hesitated, uncertain how far back to look. Deciding to be safe rather than sorry, she said, “Would it be possible to get a five-year span, say between twenty and twenty-five years ago?”
“That’s a lot of research.”
“It’s a big project.”
The librarian laughed. “Let’s get you started.”
After directing Jessie to the right machine, she showed her how it worked. “Normally we have a thirty-minute use limit. But since it’s a quiet day, and no one else is here yet, I don’t think we have to worry. Take your time.”
“Thanks,” she said. As soon as the clicking of the librarian’s heels against the tile floor faded in the distance, Jessie loaded the first of the cartridges. Minutes passed slowly. Her head began to throb. Her eyes burned as the articles flew past in a blur. And still there was nothing in the newspapers about the murder.
Then, just as she was about to give up, a headline jumped out at her…Local Woman Murdered On Island.
Jessie stared at the picture of the woman who had been her mother. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and dark, like Jessie’s. But her features were finer, her bone structure more slender. There was a delicateness about the woman, a fragility, that Jessie had never possessed.
Once over the initial shock, Jessie forced herself to read the accompanying article. It was a gold mine of information. Not only did it tell of her mother’s death, but it also gave her a valuable insight into her mother’s life. She was an artist, Jessie discovered—something they had in common. While Jessie chose a more commercial outlet for her talent, her mother apparently had been making a name for herself as a painter in the art world. A former resident of Charleston, she’d moved to Prudence Island shortly after the death of her husband, Jonathan Pierce. She had resided in Gull’s Cottage with her daughter, Jessica.
The account of the murder was sketchy, yet, at the same time, shockingly blunt. Schooling her emotions, Jessie scanned the description. Her mother was killed by a blow to the head in the early evening hours of May twenty-first. Her body was discovered by a Deputy Sheriff Gilbert Broward, who’d gone to the cottage after calls by a concerned friend went unanswered. Mrs. Pierce’s five-year-old daughter was found unharmed in the house. How much of the crime she had witnessed was unknown. Attempts to question her were unsuccessful.
For a long moment Jessie stared at the screen, forgetting to breathe. Her stomach roiled in protest. A bitter taste rose in her throat. She was afraid she might be sick.
Only now did she realize that the uneasy feeling of déjà vu, the terror that she’d felt entering Gull’s Cottage last night, had roots in reality. She’d been in the house when her mother had been murdered.
No one knew how much she’d seen.
The panic attack…was it triggered by a forgotten memory? Had she actually witnessed her mother’s murder? Or was her fear merely the result of the trauma that she’d surely suffered at the loss of her only parent? Frustrated, she realized there were still too many questions and not enough answers.
She still didn’t know who had killed her mother.
Her hands shook as she forced herself to continue her search, reading account after account of the progress of the investigation into her mother’s death. Until finally, a headline with an accompanying grainy photo leaped out at her…Local Man Charged In The Murder Of Evelyn Pierce.
With that single headline, the world dropped out beneath Jessie’s feet. It was as though time had stopped. He hadn’t changed at all in nearly twenty-five years.
Her hands shook as she reached to press her fingers against the grainy picture on the screen. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she’d met the man who was accused of murdering her mother…yesterday on the highway, this morning on the docks…the stranger, the man with the hatred burning in his eyes.
Now she had a name to go with the face…Samuel Conners.
Slowly, reason returned. No, it was impossible. The man in the newspaper, if he were still alive, would have to be nearly sixty years old. The man she’d met yesterday was in his early thirties. They couldn’t be one in the same.
But the resemblance was uncanny. The two men must be related—perhaps a father or an uncle.
Still feeling numb with the shock, Jessie scanned the rest of the articles. Her search turned up more information regarding the trial and the conviction of the man accused of murdering her mother. Once she’d finished, she copied the articles she had found. Gathering up the cartridges, she returned to the front desk.
The librarian smiled as she approached. “That was quick.” When she took a closer look at Jessie’s face, her smile faltered. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Jessie said, unable to stop the trembling in her voice. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Would you happen to have a phone book?”
“Sure, it’s right here.” She reached behind the desk, pulling out a thin yellow book. Her gaze lingered on Jessie’s face. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Positive,” Jessie said, forcing a quick smile. Her hands shook as she riffled through the pages, belying her claim. Aware of the other woman’s hovering presence, she quickly flipped through the book until she came to the Cs. Running her finger down the column, she froze when she found the name she sought.
There was a listing under the name of Samuel Conners.
She stared at the book, her suspicions confirmed. Fumbling in her purse for a pen and paper, she scribbled down the phone number and address. Thanking the librarian, she stumbled out of the building and into the brilliant