She flexed her fingers, feeling the answer was now within her grasp. Victoria Townsend’s will had stirred things up. People were talking, asking questions. That was fine. She wanted them to talk, to remember. Then, and only then, would the truth emerge.
MATTHEW POURED ANOTHER CUP of coffee and glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. He wasn’t used to going to bed this early. In New York his head rarely hit the pillow before two in the morning, but here life was different. No crowds, noise or bright lights. Just a simple way of living he remembered well.
Growing up in Coberville, he had always yearned for something more. Excitement. Adventure. After graduating from Harvard, he knew his parents had secretly wanted him to come back to Coberville and practice law with his father. But his dreams were bigger than Coberville. Although he admired his father, he hadn’t wanted to be a small-town lawyer. He’d been lured by New York—facing interesting legal challenges, big courtroom drama and, of course, the big bucks had something to do with it, too. Sometimes, though, he wondered what he was trying to prove.
He sighed, knowing it made little difference. Whatever his choices, his parents had always loved and supported him. Now it was time to return some of that support. His mother needed him. But how long could he stay here?
Matthew’s thoughts shifted to his dad. Thank God he’d gotten home in time to see him before his death. Emphysema from years of smoking had finally taken its toll on his lungs. He could barely breathe or speak, but he had gripped Matthew’s hand with fierce determination, uttering, “Case.” Matthew assured him he would take care of all his clients, and the stress on his face had eased.
Glancing up now, he saw his mother standing in the doorway. Belle Sloan, a petite woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair, wore a sad expression on her usually serene face.
Matthew was instantly on his feet. “What is it, Mom?”
“Oh, nothing.” She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand as she walked to the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk. “I just couldn’t sleep. I can’t get used to that empty space beside me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Matthew hugged her. “It’s going to take time.”
“I know.” She pushed out of his arms and poured milk into a pan. “A glass of warm milk, and I’ll be fine.”
Matthew had his doubts about that. He wished he could soothe her pain and take the sadness from her eyes, but there was nothing he could do and that hurt him the most.
They sat at the kitchen table, Matthew sipping his coffee and his mother her milk. He glanced around, realizing this big warm kitchen hadn’t changed since he was a kid. White cabinets trimmed in blue, a darker blue counter, stove and a large oak table where all their problems had been solved.
“Your dad had a beautiful funeral, didn’t he?” his mom asked, breaking through the comfortable silence.
His father had been buried more than a week ago, and every day she asked him the same thing. Tonight, for some reason, the question triggered thoughts of the young woman in black. He had been meaning to ask about her.
“Yes, it was a very special funeral. The whole town turned out.” He smiled reassuringly, then said, “Mom, there was a young woman at the funeral. I didn’t recognize her. She was completely dressed in black. Even her hair was black and hung below her waist.”
Belle took a nervous swallow of her milk. “That has to be the Doe girl.”
“Doe? You mean the baby who was left on Pete Watson’s doorstep?”
“Yes.”
The Doe girl. How could he have forgotten the little girl who’d paralyzed a town? Until she mysteriously appeared on the Watsons’ doorstep, the people in Coberville had been close and friendly. The abandoned baby changed things. People began to look at each other a little differently, and they distanced themselves from the child. She represented a dark side of the community and they didn’t know how to deal with her. So they left her alone.
Christmas Jane Doe. God, how she’d changed. He remembered a small thin girl with thick black braids and a face that never smiled. The last time he’d seen her she was about six, sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus. The other children were teasing her, calling her names. She held her back rigid and stared straight ahead, never reacting to their words. Much as she had at the funeral, he thought. Some things never change. But C. J. Doe certainly had. The little waif had turned into a beautiful woman.
“That must have been twenty-five or more years ago.” His mother’s words interrupted his reflections. “You know, I don’t think Pete or Harry was at the funeral. But I guess that’s understandable under the circumstances. It’s so sad the way we all grew apart. So sad.”
His mother was rambling. She did that a lot these days. He tried to make sense of her words and failed.
“What circumstances?”
She glanced up, her face puzzled, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Oh,” she said, and blinked, obviously collecting her composure. “The Townsend case. Your dad was their lawyer.”
He still wasn’t following her. “Dad did a lot of work for the Townsends.”
With a nervous hand she set the glass of milk on the table. “I don’t like talking about that girl and the mystery that surrounds her. It’s depressing, and your dad and I never saw eye to eye about her.”
His eyes narrowed. “You and Dad argued about this girl?” In all the years he’d been growing up, he couldn’t ever remember his parents arguing. They had a unique way of talking things out.
“We didn’t actually argue. I just felt he knew something about the girl he wasn’t telling me.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head and got to her feet.
“I think I’ll go to bed now.”
Matthew kissed her cheek and watched her leave the room, his curiosity running riot. He would’ve sworn his father had never kept anything from his mother. What did he know about the Doe girl that was so confidential he couldn’t talk about it? Matthew ran a hand through his hair. While he was here, he intended to meet Christmas Jane Doe and find out for himself.
CHAPTER TWO
COBERVILLE WAS A QUIET community of fewer than five thousand people. A three-story limestone courthouse in the Second Empire style sat in the middle of a town square. Main and Cober streets ran parallel, and just about every business in town was located on one of those two streets, except for larger stores like Wal-Mart and H.E.B., which were located on the outskirts of town. Matt Sloan’s office was across from the courthouse in a nineteenth-century building typical of the business district.
Matthew stood in the middle of his father’s office, soaking up the atmosphere. Shelves filled with law books lined one wall and filing cabinets were up against another. On the third wall, beside the large window, hung family pictures. Files cluttered the desk and in the single ashtray was a half-smoked cigar. This big cluttered office was the essence of his dad. He remembered visiting here after school, and the way his dad had always smiled and said, “Come on in, son. I could use a second opinion.”
He had spent many afternoons here, reading, watching his dad labor over the letter of the law. He could almost hear his voice. “Never forget that people are human and never take their opinions or feelings lightly.” Had he lost those finer aspects his father had taught him? He ran his finger along the edge of the large oak desk, hoping he