10 years ago, the Lawson family disappeared without a trace, seemingly into thin air. Upon the discovery of a hidden room, it reopens a decade later, and Harper Sloann, a low-ranking detective with a fascination for the macabre, takes on the case. I...
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Julia Walsh couldn't have blabbed about her grandson, the accomplished football player, more than what I could handle. After enduring the hour-long traffic down what's supposed to be the expressway, I arrived at this granny's front door looking more like a homeless hobo than a detective. When I flashed her my badge and stated my purpose of coming, she perked up and ushered her inside the house like how she would her long-lost relatives.
Now, I sat on a crunchy, leather armchair opposite the old woman dressed as if she's going to an interview with a red, flowery blouse, wide, khaki slacks, and black moccasins with a little cherry blob on top. One glance at the antique grandfather clock behind her told me I was here for at least thirty minutes. And she's still going on about how her grandson scored a goal in one of the major leagues this season.
"I'm sure Timmy appreciates you telling everyone about him," I interjected after the woman took a short breath. "But that is not why I am here, Mrs. Walsh."
"Oh," Julia folded her hands over her lap. I dug around for my notebook and a spare pen and was about to flip it to the last page I wrote in when she flinched as if tasered. "That reminds me. I just baked a batch. D'you want some?"
"That's not necessary, Mrs—"
The woman was lost in her reverie, leaping out of her seat with a leather crunch and disappearing into her kitchen. I suppressed a groan, running the tip of my pen against the bridge of my nose. Discordant humming flitted from the folds of her house, the sound of an oven door opening and closing and utensils clinking complimenting it.
I should've let Pierce take this loopy hag, and not avoid the married couple just because I didn't want to talk to more people than my social battery could handle. It seemed I doomed myself by getting stuck with a preppy granny with endless energy willingly.
Of course, I could just visit the witness records ten years ago, where a certain Julia Walsh was indeed interviewed about the Lawsons, but none of the statements yielded anything conclusive. Lack of evidence was what led to this case closing ten years ago. I would be wasting time if I didn't do a follow-up with everyone who gave a statement.
That's why I was out here, tracking down Julia Walsh after giving the Houstons to Pierce. The woman had long moved out of the neighborhood, as did most of the people sharing the same drive with the vanished family, and now, I had to track them one by one just to get their fresh statements about an incident they probably wouldn't have a lot of memory of. Annoying.
The pitter-patter of Mrs. Walsh's moccasins against the peeling linoleum signaled her return. A plate of butterscotch cookies clinked against the glass-top of the coffee table between us. "Have a bite, Detective," the old woman said. "While they're still warm."
I opened my mouth to answer, but Mrs. Walsh wasn't done. "Timmy doesn't want a cold butterscotch and used to throw a tantrum whenever that happens," she said. The image of a grown man in a football gear whining about crumbly cookies was now imprinted in my head. "That boy never ate anything cold in his life."
