Stockholm

Chapter 18

My truck rolls to a stop in front of a home that lingers on large but not so large it's starts to lean toward mansion. Somewhere between enough money and too much money. It's a nice street with well kept homes, all of them at similar stature. The home I'm here to see has a circle drive, a colorful Jeep parked in the driveway. The sprinklers are going, spraying the garden beds and lush green grass. The house looks loved and I wonder if it looked the same back when the Whittakers lived in it.

From what I gathered, they sold it fast. Cash sale, under value. They wanted gone, quick.

I park my truck off to the side of the street, my hand grazing my gun below the seat just to be safe that it's neatly tucked away before I climb out.

I don't head for the house though. I already know it's changed hands four times in the last 30 years. Instead, I pick a neighboring house and head up the driveway. There's a path that hugs some shrubs that leads to a large navy blue door, a colorful wreath hung on it and I push my finger into the ring camera doorbell.

Taking a step back, allowing the camera to get a full body shot so I look less threatening I wait.

"Can I help you?" A voice crackles through the speaker.

"Hi, yes, I am doing some research for a podcast and was wondering if you remember a family that lived next door 30 years ago. They're last name was Whittaker."

"No sorry, we've only been here a few years." They tell me.

I thank them for their time and head for the next house, meeting a similar fate. House after house, neighbor after neighbor, until I've covered three houses to either side and a handful across the street. I'm starting to lose hope, my feet drag across the concrete, each step becoming less driven. Is this where my trail ends again? All the leads just dried up and dead.

A dog barks at me from behind the door of the house I'm at. Another ring doorbell waiting to greet me as I press my finger into, ready to spew my script but no voice crackles through the speaker.

I tell myself I'll stand here on their porch for a minute tops before I turn to leave but it doesn't even take the full minute before a man about my age opens the door, a small dog in his arms.

"Can I help you?" He's disheveled, his hair mussed with what could only be sleep, bags under his eyes and I wonder what his damage is.

"Hi, yes, sorry to disturb you. I'm doing a podcast and I was wondering if you knew the Whittaker's" I point to the Whittaker's old house, "they lived in that house about 30 years ago".

"What's the podcast about?" He asks, rubbing at his half opened eyes.

"Not exactly sure yet, my research has just led me to them." I'm hoping he's too preoccupied with whatever is going on in his own life to press me farther.

"I remember them. But I was just a kid." He says gruffly. "But you should try the house at the end of the street. Yellow door."

Hope courses through my veins making my throat tight and I swallow down my excitement as I thank him. Powering down the sidewalk, my eyes scan each house for the yellow door and at the end of the street sits a house, tucked slightly farther back from the road then the rest with a yellow door. The house fits with the rest, large, loved, lush landscaping but it's nestled far enough back that it's nearly swallowed by trees and foliage.

I'm expecting to meet someone just a few years older, a family to fill the large home but when I knock on the door, no ring doorbell in sight, I'm met with a graying woman. She gives me a kind smile, a cat curling around her feet.

"Hi ma'am, my name is Kyle. I'm making a podcast and I was wondering if you remember a couple by the name of Sean and Kathyrn Whittaker?"

She welcomes me into her home, exuding safety and warmth, like a grandma with a tray full of fresh baked cookies and a cup of tea ready to accept her kids and grandkids into her home. Thankful they've come back for a visit.

I follow her through a home with vaulted ceilings and a large open floor plan. Space so vast for one person it's overwhelming and I ask the question that pulls at my subconscious.

"Do you live here alone?" I ask her as she brings me to her kitchen.

Black countertops sparkle under a chandelier, dark Cherry cabinets stretch down the walls. The kitchen is huge, immaculate, probably never remodeled.

"I do, my husband passed away 35 years ago. It's just been me and my cats since." She tells me with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Grief is the price we pay for love." She says and without asking me she pours two glasses of water. "A podcast." She muses, "my friend keeps trying to get me to listen to one. She says it's about an unsolved murder. I can't quite get myself to see the appeal."

"There's podcasts for everything." I take a drink of water, setting my phone down on the table. "Would you mind if I record? Also I'm sorry but I didn't catch your name."

"Mary Phillips." She reaches her hand out and I shake it. "Go ahead and record."

Pressing my finger into the screen of my phone, the app starts ticking away the time spent. I clear my throat, ignoring the way watching the seconds fly by with an alarming rate causes fear to ripple inside me. All the moments that are lost to the past. It makes the present feel that much more fleeting.

"Thanks for sitting down with me Mary, I really appreciate it.  I was wondering, if you remember anything about a couple by the name of Sean and Kathyrn Whittaker? They lived in a house down the street 30 years ago."

"Of course I remember them." She oozes warmth and love, her eyes crinkling into little slits as she recalls the couple with what could only be fond memories. "They were young, probably about your age I would gather. Kate helped me so much after my husband's death, Sean too."

"How so?"

She traces the rim of her cup with a finger, a large diamond on her married hand. "I was lost when Quinton passed. Overwhelmed with grief. We had been friendly with Kate and Sean the way neighbors are, a wave as you stroll down the street or pass in your car. Maybe a few short conversations in passing but nothing more. News of Quinton's death spread immediately, the condolences flooded in. But Kate was the only one that took the time to come sit with me. She brought tea, made us both a cup, and we sat right here."

I'd be lying if I said my image of Kathryn and Sean is not sweet and innocent. My mind already created monsters even though it knows that's not real life. Monsters never look like they should. But this side of Kathryn feels too far away from anything evil.

"She came everyday, we'd have our tea, we'd sit. Some days we'd talk, some days I'd cry, some days she'd talk. But I looked forward to the time when she would knock on my door."

"What would you both talk about?" I ask.

"Oh you know." She chuckles. "Life. How unfair it is."

My head bobs in agreement. I know first hand how unfair life can be.

"What is your podcast about?" Mary asks.

Guilt fills me for numerous reasons. Even though the podcast doesn't exist, I can only imagine her reluctance for listening to an unsolved murder podcast touches on how exploitative it all is. Digging at people' wounds, bringing up the worst moment of their life, reminding them the person they love is gone and any closure that may be due to them is still intangible. But I'm also not willing to come completely clean so I hold onto my fabricated lie and gingerly try to navigate around the potential fingers pointed at the Whittakers.