Beneath Blackwater River by Leslie Wolfe (love story books to read txt) 📕

noticed the fixtures, speaking of the family’s generational achievements. Faded portraits hung on the walls in the main living room, some as old as a hundred years, judging by hairstyles and attire.

Once upstairs, the woman knocked twice on a door, opening it and announcing Kay.

“I have a detective here, demanding to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

Caldwell must’ve nodded or silently expressed his approval, because the housekeeper allowed Kay to step inside and then closed the door quietly as soon as she did.

Kay found herself in a large office, lushly decorated in classic furniture, with a massive desk by the window, and bookcases lining the walls. Bill Caldwell was seated behind the mahogany table, his white shirt unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. He held a few sheets of paper covered in a fine print in one hand, fanned out as if he were looking for something in those pages. When she approached, he set them on the desk’s shiny surface and stood, a gesture of courtesy.

An elderly woman sat on a chair in front of the desk, her thin legs crossed at the ankles, her expression one of annoyance with the interruption. Yet she was classy enough to display a faint smile, half-turned toward Kay. She wore a black turtleneck with three strings of pearls, and pearl earrings to match. Black slacks completed her attire, and black, kitten-heeled shoes, one tapping nervously against the oriental rug.

“Yes, Detective,” Bill said, standing with his hands propped on his hips. “What can I do for you? As you can see, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Is your wife available to join us for this conversation, Mr. Caldwell?” she asked.

Caldwell frowned and put his palms on the desk, leaning forward into them. “My wife hasn’t been available in years. She’s got MS.” He paused for a moment, locking eyes with the woman on the other side of the desk. “Terminal.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that—”

“On with it already,” the elderly woman invited her with an impatient hand gesture.

“And who are you, if I may ask?”

The woman scoffed and shook her head in disbelief.

“This is my mother, Carole Burgess Caldwell,” Bill specified. “Whatever you have to say can be said in her presence.”

Kay took a deep breath, settling her nerves before broaching the emotional subject. She’d expected to find the family grieving Alyssa’s loss, she’d expected to hear from the mayor, the governor, or someone else in a position of power about her blunder in delivering the next-of-kin notification before the identity of the victim had been released to the media. She’d expected anything else but this, to be interrupting a routine business meeting between mother and son.

“It’s about your daughter, Alyssa,” Kay said, watching their reactions. The two Caldwells showed no emotion. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

The two Caldwells looked briefly at each other. “Yesterday morning,” Bill replied, the uncertainty in his voice unmistakable. “Last night I came home late,” he added, quickly running his hand against the tip of his nose, as if it was itching, a dead giveaway of a lie. “I didn’t want to wake her.”

“And this morning?”

“I was traveling last night, and I slept in; I just woke up an hour ago. I didn’t think much when she didn’t join me for lunch.” This time, there were no other signs of deception that she could notice. But what was he regretting? That he didn’t check on Alyssa when he came in? His demeanor was open, relaxed, not what she’d expect to see from a man concealing any kind of involvement in the death of his daughter.

She inhaled, steeling herself for what was to come, ready to notice any unusual behavior. “I’m afraid I have bad news. Your daughter was killed yesterday.”

The blood left Bill Caldwell’s face a sickening gray as he let himself drop into his chair. No one could fake that. Whatever he was hiding, it had nothing to do with Alyssa. Maybe it had something to do with his mother being in the room.

“Oh, God, no,” Carole Caldwell whispered, sobbing, hiding her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved, but she controlled herself, weeping silently.

“How certain are you?” Bill asked, standing so forcefully he pushed the chair back. It rolled until it hit the wall and bounced back a few inches. “I want to see her.” He clenched his fists. “I want to see my daughter.”

“We’re fairly certain,” Kay replied cautiously, ignoring his demand. “There has been an issue with the identification, as you might have seen on TV.”

“We haven’t seen anything,” Bill replied, grinding his teeth. It seemed that controlling his grief was taxing for the devastated parent. “What are you talking about?”

Kay hesitated, knowing she was about to make things worse for the Caldwells. “The victim was originally identified based on DNA found on a missing person case file dating fourteen years ago. Seems there has been some confusion. Maybe the DNA sample had been filed in error under a different name.” She paused for a beat, seeing Bill slack-jawed, his brow furrowed, and his eyes focused somewhere behind her, as he was trying to comprehend what she’d said. “Has Alyssa ever been reported missing?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Was there any reason why the police would have her DNA on file?” she asked, realizing she’d been holding her breath. His answers might hold the key to Rose Harrelson’s disappearance.

“Um, no,” he replied, seemingly lost in his grief-ridden thoughts. “My sister did one of those ancestry profiles for her, and sent her DNA out, but I’m not sure how—”

“What name had she been identified as before?” Mrs. Caldwell asked, pressing her eyes and nose gently with a tissue. Outside of those red, swollen eyes still glistening, there was no trace of the earlier breakdown. She tapped her hair carefully with her hands, to make sure every strand was in place, then arranged her clothing as if she was getting ready for a photoshoot in some magazine. The woman was made of steel, but