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

the hook that held the chain attached to it and it exposed a tiny photo, weathered and damaged by the time it had spent submerged.

“Who do you think this is?” Doc Whitmore asked, handing it to her.

She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and took it from his hands, studying the photo attentively. It reminded her of a picture she’d seen at the Caldwell residence, of Bill Caldwell and his wife, taken on their wedding day. She turned back to the computer and ran a quick search to confirm, then announced, “It’s Evangeline Caldwell, Bill’s wife.”

“Alyssa’s mother,” he mumbled, his frown returning. He took off his headband and rested it quietly on the table, then switched off the LED lamp. “I’m afraid our guest is Alyssa Caldwell after all.”

The centrifuge beeped and the whirring stopped, signaling the DNA extraction had been completed.

Doc Whitmore stood and rushed to the machine. Taking out the sample, he loaded it into another machine, where the extracted DNA was to be scanned and visualized, then compared against the existing sample he’d taken from the victim.

The computer took a few minutes, but eventually announced the result with a chime, and Kay realized she’d been holding her breath.

“It’s a match,” Doc Whitmore announced, rubbing his bearded chin with his fingers. “Bill Caldwell is Alyssa’s father, because that girl in my fridge is Alyssa, and there’s no doubt about it.” He shrugged and let out a long, pained sigh. “Somewhere, somehow, a mistake has been made, and I will own it. I’m the ME, it’s my morgue, and the buck stops here.”

She was disappointed, although she couldn’t quite figure out why. She’d guessed the result since Bill had volunteered the sample; it was logical. And still, knowing the result gave her a strong sense of loss, as if she was missing something.

Allowing herself the time to gather her thoughts and understand what her instinct was trying to tell her, she continued to study the locket, putting it back together again, then reopening it, always following the same steps: holding the tip of the hexagon with her left hand, then rotating the bottom with her right, clockwise, then pulling at the hook toward the left to see the photo. She admired the intricate, delicate handiwork that made the mechanism work so smoothly, even after being submerged for a while. The lacquer had protected the wood, keeping it from swelling too badly.

An intriguing thought crossed her mind, and she quickly restored the locket to its original hexagonal shape. She proceeded to rotate the bottom in the opposite direction, counterclockwise, trying it gently to see if it worked. It aligned itself again as a stylized heart, but when she pulled the hook to the left nothing happened. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth when she pulled the hook to the right, and it opened, showing a different photo. It was another woman, about the same age Evangeline had been in that first photo, who also seemed familiar.

“And who’s that?” Doc Whitmore asked. He’d been watching her work for a while, not saying a word, seemingly captivated.

Her heart thumped in her chest, a chill dancing on her spine as she recognized the woman in the photo. It was Shelley Harrelson.

“We need maternal DNA, Doc,” she said, standing abruptly, ready to rush out the door.

“But haven’t you heard Bill Caldwell? He’s not going to let us get anywhere near his dying wife. You’ll need a warrant—”

“I’ll get you an elimination sample,” she replied, zipping up her jacket. “I’ll go back to the retirement home and get a hair sample for you. We need to know once and for all, could this girl be Rose Harrelson?”

“You mean that’s—”

“Shelley Harrelson,” she said, pointing at the open locket. “If that’s Rose lying there in your unit number six, Doc, then how and why did she become Alyssa?” She frowned, staring at the label on the storage shelf door as if the brushed metal digit held the answer to all the questions swirling in her head. “And where on earth is the real Alyssa Caldwell?”

27Afterthoughts

The sun’s bright rays did little to defeat the nipping cold rolling off of the Mount Chester snow-covered versants, but Elliot kept his window slightly lowered while driving the meandering road that crossed the mountain. Swirls of thoughts chased one another in his mind. Kay, smiling while looking at him from across the tacky bar table covered with empty shot glasses. The glimmer in her eyes, the unspoken fire in her dilated pupils, her shivering touch when she grazed her fingers against the back of his hand.

He wanted to kick himself for taking her to Hilltop, of all places, where the deputies hung out, and for not sending them packing when they’d started taking turns at making her drink, nothing but a disgusting attempt to get her drunk and embarrass her forever in the eyes of the entire precinct.

But she’d held her own, defiant, tighter than bark on a log, pretending not to see the real reason behind their so-called welcome-to-the-office drinks, while her eyes bore into his, her impatience just as unbearable as his own. She’d downed those shots one after another, not a shred of hesitation in her gesture, a hint of disgust curling her lips just a tad after the first shot. Kay probably hated tequila just as much as he did.

And then she’d touched him, urging him to leave, reaching for his hand.

Was it even real? Or was he imagining things? She’d said nothing, nor had she touched him again after that fleeting moment when her frozen fingers had seeded fire in his blood. Maybe she was starting to feel sick and wanted to be out of there, away from the deputies’ scrutiny.

On the drive home she hadn’t said a single word, the evening ending in a much different way than he’d imagined. She hadn’t lifted her tear-filled eyes to look at him again, seemingly mortified.

And he’d said nothing to lift her spirits. He