Page 9

“Then maybe dredging it back up is the last thing he’d want.”

“He’ll talk to you. I’ll make sure. If there’s some new angle you’re trying to pursue, he’ll want to help.”

“Do you recall who prosecuted the case for Down County?”

“Nobody,” Mac said. “Sidney was never indicted for those murders.”

“He wasn’t?” That surprised me.

“Nope. They pursued the death penalty in those Ohio murders. As I recollect, he was six months out from trial on that. After he was convicted, I know the girls’ families here met with the Down County prosecutor. It was Laura Beaumont, by the way. They collectively decided not to take this one to trial. It would have delayed Sidney’s appeals in the Ohio conviction. He was headed for the needle anyway. They felt it was literal overkill. Plus, it spared them the horror of sitting through a trial.”

“I suppose that’s a smart strategy. Did Sidney ever admit to the Deadwater Lake murders? Or deny them for that matter?”

“I don’t think he ever agreed to talk about them,” Mac answered. “Which was odd. I heard through the grapevine that he gave an interview to one of the major media outlets not long before his execution. It never aired. I’ve never seen the footage but I heard the FBI had it. Word is, he described what he did to some of his other victims in pretty graphic detail. Anyway, the network came under heavy fire and protests. They pulled the plug on it.”

“But he never mentioned Deadwater Lake,” I said, half under my breath.

“Not that I know of. But again, Dan’s who would know for sure.”

“Well, Holland’s where I’d start then.” Mac slid his phone to me again. He showed me Dan Holland’s contact information. Clearwater, Florida. That was only about twenty miles from where my mother lived in St. Petersburg. It felt like fate was trying to tell me something. I’d been putting off a trip to visit her for months. Maybe now was the time to rectify that.

But first, it was time to go back to Geneva Bell. She had to be sure she was truly ready for whatever my investigation might reveal.

That made two of us.

Chapter

Five

Geneva knew I was coming. But when I pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, I saw something entirely unexpected.

She lived off Darcy Road out in the country. There wasn’t much out here but soybean fields. Her next-door neighbor’s farm had been on the market for five years. But it was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place hard to find unless you had detailed directions from someone who actually lived out here. The home was built in the 1930s. A sturdy two-story with a wraparound porch supported by four thick square columns. Geneva was helping an elderly man navigate the steps. He was frail and unsteady, his left foot dragging behind.

I jumped out of the car when I saw the man teeter to his left, nearly dragging Geneva down with him.

“I don’t need any help!” he barked at both of us.

I didn’t wait for further permission. Spotting a wheelchair on the porch landing, I rolled it into position as Geneva helped her father as he nearly fell into the seat. Kevin Bell glared at his daughter, but I saw his eyes mist with tears.

“I can take it from here,” he snapped. He met my eyes. If he could shoot fire through them, he would have incinerated me on the spot.

“Don’t be a hero,” Geneva said, putting on a smile. “You’re doing great today.”

The screen door opened and a young man with sandy-blond hair and bright eyes stepped out. He looked like a copy-paste of the old man, just forty or fifty years younger.

“Landon,” Mr. Bell hollered. “Just get me over the damn threshold.”

Landon gave me a sheepish look, then helped his father over the small strip of wood separating the porch from the foyer.

“Dad, this is Mercy Gale,” Geneva said. “Tom Gale’s daughter.”

“I know who she is,” Mr. Bell grumbled.

Looking both embarrassed and apologetic, Landon wheeled his dad down the hallway and hopefully out of earshot.

“Follow me out back,” Geneva said. “It’s more private.”

She led me through the kitchen to a screened-in sunroom. It had a full view of a surprisingly spacious backyard with exquisite landscaping and the fields behind. The only other structure I could see was the neighbor’s giant red-and-white pole barn. It all looked like a slice of Americana. It should have been a painting. My eyes were immediately drawn to a beautiful cutting garden with red, gold, green, and pink zinnias swaying in the breeze.