LITMIR.BIZ

      SARA’S LEGS were still shaking when she yanked open the car door and slid behind the wheel. The words smeared on the rear window had been washed away by the rain, the same way her hope for help had been washed away by Nick’s words.

      …give me something a little bit more concrete to go on.

      His voice rang in her ears as she backed onto the street and put the car in gear. She wasn’t sure why she’d expected him to help her without question. He was a cop, after all. Cops tended to be cynical. Of course he would want something solid in order to reopen the case. Or did he have another reason for not wanting to help her?

      Trust no one….

      The anonymous caller’s words crept over her like a chill, and she reminded herself that someone in this quaint little town could very well be a killer. If he or she knew Sara was sniffing around and asking questions, they might want to get her out of the way.

      “It’s going to take a lot more than some juvenile threat,” she muttered.

      There was one more place to go for answers. A place where secrets and emotions played no role. The Cape Darkwood Library was located just off the traffic circle in a turn-of-the-century Greek revival house that had been donated to the town by Sir Leonard Darkwood upon his death in 1926. It was a place Sara had spent many a Sunday afternoon, reading with her mom and browsing the hundreds of books.

      The rain had stopped by the time she parked on the street beneath a massive elm tree and made her way up the sidewalk to the wide beveled-glass doors. Inside, the library smelled exactly as she remembered. Old paper. Lemon oil. Heated air from antique steam registers that hissed and pinged. All laced with a pleasant hint of book dust.

      Though her mission wasn’t the least bit enjoyable, the memories made Sara smile as she crossed to the information desk. A tiny woman wearing a maroon print dress looked at her over the tops of cat’s-eye glasses. “May I help you?”

      “I’m looking for archived newspaper stories.”

      The woman removed her glasses, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have a date in mind?”

      Sara hesitated, not wanting to get too specific or else risk starting the tongues wagging in town. “I’m not sure exactly.”

      “Everything before June 1, 1989 is on microfiche. Everything after that date is on disk.” She looked pleased with herself. “I’ve been working on computerizing our archives.”

      “This would be on microfiche,” Sara said, keeping her answer purposefully vague.

      “Microfiche is in the basement.” She rounded the desk. “I’ll show you.”

      Sara followed her across the marble floor, past the children’s books section to a wide stairway that led to a low-ceilinged room with red carpet. A smattering of desks, a row of narrow file cabinets and a microfiche machine filled the room.

      “We only have one machine left,” the librarian said. “Other one went kaput last year and we didn’t have budget dollars for another.”

      “This one will be fine. Thank you.”

      The woman smiled the way a not-so-kind grandmother would smile at a child from the wrong side of the tracks. “Dear, you look familiar. Are you from around here?”

      Sara had never been a good liar. But for the time being she didn’t want anyone to know she was back. She scrambled for an answer. “I’m from L.A., actually, and researching an article for my boss.”

      “Any particular subject matter?”

      Murder. “History,” she answered.

      “I must be mistaken, then.” But from the glint in her eyes, Sara wasn’t sure the woman believed her. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

      The instant the librarian was out of sight, Sara crossed to the row of file cabinets. Anticipation of getting her hands on information that wasn’t rumor or hearsay bolstered her, and she scanned the labels. Each was marked with a date range. Midway down the row, she paused and pulled out the drawer she needed. Setting it on the desk, she paged through each film until she came to the dates she wanted.

      The day after the murders, the Cape Darkwood Press ran the first of many stories. Even now the headline made Sara shiver.

      Prominent Hollywood Producer, Wife, Local Author Found Murdered.

      Pulling out a small spiral notebook, Sara scanned the article, making notes as she went. The name of the lead detective who investigated the case. Possible witnesses. The journalist who reported it all.

      The following day the headlines read:

      Douglas Killings May Have Been Murder Suicide.

      Sara read the piece with care, noting the evidence listed by police. Richard Douglas’s fingerprints were on the gun, a .38 caliber revolver. The gun had fallen to the floor as if Douglas had shot himself, then dropped it.

      Richard Douglas May Have Killed in a Jealous Rage….

      She struggled not to let the words get to her. Though she’d only been seven years old at the time, Sara had spent enough time with her father to know he was a gentle man with a kind heart. A man who kissed her nose at bedtime and made her laugh. There was no way that same man had killed two people he’d cared for in cold blood.

      Working quickly now, she jotted down the name of a neighbor who’d witnessed an argument just a week before while out walking her dog. Emma Beasley. The newspaper reporter had evidently interviewed and quoted her.

      It was around 6:00 a.m. when I heard Mr. Douglas shouting at his wife. Nicholas Tyson’s car was there. The lights were on in the upstairs bedroom. Strange goings-on in that house. Pity with those two little girls. I guess you never know about people.

      Disgusted by the woman’s unfounded assumptions—and the journalist’s willingness to print them—Sara shook her head, hating it that gossip and hearsay may have had as much to do with the outcome of the case as the evidence itself.

      Hitting the print button, she went on to the next story.

      Love Triangle May Have Led to Douglas Murder Suicide.

      Below the headline, a photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson at an outdoor café covered half the page. They sat at a table, beneath a wide umbrella. The likeness between Nick and his father struck her. Same Pacific-blue eyes. Thick brows that gave both men a brooding expression. Strong square jaw.

      Something niggled at Sara as she stared at the photo. To the casual observer, they appeared to be friends enjoying a cold drink on a hot day. Upon closer inspection, Sara realized they were looking at an object on the table in front of them.

      “What are you doing?” she whispered.

      She hit the magnification button. The photo swelled, becoming grainy and losing some detail. But the enlargement was enough for Sara to identify what was on the table in front of them.

      A manuscript.