As the Wicked Watch(35)

I’ve heard people say that when they die, let it be quick, not some lingering, debilitating illness. But sudden death scars those who are left behind to grieve. As human beings, we’re keenly aware of our mortality, but it’s not something we contemplate every day. So when we lose someone we love in a terrible accident, it forces us to focus on our fragility within that mortal coil. When the victim is young, we mourn the truncation of a life. But when someone you love is murdered, it instills in you a heightened sense of foreboding that never goes away. I wondered, If I still felt it after all these years, what in God’s name was Pamela going through?

From the time a woman becomes a mother, her marching orders are to protect that child at all costs. It is her biggest responsibility, her most important job. It’s what made my cousin Stephanie run back into a burning house to try to rescue her four-year-old son, unable to accept or comprehend a world without Jaden in it, hoping against hope that the rolling flames and the excess heat from the fire that burst out the bedroom windows had somehow spared him. I wasn’t there, but I’ve imagined how that scene must have played out a thousand times.

Does Pam carry that guilt of not having protected her daughter?

This wasn’t the first time these feelings have crept up before an important interview. I wondered if Scott sensed my perturbation. He was quiet on the trip over. I was looking over my questions when he finally broke the silence.

“The GPS says we’re 0.2 miles away,” he said, pointing to the Garmin device plugged into the van’s cigarette lighter. “It should be just up here to the right.”

Cynthia’s neighborhood of modest but sturdy midsize brick homes was tucked between Racine Avenue and the Burlington Northern Railroad tracks located on top of an adjacent hill.

“This is Carpenter Avenue up ahead, so the house should be up here around the cor—” Scott paused, “Oh, nice.”

“What?” I said, looking up. A Channel 11 news van was parked outside Cynthia Caruthers’s one-story brown-and-tan brick bungalow. Scott and I looked at each other knowingly.

“Well, that answers one question,” I said, and retrieved my cell phone from my purse to call Ellen, who picked up on the first ring.

“Newsroom, Holbrook.”

“Hey, Ellen. It’s Jordan. We just pulled up to the Pam Alonzo interview, and there’s another news truck here. Is the promo set to go at four?”

“Yes, it’s ready, but I’ll let the desk know it’s not an exclusive,” she said.

“Okay, thanks.”

So much for my plan to arrive early.

Scott pulled up behind our competitor. A few minutes later, the news crew were coming out of the house. It was Pamela who had suggested we meet at three o’clock. So clearly, she had scheduled this interview before mine. Or was this her PR agent Tanya’s doing?

“Should we wait?” Scott asked. “We are early.”

“Sure, let’s give her a little time to get it together,” I said.

I checked my hair and makeup, and before I knew it, five minutes had passed.

“Do you want some time with her before I come in?” Scott asked, signaling that he was fully on board with my plan this time.

“No,” I said sternly. “In fact, come on. Let’s go.”

I stepped carefully along the walkway on the balls of my feet to keep from catching the heel of my shoe in one of the cracks. The main door was flung open, but I tapped on the screen door to announce our arrival. Cynthia Caruthers, the woman I’d spoken with the day of the news conference, answered the door. I am taken aback by how much she favors her niece—tall, leggy, with smooth dark skin and thick jet-black hair with a few early gray strands.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Are you Cynthia?”

“Yes. Come on in. It’s nice to meet you, Jordan,” she said, and gave me a light handshake.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. This is my cameraman, Scott Newell,” I said.

“Hello. Nice to meet you, Scott,” she said.

Her salutations belied the pain etched in her face. Cynthia closed the front door behind us and led us into a surprisingly lavish dining room, with gold jacquard drapes fitted with regal valances trimmed in tassels and matching tasseled tiebacks against a red wall. The room was excessively dark for this hour of the day. The sheers were black, effectively blocking the sun from breaking through. The room was anchored by an oversize black lacquered dining table far too big for the room. It was ornate and looked expensive, but there was no chance that it was an antique passed down in the family. Clearly, though, the dining room was the most important room in the house. Pam was sitting at the head of the table, which had six full place settings with charger plates, napkins, and matching napkin rings. Two of the settings had been moved to the center of the table to make room for a photo album and a smattering of pictures. Pam had spread them out in front of her, and for the first time I noticed she was wearing a wig I hadn’t seen before—a simple bob that hit her mid-cheek with a flat bang.

“Pam,” I said gently, sitting down in the chair closest to her and placing my hand sympathetically on her right forearm. “We arrived a little early and I saw the other news crew just leaving. Do you need a minute?”

To my surprise, she said decisively, “No. I’m ready when you are.”