What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(70)

Those aren’t conversations to have over the phone.”

Childress sat, as if from the weight of the responsibility. “No, they’re not,” she said. “It’s good news but . . . it’s not.”

“It’s good news, Anita,” Tracy assured her. She’d delivered and received tragic news. “Your mother is alive. That is usually not the case after this long. This is one of those rare occasions.”

“I don’t know how my father is going to react to this . . . after all he’s been through. He’s moved on. He . . . I just don’t know.”

Melton’s advice remained fresh. “That’s not up to you,” she said.

“That’s up to him. You need to decide where you’d like to see her.

Where would you and your family like to meet?”

Another burst of air. “I assume my grandmother’s house would be best. My mother grew up there. My father and I can meet you both there.”

“Okay. I’ll need that address.”

Childress smiled for the first time and it looked genuine. “What’s she like?”

Tracy smiled. “Well, she’s different.”

Childress laughed. “I know that.”

“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t notice any of the autism traits you described. The people who’ve known her in Escondido used the same words you and others who knew her used to describe her— they said she was quiet, kept mostly to herself, and had some quirks, but . . . I’m not sure if her amnesia somehow impacted those traits.

That’s a better question for the doctors.”

“What did you mean, then, by different?”

“It’s, uh . . .” Tracy fumbled for the right words, then decided it wasn’t for her to filter. “She has an Irish accent.”

“An Irish accent?” Childress asked, looking more confused.

“Yes. And it’s legitimate, from what I can tell anyway, and what others who’ve known her have told me.”

“How does that happen?”

“I don’t know. The doctor I spoke with couldn’t say for certain.

She did mention something called ‘acquired savant syndrome.’ Case studies exist documenting people suffering amnesia but suddenly being able to play an instrument they’ve never played, perform complex mathematical equations, and, in your mother’s situation, speak with an accent.”

“This is all so unbelievable. It’s a lot to digest.”

“It’s why I want to give you and your family time.”

“Did she ever marry? Does she have another family?”

“No. From what I’ve been told she’s lived a quiet life. When the hospital discharged her, she went back to school and became a CPA and a firefighter.”

Childress let out an are you kidding me laugh. “A firefighter?”

“Apparently her doctor told her she should try to meet people.”

“You mentioned a head injury. Was she in a car accident? Did she fall?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tracy said, and she wasn’t lying. She didn’t know. Not with any certainty. She changed the subject. “I want to keep this quiet. Your mother does also.”

“My mother.” Childress said the words and smiled.

“Anita. Did you hear me? Your mother wishes to keep this quiet.”

Three knocks on the conference room door startled both women. Bill Jorgensen, who had been Lisa’s editor, entered. He looked as if he was trying to read their facial expressions. His gaze darted between them, uncertain whether to express his condolences, no doubt a deduction he had made from seeing Anita Childress in tears.

“She’s alive,” Childress said to Jorgensen.

Jorgensen’s eyes widened. He looked to Tracy. “You’re shitting me?”

Tracy shook her head.

“She’s alive? Lisa Childress is alive? Where the hell has she been for the past twenty-five years?”

“Escondido,” Childress said, smiling.

“Mexico?”

“Southern California.”

“She just walked away? She just left?”

Tracy shook her head, but this was no longer her story to tell.

She still recalled Jorgensen’s expression when they first met, how he had clearly been a newspaperman, and his first instinct was to hunt for the story. And this was a hell of a story.

“She has amnesia,” Childress said.

“Amnesia? Is it real?”

Unfortunately, it was a question Tracy knew many would ask, and that’s what worried her. “According to her doctors,” Tracy said.

Jorgensen looked to Childress. “It would make a hell of a story, Anita. You could write it first person. Open with an embedded narrative. Maybe start with when you started your search.”

“I can’t make that decision right now,” Childress said. “I’m too overwhelmed.”



“It’s news.” Jorgensen gave a small shrug. He looked to Tracy.

“It’s news, Detective. Big news. Even if she doesn’t want to talk, you can’t hide something like this. People are going to want to know how this happened.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but it’s not my story to tell, and I won’t confirm or deny anything until Lisa and Anita have a chance to decide what they want to do.”