Her Story

Him again

“Moira, shouldn’t you be at the conference?” Mayor Henshaw stood up from his chair and gave Moira a firm handshake. His office was decorated to the minimal; black desk, black chair, a large indoor plant at the corner and few certificates hanging on the wall. The shades were drawn and the only color in the office was the random wall that was painted orange from before this room had been an office.

“Mayor, I wanted to get a few things over with beforehand, so I didn’t have to stay long after the conference,” Moira said as she took a seat opposite him and unbuttoned her blue blazer. “Is the 2005 murder investigation ongoing?”

A pained expression crossed his face and he pinched his lips, resting his forearms on the table in front of him asking, “Why?”

“The only way we will ever be at peace is if we solved your sister’s death. Don’t you want to find out what happened?” Moira’s response came quick, her eyes sparkling and her mind racing.

“And what credentials do you have to solve this? A criminal psych degree and a book?” Moira could tell he was far from being convinced on the idea and she winced at the subtle attack.

“Derrick you have all the right to protect yourself from the pain and I know you have a responsibility to this town, but a killer is out there, committing countless other murders because we never took initiative to catch him.” Moira crossed one knee over the other and looked at him pointedly, “I won’t be responsible for that burden.”

“You were always more righteous than the rest of us. Stalking the detectives and breaking into the evidence locker to see what they had discovered,” Dereck smiled solemnly while he intertwined his fingers on top of the desk, “and what I’ve learned is you were never good at accepting or letting go. It’s why you wrote the book.”

The words felt like a punch in her abdomen. Moira had spent her whole life trying to solve puzzles as a distraction from her memories of being weak and paralyzed. She couldn’t stop her dad from leaving. She couldn’t stop a girl from being murdered. She couldn’t even get past the notion of being a victim. So, she delved deeper into the minds and psyche of human beings to decipher their behavior, their reasoning. Sure, it was a rabbit hole she never unearthed from, but it gave her purpose she needed to escape.

Moira got up and buttoned her blazer, “You clearly think you know who I am, but you don’t Derrick. You were the one who left, and you have no idea what your family or I went through because that’s how easy it was for you accept your sister’s death.”

Moira walked out of the office without a single glance backwards. She had no strength to attend the conference, but she didn’t want to go home either. The Mayor’s office was opposite to the ice cream shop she frequented with her mother. Moira crossed the street and entered a pink and purple tiled shop, tables and chair sprawled in one corner and a counter hosting only five ever flavors. Chocolate mixed with butterscotch was her go to flavor and as she approached the counter, she recognized the flyers sitting on top of the steel surface. They were of her book signing conference, hosted by the Mayor and the towns book club. She knew she should have felt honored but instead she cringed at the idea of talking about a killer she had never identified.

A wisp of cold air drifted in with the voice of a stranger, “Well if it isn’t the writer from Chicago.” It was cocky and cynical so when Moira turned around to see who had walked in through the door, she didn’t expect to recognize the man, let alone believe her eyes. Yet there he was, the same olive-skinned, brown eye and salt-and-pepper haired man she hadn’t seen in years.

The rage that was building inside her had left her speechless.

He stepped up next to her at the counter, tapping on the bell in front of him to inform the shop owner. He looked sideways and smirked, “Chocolate and butterscotch still?”

Moira pushed herself off the counter and almost ran out of the store. It couldn’t be but there he was, back in her life when she specifically told him she didn’t want anything to do with him or his family. The gall of her father to waltz into her life one day, having read the manuscript to her book that her journalist friend Beatrice had emailed to him without her permission. He owned a chain of publishing houses and she knew she that if she had sent it to him, he would print it, guilt, and all.