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“What kind of photos?”
“Annabelle was an amateur photographer. Nora Margolis’s protégé, you could say. Annabelle spent the summer, and the early part of motherhood, taking photos.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of the town, of me as an infant, of the house she and Preston were building. I got the impression from the photos I saw that Annabelle was lonely. She had Preston and me, her newborn daughter, but otherwise she was alone. Other than Nora, the Margolis family wasn’t so warm and fuzzy toward her. The photos she took are . . . I don’t know, fascinating because they provide a window into her life, but also haunting and sad.”
Sloan took a sip of coffee.
“Anyway, I have plans with Nora to go through the rest of Annabelle’s photos.”
“I’ll let you know if I’m able to track down the detective who ran the case. It was thirty years ago, so he might not be able to offer anything new or useful.”
“It’s worth a shot. Mind if I shower before I take off?”
“Be my guest. I’ll make some breakfast.”
Fifteen minutes later Sloan walked from the extra bedroom with wet hair to find Eric sitting at the kitchen table. He held up a copy of the Harrison County Post. Sloan saw her image on the front page.
“What the hell?”
She hurried over and took the paper, skimming the article.
“The FBI said they were keeping a lid on the story,” Sloan said.
“Well, it leaked. And you’re all over the Internet.”
Eric turned his laptop. Another image of Sloan stared back.
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Sounds like Ryder Hillier broke the story on her Unsolved podcast.”
“Awesome.”
Sloan’s phone rang and she saw it was Dr. Cutty calling. She closed her eyes before answering.
“Hello?”
“Sloan, it’s Livia Cutty. You know you’re in every paper across the country?”
“I’m just learning that now, and seeing it for the first time.”
“Are the—”
Dr. Cutty’s voice cut out and Sloan looked at her phone.
“Hello?”
“Sorry,” Eric said. “Service out here is sketchy at times. It’s spotty at best. Usually the front porch is the safest place.”
Sloan hurried to the front door and stepped outside.
“Sloan?”
“Yes. Sorry, I’m in the mountains and cell service is bad.”
“Are the stories true?”
