“Thanks. See you in the morning.”
We go our separate ways at the end of the hallway. By the time I’m lying on the hotel bed, I’ve compulsively snapped my wrist twenty-six times throughout the day. Despite that, my thoughts still cling to the past.
Vista Shores apartment complex is situated across the street from the crime scene. The victim, Joanna Delany, lived in apartment 208. Her mother, Bethany Delany, lives in 213.
Rhys and I ride the elevator up to the second level.
“Jumping right into the deep end,” I mutter as the ding of the elevator sounds. My insides flutter with the feel of the car coming to a sudden halt.
He lets me step into the hallway first. “Mothers are the hardest part,” he agrees.
“You know that parents are usually the last to know what’s going on in a victim’s personal life.”
He sighs. “Ms. Delany lived a few doors down from her daughter. Maybe they were closer than normal.” He stops outside her door, cutting a glance at me. For a second, I wonder if he’s insinuating something about my lack of relationship with my own parents. “Her proximity to the vic could give us more insight to her last days.”
His logic makes sense. Still, I pull in a steadying breath and brace for the painful encounter. My detachment from people comes across as uncaring, heartless, or so I’ve been told. That doesn’t work well when dealing with grieving parents.
Over the past few years, with Rhys’s training on interviews, I’ve gotten better at concealing. Or rather, blending. I guess call it what it is: faking. Not the caring part—I’m not a sociopath—but conveying my sentiments.
A few seconds after Rhys knocks, Ms. Delany answers the door. Her dark complexion was probably striking once with a rich, healthy glow. Now there’s a pallid, sallow hue overlaying her skin. Sunken eyes and chapped lips complete the neglected look.
“Ms. Delany. I’m Special Agent Rhys Nolan with the FBI cold case division. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon.”
His mention of their conversation awakens the woman. “Oh, right. Of course. Come on in.” She widens the door, allowing us to enter her home. “Please ignore the mess. I’ve been meaning to box up a lot of stuff.”
She continues to make excuses for the apartment’s condition as she leads us to a sofa in the living room. Rhys waves off her apologies. “You have a beautiful home.”
Other than piles of folded clothes and knick-knacks lining the living room wall, the space is immaculate. Ms. Delany sits opposite us in a comforter chair, and I notice her dry, cracked hands. She cleans…all the time.
A pang twinges beneath my breastbone.
Rhys nods for me to begin. Most women find it easier to talk to another woman. At least right at first. I push Record on my phone and set it on the glass table. “Do you mind? It helps us when we can replay interviews.”
Her head shakes rapidly. “That’s fine. I don’t mind.”
With what I hope is a delicate approach, I delve into the hard questions. The things that the case detectives have already asked this mother over and over. Things she’s tired of repeating, I’m sure—but we need the answers one last time, in hope of discovering new information.
“Ms. Delany…”
“Please, call me Bethany.” Her smile wobbles.
I match her smile. “Bethany, who do you think did this to your daughter?”
One of the most painful questions, but also one of the most important. Rarely does a parent’s bias result in an arrest, but it can lead to another person of interest. Another witness. Someone that the investigating detectives overlooked.
Her face pales. She reaches a shaky hand toward a dust rag on the table only to place it in her lap. “Jo wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, other than Jamison. She wasn’t like that.”
She’s aware that the boyfriend/husband is always the initial suspect. I wonder how many cop shows she’s tortured herself watching, looking for clues on how to solve her daughter’s murder.
“It doesn’t have to be anyone she was intimate with,” I press. “Maybe it’s someone who first popped into your head but you shut it down, wondering where the thought even sprang from.”
Nothing beats a mother’s intuition.
Her brown eyes latch on to me and widen, as if I’ve revealed some secret. “Rixon,” she says. “Mike Rixon…I think that was his name. He was Jo’s boss at the restaurant where she worked. She’d only been there a few months, but I remember the way he looked at her one night while I was there. Just something about it didn’t sit right with me.” She frowns.
“Thank you, Bethany. That’s very helpful.” I glance at my notepad. ?
?Can you tell us a little about Joanna’s modeling career?”