Diane Fallon. I’m very sorry to wake you up. I just got a call from someone Ross and I have been interviewing—may I speak with him?”
“Yes, just a moment.”
Diane assumed they were replaying the same scene that she and Frank just went through. But she heard Lydia mumble.
“You know, if you and she would have an affair like normal people, I could get some sleep.”
“Hey, Diane,” Kingsley said. “What’s going on?”
Diane apologized again for waking him and Lydia. Then she told him about the phone call from Kathy Nicholson.
“I can meet you there,” he said.
There was no, “What do you think this is about?” Just, “Let’s go,” as if she had called him and said, “ ‘ Come, Wat son, the game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!’ ”
Diane got into her clothes. Frank came in with an instant breakfast and told her to drink it.
“Take your gun,” he said.
Diane looked at him and sighed. He was right; she needed to take a gun. The gun issued to her by Rosewood hadn’t yet been returned to her, but she had her backup gun. She slipped on the shoulder holster. It felt strange. She didn’t think it would ever feel familiar. She put on a dark zip-up jacket and finished her breakfast, drinking the last of it down.
There wasn’t much traffic in Rosewood that early in the morning, but by the time she got on the interstate, it had picked up considerably. At the turnoff to Gainesville, dawn had begun to crack enough that she could just see a line of light outlining the horizon. Kingsley had timed it just right. He pulled in behind Diane as she parked on the street in front of Kathy Nicholson’s house.
It was still dark and the streetlights were on. Diane looked across the street at the homes belonging to Marsha Carruthers and Wendy Walters. All the windows were dark. Only the porch lights were lit.
“What do you think this is about?” asked Kingsley.
“Something to do with that house over there,” said Diane, gesturing with her head toward the Carruthers’ house.
The lights were burning inside the Nicholson residence. They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Kathy must have been waiting at the door, for it opened immediately.
“Oh, thank you for coming. I just don’t know what to do and, and, well, you seemed so nice.” She paused. “I hope it was the right thing, calling you, but . . .” Her sentence trailed off.
Diane could see Kathy had been crying. Her nose and eyes were red and puffy. She sniffed and put a tissue to her nose and led them to the living room, where a young man was standing near the couch that sat under the front window. He had been looking out. Even though the drapes were drawn, there was a slight part where he had held them open. He had been crying too. His tanned face was puffy like his mother’s. Diane tried to remember his name—Colton.
Colton was a tall, lanky young man. Diane did the math. He would be twenty-three. He looked both younger and older. In his face and manner he could still be a teenager. But not in his eyes. They were older. He had dark hair cut short, and light brown eyes. He wore jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt with CALIFORNIA BERKELEY printed across the front.
“Please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?” said Kathy.
Both Diane and Kingsley declined. They sat beside each other on the couch by the front window. Diane felt the pressure of her gun under her jacket.
“My son came in late last night. I didn’t know he was coming until he called me to pick him up at the airport.” Kathy Nicholson sat down in a chair with a sigh. Her son stood beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “This is just the most, the most terrible thing. I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” Colton said. “I need to go over and talk to Marsha and her family. I have to do this, Mom.”
“Why don’t you tell us first,” suggested Diane.
Colton nodded. “Okay.” He pulled the other stuffed chair closer to his mother and sat down. “It’s about El Carruthers. That guy in prison? He didn’t kill her.”
Chapter 57
Tears spilled onto Colton’s cheeks. “I was only fourteen. Do you know how young that is?”
“He had just turned fourteen,” said Kathy.
“Mother, please. This is hard enough,” he said. “Tyler Walters