against the wall. She well knew how nearly impossible it would be that Mercy was still alive. The best, the absolute best, she could reasonably hope for was a lead that would take her to her twin’s grave. There would only be bones there now, like there were at the prison cemetery. Her twin would just be a skeleton now.
I would take bones. I would take finding her remains. I just want to know…what happened.
The small, familiar hand in hers, the face, like a reflection in a mirror, looking back at her. There was comfort, reassurance there. She thought she would have it forever. She had had Mercy in her life for only six years. In a real sense, Pine had been alone ever since. She had never felt that comfort or reassurance again. That sort of connection perhaps came only once in a lifetime.
And maybe that’s why I find it so hard to connect with anyone else.
As she was finishing dressing, her phone buzzed. It was a text from Jackson Lineberry. He knew of only two other family friends in the area.
Myron and Britta Pringle. They were in their fifties, around the same age as Pine’s parents. She didn’t really remember the names, but she hoped visiting them would provide her some lead to go on.
She met Blum for breakfast downstairs in the screened-in porch. Over coffee and croissants, Pine told her about the message from Lineberry.
“And you don’t remember these Pringle people?” asked Blum.
Pine shook her head. “Not at the moment.” She paused and added a little bitterly, “I don’t seem to remember much, do I? It’s ridiculous, actually.”
Blum put down her cup and placed her hand over Pine’s. “Do you realize the trauma that you suffered in this town at the age of six? My God, it’s a wonder you can function at all, Agent Pine. You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
Pine would not look at her. Something had gripped her gut and wouldn’t let go. “I can’t do that, Carol. I don’t deserve for things to be easy.”
“When have things ever been easy for you? You obviously didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth. You were nearly murdered as a child. Your dad killed himself on your birthday. You’re estranged from your mother. And you lost your twin. And fewer than one in four special agents at the Bureau are women. So you sure as hell bucked those odds. And you didn’t do it by luck. You worked your butt off.”
“Any luck with Jack?” asked Graham as she walked in with plates of eggs, grits, biscuits, and bacon and put them down in front of the women. She had on dark slacks, a white blouse, and a colorful bandanna in her hair. Her makeup was immaculate and her eyes alert. Maybe too alert, thought Pine.
“Good first meeting,” said Pine as Blum looked curiously at the grits.
Pine noted this and said, “They’re grits, Carol. Sort of like gritty porridge but with lots of salt and butter.”
“If you say so,” replied Blum, focusing her attention on the eggs and bacon.
Graham hovered next to the table. “Jack has done really well for himself.”
“For certain,” said Pine, who was only poking at her meal.
“Not hungry?” observed Graham.
“Hungry for answers more than food. Lineberry did contact me with the names of two other people who lived here back then.”
“Who?”
“Myron and Britta Pringle.”
Graham’s face fell. “The Pringles, of course. I hadn’t thought of them.”
“Did you not know them well when they lived here?”
“Not well, no. I had pretty much forgotten about them.”
“Not so memorable?” asked Blum.
“No, it’s not that. In some ways they were very memorable. Especially the husband, Myron. But a lot of years have gone by.”
Pine exchanged a glance with Blum. Pine said, “Lineberry gave me their address. He didn’t have their phone number or email, which seemed odd.”
“Well, I guess you could just drive over there and see what happens.”
“What can you tell me about them when they lived here?”
Graham pulled up a chair and sat down. “The first term that comes to mind is odd. Myron Pringle was some sort of, oh, I don’t know, genius. Maybe now you would say he’s on the spectrum, if they even use that phrase anymore.”
“What did he do for a living?” asked Pine.
“Back then, he worked at the mine. In the office.”
“And his wife?”
“Britta wasn’t nearly as odd as Myron, as I recall. They had kids, a boy and a girl, but I don’t really