need more than that.”
“I was assigned to Ted Hollingsworth. The investigative reporter who won the Pulitzer Prize.”
“Yes, I know.” Ted Hollingsworth had reported on a scheme that had been going on for years where highly ranked officials took kickbacks from construction companies in exchange for contracts for street construction projects in DC.
“He’s working on something confidential. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he sent me down to the newspaper morgue to get some files on something that happened several years ago.”
The morgue is the newspaper office where files and materials from former newspaper investigations are kept. “And?”
“I called ahead, but when I got there, they couldn’t find the file he wanted, so I volunteered to help them look. The file he wanted was from 2002. And . . . while looking, I came across . . . a file on our parents’ deaths.”
Oh, my God. “Tell me you didn’t look at it.”
“Of course I did. It was right there. I pulled it along with what he wanted. Gave him his file but kept the other one. I looked at it over lunch.”
“Madison, that’s . . . You shouldn’t have. You could get into a lot of trouble if they find out.”
“That’s the least of our problems, Madrigal. There were pictures there of the m-murder scene.” She dissolves into sobs.
I hug her. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” I’ve never seen those pictures. Gramps would never allow it.
“The pictures. They’re so . . . gruesome. How could anybody do that to our mother? How could anybody beat her to death, slit her throat? She was so beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful in those pictures. And now . . .” She digs under her pillow. To my horror, she pulls out a manila folder. “Here. Take them. I don’t want them near me anymore.”
“Madison, did you take these from the newspaper or copy them?”
“I couldn’t make copies, not without anybody noticing.”
A knock on the door interrupts what she’s about to say. “Madison, it’s Olivia. I brought you cookies and milk.”
“Hide the folder.”
I stuff the file inside my jacket, which is roomy enough to conceal it.
“Don’t tell her, Madrigal. I don’t want her to know. She’ll tell Gramps.” She scrunches up her face. “She’s such a tattletale.”
Much as I did at her age, she’s starting to resent Olivia’s intrusion into her life. But where I walked the straight and narrow rather than incur Gramps’s wrath, Madison has a wild streak that has gotten her into hot water more than once. Olivia watches her like a hawk, which, after all, is her job. But if Olivia does in fact tell Gramps about the photo theft, Madison might bolt rather than face the music.
“Okay.” I walk to the door and let in Olivia, who’s holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.
“What’s wrong with her?” she whispers.
“Cramps. Her period’s coming.” I hope to God that’s true. I don’t want Olivia questioning Madison’s actions more than usual. She might discover the truth, and then, God help us, there’d be hell to pay.
Olivia sweeps into the room and sets the cookies and milk on the night table next to Madison’s bed. “Oh, my poor lamb,” she says as she embraces her. “Should I get you some aspirin and a heating pad?”
“Yes, please.”
Over Olivia’s shoulder Madison mouths to me, “Don’t tell.”
All I can do is nod.
CHAPTER 7
Trenton
The flight to Raleigh is uneventful. Well, as uneventful as it can be seeing how a living, breathing temptation is seated next to me dressed in a business suit, minimal makeup, her luscious hair caught in a knot and pinned within an inch of its life to her nape. None of which makes her any less attractive.
At the prison, we present our credentials. I’d called ahead to give them a heads-up about Madrigal. Even so, we’re patted down and scrutinized as if we’re bringing in contraband. We have to leave everything in a locker and are given