a casserole into the oven when her doorbell rang.
She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock with more than a little annoyance. It was rare that her family was all together for dinner. Between Daisy Scouts, Little League, music lessons and sleepovers—not to mention Ronald’s endless hours at his law office—it was a battle to get the five of them home and gathered around the table at the same time.
She’d planned tonight for a week, synchronizing all the schedules so they could enjoy a fun evening at home—right down to the popcorn and the movie. The kids were already upstairs, finishing their homework. And Ron was wrapping up a meeting and heading home.
If the person ringing that doorbell was one of her younger kids’ friends, she was going to be one very irritated mom.
Determined to get rid of whoever was on her doorstep, Brenda marched into the foyer and flung open the front door.
Whoever she might have expected, it wasn’t the couple standing there. “Can I help you?” she asked, brows drawn in question.
“I hope so,” the woman replied. “I’m assuming you’re Brenda Reins?”
“I am. And you are...?” She waited for an answer.
“My name is Casey Woods.” Casey held up her New York private investigator’s license. “This is my associate, Marc Devereaux. We’re from the investigative firm Forensic Instincts. We’ve been hired to look into the disappearance of Jan Olson.”
“Jan?” Brenda was taken aback. “She vanished over fifteen years ago. Why are you checking into this now? Have you learned something new about what happened to her?”
“We’re not sure,” Marc said frankly. “But the investigation has been reopened. We understand that you were her closest friend. We were hoping you could take a few minutes to talk to us, to tell us more about her.”
Brenda hesitated. “You say the case has been reopened. By whom? Who hired you?” she asked.
“Technically, the NYPD hired us,” Casey responded. “They don’t have the resources to devote to such a long shot. We do. If you’re asking who requested the investigation, the answer is Jan’s father. He’s gravely ill. He’s desperate to find some closure to his daughter’s disappearance before he dies.”
Sadness clouded Brenda’s face. “Mr. Olson was such a kind man. He used to take a bunch of us out to dinner whenever he visited—and he always included the kids who lived far away and couldn’t get home to see their own families. I’m so sorry to hear he’s ill. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Casey preceded Marc into the house. It was a richly appointed colonial, with a grand foyer and French provincial furniture to match.
Brenda led them into the living room and gestured for them to have a seat on the sofa. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
Casey waved away the offer. “We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us. We’ll make this as brief as possible and then be on our way. Could you give us some insight into Jan Olson? Her personality, state of mind, friends, interests, classes—anything the two of you shared or that you were aware of?”
Brenda let out a long sigh. “It feels like a million years ago. Yet it still stuns me to think about it. Jan was a sweetheart with a heart of gold. I can’t imagine anyone who’d want to hurt her. She was shy and studious, with just a small circle of friends.”
“Did you know most of those friends?” Marc broke in to ask. “Would you able to compile a list?”
“Sure. Although, with the exception of our mutual friends, I have no idea where the others are now.”
“Finding them will be my problem,” Marc said, whipping out a notebook. “I just want you to detail every part of Jan’s life that you recall.”
“She wasn’t all that social. She spent most of her time buried in her textbooks, trying to decide between premed and nursing. There was a lot of academic pressure, enough to make her quit the swim
Learning to Kill: Stories