Jessica pulled her phone away from her ear and stared at the empty screen for several moments before redialing Sandy’s number. It went to voicemail.
“Dammit.” Pushing the end key on her cell, Jess strode into her office on wooden legs. If Sandy Weaver refused to speak with her by phone, she’d simply visit her in person.
She booted up her laptop and returned to the screen she’d been on the night before.
Laying the scrap of paper on her desk, she jotted down Sandy’s address and then inserted it into the map search on her cellphone. The woman lived two hours away in Summerville, Alabama.
Jessica jumped to her feet and rushed into the bathroom to shower. She would need to hurry if she thought to make the two-hour drive and be back before Owen got home.
Summerville, Alabama had to be the quaintest, quietest place Jessica had ever beheld. It boasted of a small, white courthouse in the center of town, with an equally small post office residing next to it.
An old wooden shack sat just off the main stretch with a sign across the top that read: Emery’s BBQ. The intersection up ahead housed a flashing yellow caution light as well as a four-way-stop. The only thing modern about the town of Summerville was the gold and white convenience store to the right of the intersection.
A few more buildings, such as an auto parts place and a water company, adorned the surrounding area, but Jessica paid little heed. Her mind had zeroed in on her phone and the computerized voice now spouting out her next turn.
She took a left at the intersection, following the signs until she came upon her next turn. Three minutes later, she pulled into what she hoped to be Sandy Weaver’s drive.
Opening the back door to her SUV, Jess retrieved the covered painting she’d placed there before leaving the house, and approached the shadowed, screened in porch.
With no visible doorbell in sight, Jess lifted her free hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.
Footsteps could be heard moving through the house, along with the creaking of the floors. The sounds suddenly stopped. “Who’s there?”
Jess cleared her throat. “It’s Jessica Nobles, Mrs. Weaver. I really need to speak with you.”
A long pause ensued, and then, “You came all this way for nothing, Mrs. Nobles. Like I told you on the phone, I got nothing to say.”
Jessica rested her forehead against the cool wood of the door. “Please. I won’t take up much of your time. I have nowhere else to turn.”
The floor squeaked once more, telling Jess that Sandy had taken a step forward.
Raising her head, Jessica backed up a step and watched as the door opened a couple of inches and Sandy’s face appeared through the narrow crack.
She peered over Jessica’s head as if searching the drive beyond.
“I came alone,” Jess quickly assured her. “No one knows I’m here.”
The door swung open. “Come in, but please make it brief.”
Jessica hesitantly stepped over the threshold, gripping the painting she held as if it were her lifeline. “I’m really sorry for showing up this way, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
Sandy gestured toward an old, worn looking sofa. “Have a seat.”
Nodding her thanks, Jess moved to the couch and lowered her weight onto its center. She propped the covered painting against her legs and waited for Sandy to sit as well.
Sandy Weaver looked nothing like Jessica had imagined. She’d expected the woman to have long, unkept hair and dress like a gypsy, but instead, she sported a short, blonde pixie, a purple T-shirt and snug fitting jeans.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
At Jessica’s polite refusal, Sandy took a seat in a faded brown recliner and lit up a cigarette. “What is it that you need from me?”
“Tell me about what you saw after Terry Dayton’s disappearance.”
Sandy took a drag from her cigarette, exhaling her smoke toward the ceiling. “How did you find out about me?”
“I spoke with the reporter who covered the Dayton case. He told me what you saw in the upstairs window of the Dayton house.”
Taking another puff from the cigarette, Sandy briefly closed her eyes and then pierced Jess with a penetrating stare. “I can’t be involved in this. I left that neighborhood for a reason.”
“Tell me.”
“Eustice Martin.”
Jessica’s heart jumped into her throat. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him.”
“If you were smart, you’d go as far from Sparkleberry Hills as you can get.”
“Do you think Eustice killed that Dayton boy?” Jessica leaned forward on the sofa, searching the other woman’s gaze.
Sandy jumped to her feet and began to pace. “So, you know the boy’s dead too.”
Jessica stood as well, removed the covering from the painting and held it up where Sandy could see it.
“Jesus,” Sandy breathed, her attention locked on the painting of Terry’s small body in that grave. “Where did you get that?”
“I painted it one night after I’d blacked out. I have no recollection of how it came to be. I only know that I woke with the paintbrush in my hand and this image on the canvas in front of me.”
Tears filled Sandy’s eyes. “I saw the exact same thing. When I told the police what I’d seen, they investigated me like I had something to do with his disappearance.”
“I’m sorry,” Jessica whispered, setting the painting down next to the sofa. “What do you think it means, and why did I see it too? Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”
Sandy wiped at her tears with trembling fingers and crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside her chair. “My best guess would be that you’re an open channel. Probably due to the overwhelming grief you’re experiencing from the loss of your child.”
Jessica stilled. “I never said anything about losing a child.”
“You didn’t have to. As I said on the phone, I knew why you’d called. I also know that you can’t move beyond the death of your son. It eats away at you like a cancer, slowly devouring your mind as well as your will to live.”
All the air left Jessica’s lungs, deflating her to the point, she had no choice but to return to her seat or fall on her face. “His name was Jacob. He was seven years old when he passed away.”
“He was your only child.” It wasn’t a question.
Jessica weakly nodded. “My husband wanted to have another baby, but I couldn’t do it. No one could ever replace Jacob.”
Sandy moved around the coffee table and sat down next to Jess on the sofa. She took hold of Jessica’s hands and tugged her around to face her.
A faraway look entered Sandy’s eyes. “You have severed the bond you once had with your husband. Though he holds tight to it, refusing to let go.”
“Yes…”
“There has been no intimacy,” Sandy continued, coasting her thumbs along Jess’s palms. “You have lost the ability to love, to trust…to feel.”
Jess swallowed hard, unable to speak.
Releasing her hold on Jessica’s hands, Sandy picked up the painting and held it up in front of her. “Terry Dayton is buried in this grave. Of that, you can be certain.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jessica sat in Sandy Weaver’s living room, unable to look away from the woman’s strained profile.
Sandy had just confirmed what Jess already knew. The boy who’d once lived in that two-story house hadn’t merely disappeared, he’d been murdered. “Where is this grave, and who put him there?”
Returning the painting next to the couch, Sandy shrugged. “If I had those answers, the police would have found his remains by now.”
“But you’re a psychic,” Jessica argued, unwilling to believe that Sandy didn’t know anything. “How can you see his grave but not know its location?”
Sandy laughed without humor. “It doesn’t work that way. I only know what I’m shown. I can’t make the images appear at will. If I could, do you think I’d be living like this?” She waved her hand out in a wide arc.
Jessica considered her words. “Okay, so you don’t know where he’s buried, but you must have some idea of who put him there.”
“I have no proof, but I believe Eustice Martin is involved.”