I shook my head.
“He’s a serial killer. Was a serial killer. They executed him in 1984 in Ohio. Apparently, Brown was in Haxton around the time Beth disappeared. He ran with some girl whose grandmother lived there. There’s no proof he committed the crime, and the police aren’t even sure he was here the day Beth disappeared. But Brown liked certain kinds of girls. He liked them young—high school age—and he liked them with long dark hair. That’s Beth.” He paused. “I think he got her.”
“But he wasn’t charged in her death?” I asked.
“Never. They convicted him of killing six other girls. There are other murders and disappearances they suspect him of, but we’ll never know for sure. He took those secrets with him.”
I sat back in my chair. The couple with the baby had gone, and a group of teenagers, probably the same age as my dead half sister, took their place. They all held phones and talked and texted while they ate. I felt overloaded by the things Gordon told me, as if a great gust of wind had come at me suddenly, knocking me onto my butt.
I had questions. Lots of questions.
But one rose to the top of my mind.
“Why exactly are you telling me all of this?” I asked.
He worked his tongue around in his mouth. I saw it bulging against his cheek. Then he said, “I thought you’d want to understand what happened to your half sister, especially since I know your mother hadn’t told you about it. I also wanted to make sure you understood some things about my relationship with your mother. I wanted you to know that even though we weren’t together and hadn’t been for quite a number of years, we still shared something.”
“The memory of your daughter,” I said.
“The memory. The pain. The bond that created.”
“But if you were so important to her, why didn’t she ever tell me about you? You said you were in touch with her right up until she died. How do I know that’s true? Or are you just going to tell me to ask Paul?”
“No,” he said. “Not that. Your mother had been… helping me recently. From time to time over the past year or so.”
“Helping with what?”
“My life hasn’t been the same since Beth died. I never really had my feet on the ground again. Losing a child, it’s… it’s just something I never could have imagined. Things never went right after that.” He looked me right in the eye. “I was glad your mom found someone else and had more kids. It was tough seeing her that way, but I knew she’d moved on. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you about it.”
I thought of my mother—her no-nonsense approach to living, the way things were cut-and-dried for her. She didn’t waste time looking backward. But this man—my mom’s ex-husband—wanted me to believe that my mother, my very loving mother, could just move on from the loss of a child as easily as someone could move on from the loss of a piece of jewelry or a car.
“If what you’re telling me is true,” I said, “I doubt it. How could she just move on?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s not for me to speculate.”
His passive-aggressive tone made me uneasy. He was trying to say something about Mom, to plant some seed of doubt within me, as though I hadn’t had twenty-six years of my life with the woman. I knew her strengths. I knew her weaknesses. A man I talked to for less than an hour wasn’t going to change that. There were things I didn’t know about her, but I did know her. I reminded myself of that—I knew her.
I pointed to my watch again. “What is it you wanted?”
He smiled. “Again, so much like her. So eager to cut to the heart of the matter.”
“I learned from the best,” I said.
“Beth was like that too,” he said, his smile turning wan. “Anyway, your mom was helping me out from time to time with a little money. Like I said, I haven’t had the best of luck, and my health has also had some ups and downs.”
“You want money?” I asked. “I don’t have any money. I’m a graduate student.”
“But your mom has some money,” he said. “I think it’s from the insurance policy when your father died.”
“But her will is set—”
I stopped. If my brain were run on wires and plugs, that moment would have been when it felt like someone had flipped a switch, sending a burst of light to the right part of my head. I hadn’t thought it before, but once I did, it made perfect sense to me.
“Elizabeth Yarbrough,” I said. “The woman named in my mother’s will. Everything my mother owned is to be divided three ways between me, my brother, and this woman named Elizabeth Yarbrough. I don’t know her, and neither does the lawyer. But you’re telling me my mother had another daughter named Elizabeth, right? And there’s a woman in the will named Elizabeth. Is that her?”
Gordon was already shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear the story I just told you?” he asked. “Didn’t you listen to any of that? Beth is dead. Our Beth is gone.”
“But there was no body. No conviction. How do you know?”
“I’d know my own daughter, wouldn’t I?”
“You’ve met her? You’ve met Elizabeth Yarbrough?”
“We’re getting off track here,” he said.
“So you have met her?” I asked. “Is she your daughter?”
“No,” Gordon said. “She’s not. Absolutely not.”
“So why did Mom leave a third of her estate to her?” I asked.
“Your mother fell prey to a… a con artist. Yes, that’s the only term that applies. A con artist. That woman, that Elizabeth Yarbrough, has taken advantage of your mother. She preyed on her and convinced her that she is really our Beth. I had no idea about the will,” he said. “But it doesn’t surprise me in the least. Elizabeth Yarbrough is fleecing your family.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Just then my phone rang. I knew who it would be. I checked my watch. Still ten minutes to go until the deadline I’d given Dan, but I knew he wouldn’t wait the entire time. He’d grow impatient and nervous, and then he’d call.
I wanted to continue the conversation with Gordon Baxter. I wanted to hear what he had to say about Elizabeth Yarbrough. But I knew if I didn’t answer the phone, Dan would think the worst. The Dover police would be at the door of the McDonald’s almost as fast as he would be.
“Are you going to take that?” Gordon asked.
“I have to,” I said.
I lifted the phone and saw it wasn’t Dan on the other end of the line.
It was Paul.
I had a lot to say to him. A lot. But not at that moment. I answered, though, intending to make sure I could see him sooner rather than later.
“Are you at home?” Paul asked right away.
Something sounded off in his voice. There was an urgency in it, an edge that made it seem on the brink of breaking.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Paul?”
“It’s Ronnie.”
“What happened?”
What else could happen? I wanted to say. What else could possibly happen?
“He got ahold of some pills in the hospital,” Paul said. “Elizabeth, he tried to kill himself. I think you better get over here. I’m in the emergency room of St. Vincent’s. That’s where they brought him.”
I was standing before I could say another thing. And I didn’t say anything else—nothing that I could remember anyway. And I don’t remember what Gordon Baxter said to me before I left either. I rushed to the car in a daze.
I cried on the way to St. Vincent’s Hospital. Not sobbing or hysterics, just quiet tears. They ran from my eyes as I drove, and I spent most of my time wiping them away. As I pulled into the parking lot, the phone rang. I parked the car before I answered. I considered not answering and just running inside, but I thought it might be Paul again.