vic this morning. Too bad I’m not in the newspaper business anymore. I’d give my left nut to be the reporter who breaks that story wide-open. Regardless, it’s going to make a nice epilogue for my book. A new killer on the loose and all that.”
Feingold still had contacts within law enforcement, apparently. Although the media had reported both murders, they hadn’t yet been publicly connected, nor had the possibility of a copycat killer been released. Reid knew it would now only be a matter of time.
“How about if I keep my mouth shut in exchange for an interview?” Feingold suggested. “I hear Braden was a real son of a bitch. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to unload? Tell your side of the story?”
“The man’s dead. Forget it,” Reid answered tightly.
“Good for you, Novak. Always the Boy Scout. Tell Ms. Cahill I’ll be seeing her on the bookshelves.”
Reid walked out of the bar with Feingold’s phlegmy chortle in his ears.
Inside the graceful Georgetown home, images of Caitlyn’s childhood flitted through her mind. She sawherself with Joshua, playing on the curved mahogany staircase, as well as the Christmas tree that graced the two-story foyer each year, decorated with crystal ornaments and plaid bows in honor of the family’s Scottish ancestry. Under the wide, arched doorway leading into the study, she had posed for a college graduation photo with her father, his arm wrapped around her as he beamed with pride. Caitlyn stood alone in the same location now, feeling a bittersweet sadness wash over her.
The visit with her mother, Caroline, at the nursing home earlier that day had not gone well. Once again, her mother hadn’t recognized her. The nursing staff had warned that her mother was having one of her off days, and that it was possible she wouldn’t be responsive. Still, Caitlyn had sat with her, holding her hand and talking to her in hopes she might somehow be able to reach her. But Caroline had stared at her daughter with vague curiosity before pulling her fingers away and gazing off toward the hallway, as if she expected some other visitor who was yet to arrive.
She had looked frail and small in the lilac sateen pajamas Caitlyn had bought her, and far too young to be struggling with Alzheimer’s, if that was indeed her affliction. Caitlyn couldn’t be sure since the doctors had never fully confirmed the diagnosis. All she really knew was that her mother’s mental state had begun to deteriorate when the FBI arrested her son. She had gone from vibrant D.C. socialite to a recluse who refused toleave the haven of her home, fearing the questioning reporters camped along their fashionable street.
Two days after Braden Cahill’s stroke, Caroline had disappeared on her way home from the hospital. The District police had found her wandering the National Mall and unable to tell them her name or address. It was as if her mind had shattered right along with her family and social standing. Without those facets of her life, Caroline Cahill ceased to exist.
Caitlyn blamed herself.
She looked around the house that was cloaked in unbearable silence. White sheets now covered much of the remaining furnishings that would soon be auctioned off in an estate sale.
It had to be done. Caroline would never be coming home again, and the adult care facility where she now resided was costly. Caitlyn had found the nicest and most highly recommended center in the District, taking some comfort in the knowledge that at least her mother would still be in close proximity to her beloved Georgetown.
With a sigh of resignation, she climbed the stairs, stopping at the large window that overlooked the tree-lined, cobblestone street comprised of quaint shops and well-kept Federal, Georgian and Victorian townhomes. If the house sold soon, Caitlyn realized, she might never see this picturesque view again. But she couldn’t live here, either—the memories would consume her. She gazed down onto the sidewalk,
Feingold still had contacts within law enforcement, apparently. Although the media had reported both murders, they hadn’t yet been publicly connected, nor had the possibility of a copycat killer been released. Reid knew it would now only be a matter of time.
“How about if I keep my mouth shut in exchange for an interview?” Feingold suggested. “I hear Braden was a real son of a bitch. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to unload? Tell your side of the story?”
“The man’s dead. Forget it,” Reid answered tightly.
“Good for you, Novak. Always the Boy Scout. Tell Ms. Cahill I’ll be seeing her on the bookshelves.”
Reid walked out of the bar with Feingold’s phlegmy chortle in his ears.
Inside the graceful Georgetown home, images of Caitlyn’s childhood flitted through her mind. She sawherself with Joshua, playing on the curved mahogany staircase, as well as the Christmas tree that graced the two-story foyer each year, decorated with crystal ornaments and plaid bows in honor of the family’s Scottish ancestry. Under the wide, arched doorway leading into the study, she had posed for a college graduation photo with her father, his arm wrapped around her as he beamed with pride. Caitlyn stood alone in the same location now, feeling a bittersweet sadness wash over her.
The visit with her mother, Caroline, at the nursing home earlier that day had not gone well. Once again, her mother hadn’t recognized her. The nursing staff had warned that her mother was having one of her off days, and that it was possible she wouldn’t be responsive. Still, Caitlyn had sat with her, holding her hand and talking to her in hopes she might somehow be able to reach her. But Caroline had stared at her daughter with vague curiosity before pulling her fingers away and gazing off toward the hallway, as if she expected some other visitor who was yet to arrive.
She had looked frail and small in the lilac sateen pajamas Caitlyn had bought her, and far too young to be struggling with Alzheimer’s, if that was indeed her affliction. Caitlyn couldn’t be sure since the doctors had never fully confirmed the diagnosis. All she really knew was that her mother’s mental state had begun to deteriorate when the FBI arrested her son. She had gone from vibrant D.C. socialite to a recluse who refused toleave the haven of her home, fearing the questioning reporters camped along their fashionable street.
Two days after Braden Cahill’s stroke, Caroline had disappeared on her way home from the hospital. The District police had found her wandering the National Mall and unable to tell them her name or address. It was as if her mind had shattered right along with her family and social standing. Without those facets of her life, Caroline Cahill ceased to exist.
Caitlyn blamed herself.
She looked around the house that was cloaked in unbearable silence. White sheets now covered much of the remaining furnishings that would soon be auctioned off in an estate sale.
It had to be done. Caroline would never be coming home again, and the adult care facility where she now resided was costly. Caitlyn had found the nicest and most highly recommended center in the District, taking some comfort in the knowledge that at least her mother would still be in close proximity to her beloved Georgetown.
With a sigh of resignation, she climbed the stairs, stopping at the large window that overlooked the tree-lined, cobblestone street comprised of quaint shops and well-kept Federal, Georgian and Victorian townhomes. If the house sold soon, Caitlyn realized, she might never see this picturesque view again. But she couldn’t live here, either—the memories would consume her. She gazed down onto the sidewalk,
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