the family to America from a small mountain town in Italy called Sestriere so his six children could attend American colleges. Noelle was his youngest child, the last to go to college. She wanted to go to Colorado and study climatology, to go skiing and mountain biking in the biggest mountains in the country. Giovanni thought that Colorado was too far away. So they’d come to a deal after Noelle found the Department of Atmospheric Sciences at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. It gave her the mountains, and it gave Giovanni the peace of mind that she was only a few hours from home instead of three days’ drive.
For the quiet, serious Noelle, UNC-Asheville was a dream come true. She loved her department heads, her roommate and the environment of the campus. She’d joined the cycling club and had made many friends. She’d even found a group of Catholic students that went to the church off campus, and she joined them as often as she could. Now, her sophomore year, she felt right at home. She had a lot of attention from the boys on campus, too. She was five-six, a hundred twenty pounds of lean muscle, shiny brown hair and soulful ethnic brown eyes, and she got quite a bit of attention from the opposite sex. But she was her father’s daughter, and shunned formal dating because it was his wish. It didn’t bother her, she had a lot of work to do for school and dating wasn’t the most important thing on her plate.
She pedaled back through the gates to the university, rode through campus and pulled up to her dorm, West Ridge Hall. Securing her bike in the rack, she chained it and went inside. Wheezing as she walked the hall to her room, she wondered if she should cancel her attendance at the study group for her climatology class. She came to her door, unlocked it and went inside. She and her roommate kept the blinds up; their room afforded a beautiful panorama of the mountains, and they both enjoyed lying in bed gazing at the view. Noelle put her backpack down on the floor and stretched out on her twin-size bed.
Oh, that felt good. Too good. She knew she needed to get up and get going. Being sick was no excuse for missing that study group. So she managed to get herself up, slip on a jacket, grab her books and make her way out of her cozy room toward the library.
Ramsey Library stood in the center of campus, and the walk felt good. Physical activity had always been Noelle’s cure when she didn’t feel well, so a short walk to the library wasn’t going to hurt. She walked along the quiet pathways, waving at people she knew, and went into the library to her study group.
They worked for a couple of hours, and Noelle was starting to feel pretty crappy. Just as they decided to take a break, her cell phone rang. Noelle excused herself and made her way to the side entrance of the library. She hated talking on her phone in a group setting, she found it rude when people talked on phones in restaurants and grocery stores. So she was mindful of the other students in the library, and she needed some air anyway.
It was a friend from the cycling club, asking if she wanted to go biking in the morning. As much as she wanted to, she turned the offer down, until she was done with her antibiotics, it just wouldn’t be smart to push herself too hard. They chatted for a while as Noelle walked out of the library and sat on the steps. It was getting full dark, and as she hung up the phone, she thought she saw a shadow on the side of the building. She shook it off, there were so many people on campus, anyone could be walking around the corner of the building. Regardless, she decided it would be a good idea to go inside. She’d heard about that poor girl from Virginia, and as she moved toward the door, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She glanced behind her and saw that the shadow had become a man, but she laughed when she realized it was just another student. He was certainly too young and too handsome to be anything but. She gave him a smile and held the door for him.
He smiled back, and that was the last thing Noelle remembered.
Thirty-Two
Taylor woke up with a sense of purpose. Showered, dressed and fed, she grabbed the Tennessean from her front step and plopped down on the couch. Lee Mayfield, a crime reporter who Taylor didn’t get along with, had the byline for the Rainman lead. She read through the article, scoffing. As usual, Mayfield had the details wrong. It wasn’t just the police who couldn’t stand her, her fellow reporters got fed up with her, too. She was infamous for showing up at the end of a press conference, or after shootings had wrapped at a scene, and getting her stories from the other media on the scene rather than doing her own work.
Taylor didn’t bother finishing the article, or the paper, for that matter. Disgusted, she threw the paper on the floor and turned to business she had some control over. Whitney Connolly’s cell phone. Scrolling through the options, she found memo and hit playback. Whitney’s voice floated through the air, running down a to-do list. The last item was interesting, and Taylor replayed it several times.
“Need to talk to Quinn about the notes.”
That was it. No clues, no other directions. It didn’t even sound like this was important. Was she talking about the e-mails?
Taylor picked up the phone and called Quinn Buckley. Quinn answered on the first ring.
“Quinn? It’s Taylor Jackson. I have been going through Whitney’s personal effects that were in her car, and I have your sister’s cell phone here. There’s a recorded memo on the cell phone, I want to play it for you and get your impressions. Okay, I’m going to play it now.”
She held the cell phone up to her own portable phone and replayed the memo. Whitney’s voice rang out like a shot. Taylor couldn’t help but get goose bumps, she didn’t usually commune with the dead. That was Sam’s job. She lifted the receiver back to her ear and heard Quinn crying softly.
“Oh damn, Quinn, I’m sorry, I should have warned you it was going to be her voice.”
“No, that’s okay,” Quinn sniffled through the phone. “I just wasn’t prepared to hear her voice again, like that. Was there nothing else?”
Taylor shook her head though no one was there to see it. “No, Quinn, there wasn’t anything else. Do you know what notes she’s talking about?”
“Who knows with Whitney? I was getting us both some note cards, maybe that’s what she meant. She must have changed her mind about the style, or something. I had so hoped there would be something more.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, but I’ll keep working on it. I’m sorry.”
“No, Taylor, you’re doing your best. I appreciate your help. They’re going to release Whitney’s body today. I think we’ll be having the memorial next week, as soon as I can get in touch with my husband and little brother and make arrangements for the service. They’re both out of town. I would appreciate it if you would come.”
“Of course. Just leave me a message as to time and place, and I’ll be there.”
They hung up and Taylor felt terrible. Here the woman’s sister was dead, her husband was perpetually out of town on business and she couldn’t even contact her younger brother to help make the funeral arrangements. For a privileged life, it seemed very lonely.
Taylor decided the best thing she could do was get into the office. She brushed her still-wet hair into a ponytail, grabbed a Diet Coke and her keys.
The phone rang just as she was getting ready to walk out the door. She set her things down and answered it. Baldwin’s voice boomed through the line as if he were in the next room, and she felt an overwhelming loneliness. Silly, she chided herself, he would be home soon.
“Hi, honey. Everything okay up there in North Carolina?”
“Well, no one’s gone missing this morning, so I guess we’re making improvements. I can’t predict this one, Taylor, and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Then sit down and write me a love poem,” she teased. “That should get your mind off things and back to where it belongs.”
The comment was greeted with silence. Taylor wasn’t hurt exactly, but she felt stung, usually Baldwin would coo right back at her. But before she could say anything, he spoke.
“What made you say that?”
“Well, I’m sorry, hon, I was just joking around. They’ve been on my mind since I saw them at Whitney Connolly’s house. She had a boyfriend or admirer that was sending her love poems in her e-mails, and I read a couple while I was going through her stuff. It’s no big deal.”
But Taylor could feel the intensity coming off Baldwin through the phone. “Taylor, do you remember what the poems were? Anything in particular about them?”
“No, I didn’t pay that close attention. Why, Baldwin, what’s going on?”
