Rachel agreed. It was strange. That’s why she had to clear things up so they could identify the deceased girl correctly. Somewhere, there was a family who didn’t know what had happened to their daughter. Rachel could only imagine how heart-wrenching that would be.
By the time the plane landed in California four-and-a-half hours later, Rachel was stiff and sore from sitting for so long. She’d only brought along a small carry-on bag, so she reached up and grabbed it before exiting the plane. She found the shuttle that took her to the rental car company and was soon driving down Highway 5 in a little four-door Ford Fusion toward Casita.
It was still early afternoon because she’d gained three hours flying west. The day was warm and sunny, and the traffic was mild. The farther south Rachel drove, the more nervous she became. She’d booked a room at a discount motel, and she hoped she wouldn’t need to stay longer than a couple of days. She’d finished her grocery store promotion graphic, but she had bookings for other projects over the next few days. Despite that, she realized that this was more important. She had to prove she was alive so they could find out who the real murder victim was. And if her brother had actually committed the murder.
A chill ran up her spine at the thought of her brother, Keith. She’d always thought he would be dangerous as he grew older—he’d certainly been heading in that direction. But murder? She wasn’t sure if he’d been capable of that at sixteen. Still, she’d been afraid of him, so she couldn’t positively say he was innocent, either.
In Stockton, Rachel changed over to Highway 99 south. Fields of crops filled the landscape as she drove along the road. The San Joaquin Valley was a major producer of all types of crops, from grapefruit and oranges to grapes, walnuts, kiwi fruit, and even cotton. The rich, fertile soil and warm climate made it perfect for growing large quantities of America’s food supply. Cattle also grazed the land, and oil fields were everywhere. Rachel remembered how poor her little town had been—the many ramshackle homes, including the one she’d lived in—and how half the businesses in town were shuttered. Now, looking through the eyes of an adult, Rachel wondered how an area so rich in crops and oil could be filled with so much poverty.
Rachel had known her parents weren’t wealthy or even middle class, despite her father working hard. But she hadn’t realized how poor they’d been until she’d moved away and lived with her aunt and uncle. Julie and Gordon always lived in nice upper-middle-class homes, and Rachel had lacked for nothing. Even though they’d moved a lot—from Texas to North Carolina to Ohio and then to Florida—they’d always lived in nice homes and neighborhoods. They’d paid for Rachel to attend Florida State University, like her daughter did now, and had even given her the wedding of her dreams when she’d married Carter. Rachel couldn’t fault her aunt and uncle with anything—until now. Had they known her brother had been convicted of her murder? And if so, why hadn’t they done anything about it?
Those questions worried Rachel because if they’d known, that meant they weren’t the good people she’d always thought them to be. And it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around that.
Rachel drove through Modesto and then continued to Casita. A few miles down the road, she saw the town in the distance. Her heart raced. Would Casita be the same as it had been thirty-five years ago? Or would it have grown like everywhere else? The thought that disturbed her the most, though, was if she’d see her mother. Or if her mother would even want to see her.
As she neared the edge of town, Rachel noticed a neighborhood of newer apartment buildings had been built with a park for children. Near that were strip malls filled with small shops and a 7-Eleven convenience store. Past the apartment complex, there was another new neighborhood of small homes with tiny yards and chain-link fences.
Rachel exited the highway in the direction of the downtown where City Hall sat. On the way, she passed neighborhoods of older homes that she instantly recognized. This was her old neighborhood. Squelching the impulse to drive past her former house, she continued on to her destination.
Turning left, Rachel saw the park where she used to play. She slowed down as she drove past it. The play equipment had been updated, but there was graffiti on the picnic tables and the slide. She drove over a small bridge where the river passed under. She spotted the wooded area of the park where the river flowed through, and Rachel shivered. That was where the murdered girl had been found.
Turning away, Rachel continued heading downtown. It wasn’t as dirty and forlorn as she’d remembered. At some point, they’d laid brick on the downtown sidewalks to give it a nostalgic look and added antique-style lampposts. Stores were no longer boarded shut. In fact, all were open with a variety of wares, from women’s clothing to wedding gowns to gift and antique shops. When Rachel pulled up to City Hall, she noticed it had also been given a facelift. Although it was the same old building from the early 1900s, the bricks looked clean and graffiti-free, and the sidewalk leading to it was paved with bricks as well. It looked impressive.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel picked up the folder with her birth certificate inside and stepped out of the car. It was windy, and she remembered it used to be quite often, and the day was warm. She went up the outside steps and walked inside. Entering the foyer, she glanced around until she saw a sign that pointed toward the records office. Rachel’s heels clicked on the polished wood floors and echoed through the building as she
