Free Thicker than Water by Rett MacPherson

from 1972. “What do you know about it?”
    He scanned it quickly and swallowed his food. “How should I know anything about it? I was a sophomore in high school when this happened.”
    â€œWell, what is it all about? Sylvia was attacked? Look, you’re her grand-stepnephew, don’t you know anything about her?”
    â€œI’m afraid that you knew her better than anybody,” he said.
    â€œMy mom will remember this, I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll ask her. Might ask Elmer, too.”
    I thought to myself for a minute and chewed my food. “Can you find out if the guy was ever caught? If charges were ever filed?”
    â€œTorie…” he began with that tone of voice.
    â€œLook, I just want to know how the story ended,” I said. “I mean, her injuries were pretty serious. An attack like that in a small town, it must have caused quite an uproar.”
    â€œI would think.”
    â€œDid you know Sylvia hired a private investigator?” I asked.
    â€œAfter a scare like that,” he said, “I could understand it.”
    â€œYeah, except she hired the private investigator this past year,” I said. “Not in 1972.”
    He stopped chewing for a moment. “Really?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Don’t you find that odd?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe.”
    I gave him that get-real look.
    â€œIt depends on why she hired him,” he said. “If somebody skipped out on a business deal or something, I could see it.”
    â€œWhat if it wasn’t anything like that?” I said. “What if it was for something of a more personal nature?”
    â€œThen … what do you want me to say?”
    â€œI want you to comment on her odd behavior. The alarm system, the private investigator, the two calls she made the night before she died—it appears as though she was either worried about something or afraid of something. And now I find out she was brutally attacked in 1972, right here in this house. She had a fractured skull, Colin. That’s pretty damn serious.”
    â€œMaybe she was suddenly worried about a repeat of that night,” Colin said.
    â€œOkay, I can go with that, but why? After thirty-some-odd years, why would she suddenly be worried about it?” Colin said nothing, but he was thinking what I was thinking. “Unless something happened to make her afraid,” I added.
    â€œIt still doesn’t mean there was anything unusual about her death.”
    â€œI’m not saying there is. I’m saying that as her friend, employee, and heir to her estate, I missed an awful lot of what was going on right under my nose.”
    â€œMaybe,” he said. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
    â€œIf she was afraid and I did nothing to make her feel safe, then I am going to beat myself up over it,” I said.
    â€œYou’re borrowing trouble.”
    â€œWell, trouble is my middle name,” I said.
    â€œI thought obnoxious was your middle name,” he said.
    A cold and fake smile played at the corner of my lips. “So,” I said, changing the subject from my obnoxiousness, “why do you suppose somebody would send Sylvia a postcard of a child standing at a train station?”
    â€œMaybe Sylvia was supposed to pick her up,” he said.
    I sat up straight. I think you have forgotten your promise . Was that it? Sylvia was supposed to have picked the child up at the train station and didn’t? But why the dramatics? This had happened in the thirties or late twenties. Why hadn’t the person just called her up and said, “Hey, where were you?”
    â€œTorie?” Colin said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’ve got that look.”
    â€œWhat look?”
    â€œYou know what look,” he said. “And every time this happens I get a lecture from my wife on how I should have looked out for you better.”
    â€œI’m a big