She looks up at Carl, then back to me. “It’s fine. Can we go on the record now?”
I nod. She puts her phone on the table and starts recording.
She leans forward and places her forearms on her legs, clasps her hands.
This is not what I look like when I’m the one pressing record. I sit up straight. I square my shoulders. I let the person know I’m in charge and I’m going to lead. Erin is doing the exact opposite. She is moving slowly, her body is relaxed, and her voice is calm and soothing.
It’s unnerving me. In our industry, calm, soothing, and relaxed are not the norm.
“Can I get you something to drink before we start?”
I stare at her. What the hell? Now we are at a tea party.
“No,” I say.
“All right then.” She speaks into the phone. “This is Erin Stockwell. February fifteenth, two thousand nineteen. Seven fifteen p.m. I’m speaking with Rita Meade. Rita, you are aware this is being recorded, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you know I took over on the Laura Sanders case?”
“Yes.”
“And that Laura Sanders has now been identified as Heather Hadwick.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “You can skip the foreplay. There’s something I need to show you.” I reach in my tote and pull out the clear bag containing the pregnancy test.
Erin studies it. “What the hell is this?”
“I think Laura Sanders sent this to me. And I think it’s old. Seventeen years old. She mailed me a package to my father’s address, myhigh school address. But the package had been opened. Then I found this,” I say, pointing to the bag. “Under the seat in my father’s truck.”
Erin looks up and sits back. “Your father opened it?”
“I think so.” I stop her before she can speak again. “I’m going to talk to him about it. I don’t know why he opened it.”
“Okay,” Erin says. “Do you still have the package?”
I point in the box. “It was mailed from Miami.”
She nods. “I’ll make sure Mulholland gets it.”
“I have a contact at the crime lab here,” I say. “Just in case Mulholland needs it.”
Erin nods. She sits quietly for a second, then picks up the clear bag between two fingers and studies it. “Do you know of any girls who were pregnant at Poison Wood?”
I shake my head. “No. But I have another contact you will want to talk to. Hang on.”
I scroll back through my texts and find one from Erin. I attach my list of names to it and send it.
Her phone dings, and she picks it up from the table. “Yes, you have been busy.” Then she surprises me. “Thank you for sharing that.”
No yelling. No lecturing. Just a thank-you.
“You’re welcome.”
“Laura Sanders, a.k.a. Heather, has a child,” she says, setting her phone back down.
“Yeah, but I saw her child—she was only seven or eight years old. If she’d been pregnant at Poison Wood, she’d have a teenager.”
