The Nobody Girls (Kendra Dillon Cold Case Thriller Book 3) Rebecca Rane (ereader for comics .TXT) 📖

find anyone in her family or records of her schooling. Like, nothing.”

“Wait, you said Margo Kasinski had a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, according to the original reports. I have a name on him, thanks to one newspaper article.”

“Okay, keep on that.”

“Well, at least with Cynthia Hawkins, you have something, even if it’s not the whole picture.”

“True. I am just going to sit in my office and hope something reveals itself.”

“Yep, sometimes that’s all you can do. And Kendra, we’re doing all we can do. And the FBI is sure Ewald is the guy. You don’t have to save the world on this one.”

Kendra appreciated the reassurance. But still, no actual physical evidence to link him to the victims put an asterisk on this story.

Maybe they all couldn’t be solved. Ewald wasn’t the only serial killer behind bars for crimes other than serial killing.

Kendra looked at Hawkins’s file. Because it was the most recent discovery, it was the least helpful in terms of physical evidence. It was also the only body she’d witnessed actually being unearthed. Thanks to Omari’s tip. She closed her eyes and deliberately forced herself to be back in that hot sun. The bones of Cynthia Hawkins peeked out of the tattered garbage bag, food wrappers littering the spot where a woman was buried.

Kendra called out to Shoop. “Did you find the address of, uh, Barbara Hawkins by chance?”

“Yeah, called and ask and got a few hang-ups. Are we sure we need it? Three people on one victim and still none on Margo or Susan and Krissy.”

“I don’t really have any other leads. At least with Cynthia, we have a story to tell.”

Kendra took the sticky note that Shoop had handed her.

Kendra made a decision: Barbara Hawkins might be able to say no on the phone, but maybe, in person, Kendra would be able to turn it into a yes.

“I’m going there,” Kendra stood up. She looked around for her bag.

“Now?”

“Yep. We can’t give up on Margo Kasinski, Krissy Jackson, or Susan Hodges. Nor can we give up on Cynthia.”

“I won’t. Is that my focus while you kick down the door?”

“Yes.”

Kendra found her Tory Burch Tote bag and began her pre-flight OCD check of its contents. A check that she’d done before she’d come into the office, but that was OCD. She had to do it again.

“Okay, I’m going to get the older daughter. Or she’ll slam the door in my face. Either way, we’ll have tried all the avenues to put this episode together, and we’ll beg. We’ll straight up beg at the end of the next episode for more on those three women.”

“It’s worked before, the begging on air,” Shoop said.

“Yes.”

Confident that she had what she needed, Kendra headed to the home of Barb Hawkins, now Woodside. She lived in a suburb outside of town. It was about a thirty-minute drive.

To say she didn’t know what possessed her was a lie. Kendra did know what possessed her to push harder. She was nearly one of those stories, the ones that ended at childhood, cut off abruptly. She fought so hard to keep going when the odds were stacked toward her being murdered in a basement, dumped somewhere, forgotten by everyone, either because the story was short or because the memory was too painful. That was what her mother did; Stephanie admitted it. She avoided talking about the worst time in her life as a mother. When Kendra was kidnapped, it wasn’t denial. It was survival.

Kendra was going to keep trying to find people she could gently move through the pain of memory. She had to try again before they finished this season.

Kendra found the house. Barb Hawkins Woodside lived on a quiet street. Kendra drove past automatically sprinkled lawns, and neighbors pulling weeds, and people enjoying their evening walks. It looked lovely to live here.

Barb Hawkins Woodside resided in a colonial-style two-story. The garage was open, and Kendra saw bikes hanging from the ceiling, tools on a shelf that spanned the back wall, and garbage cans pulled to the front of the garage but not in. Every type of ball from just about any sport you could play also dotted the garage space.

That’s what brought Barbara Hawkins Woodside out the front door before Kendra could knock.

“I told you to bring the cans into the garage, not almost into the garage!” She was yelling at someone Kendra didn’t see at the moment.

Barb stopped and looked embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I’m screaming at my teenager. It’s his first language.”

Barb Hawkins was charming from the outset and pretty. Kendra knew she was in her early fifties, but she looked ten years younger.

“I understand. I’m Kendra Dillon, and I’m doing a story on your mother for a podcast and I just wondered if we could talk? Even for a few minutes.”

The woman’s warm smile evaporated. She stared at Kendra, and Kendra could feel her window of opportunity. This was the moment she pushed Barb from a no to a yes.

“I am trying to highlight the people that were murdered. The stories you’re going to see, have seen, are all about this man, Ned Wayne Ewald, who’s emerging as a serial killer, one who hadn’t been identified as such by the media until now. It isn’t fair that he’s the one people will remember instead of your mom. I am trying like hell to change it.”

“Your producer called. I hung up because I don’t talk about this.”

“Your dad told me your mother loved to sew.”

Barb Hawkins closed her eyes and seemed to be accessing something—memory, resolve, patience, Kendra didn’t know.

Kendra waited now, letting the woman decide to talk or not.

“Okay, I have twenty minutes, tops. Where do you want to do this?”

“Kitchen table works.”

“Come in, ignore the mess. We’ve given up. Maybe when the kids go off to college, I’ll stand a chance.”

“It’s fine.” Kendra made quick work of her recording device. And did her best to explain her mission. “I tell the stories of cold cases, if I can, through the eyes of the victims