hasn’t spoken in all that time?”
“Not a word. Her husband comes every day to visit her. She never responds.”
Nikki was surprised that Travers McGraw would come to visit his former wife at all, given what she was suspected of doing. Maybe, like Nikki, he came hoping for answers. “What about her children?”
“They visit occasionally, the oldest son more than the others, but she doesn’t react as if she knows any of them. That’s all she does, rock like that for hours on end.”
Cull McGraw, the oldest son, Nikki thought. He’d been seven, a few years older than her, at the time of the kidnapping. His brothers Boone and Ledger were probably too young to remember the kidnapping, maybe even too young to really remember their mother.
“If you’re going in, you’d best hurry,” Tess said, still looking around nervously.
Nikki took a step into the room, hating the thought of the nurse’s aide locking the door behind her. As her eyes adjusted more to the lack of light, she saw that the woman had something clutched against her chest. A chill snaked up her spine as she made out two small glassy-eyed faces looking out at her from under matted heads of blond hair.
“What’s that she’s holding?” she whispered hoarsely as she hurriedly turned to Tess before the woman could close and lock the door.
“Her babies.”
“Her babies?”
“They’re just old dolls. They need to be thrown in the trash. We tried to switch them with new ones, but she had a fit. When we bathe or change her, we have to take them away. She screams and tears at her hair until we give them back. It was the doctor’s idea, giving her the dolls. Before that, she was...violent. She had to be sedated or you couldn’t get near her. Like I said, you go in there at your own risk. She’s...unpredictable and if provoked, dangerous since she’s a lot stronger than she looks. If I were you, I’d make it quick.”
Nikki reached for her notebook as the door closed behind her. The tumblers in the lock sounded like a cannon going off as Tess locked the door.
At your own risk. Comforting words, Nikki thought as she took a tentative step deeper into the padded room. She’d read everything she could find on the McGraw kidnapping case. There’d been a lot of media coverage at the time—and a lot of speculation. Every anniversary for years, the same information had been repeated along with the same plea for anything about the two missing twins, Oakley Travers McGraw and Jesse Rose McGraw.
But no one had ever come forward. The ransom money had never been recovered nor the babies found. There’d been nothing new to report at the one-year anniversary, then the five, ten, fifteen and twenty year.
Now with the twenty-fifth one coming up, few people other than those around Whitehorse, Montana, would probably even remember the kidnapping.
“There is nothing worse than old news,” her grandfather had told her when she’d dropped by his office at the large newspaper where he was publisher. Wendell St. James had been sitting behind his huge desk, his head of thick gray hair as wild as his eyebrows, his wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his patrician nose. “You’re wasting your time with this one.”
Actually he thought she was wasting her time writing true crime books. He’d hoped that she would follow him into the newspaper business instead. It didn’t matter that out of the nine books she’d written, she’d solved seven of the crimes.
“Someone knows what happened that night,” she’d argued.
“Well, if they do, it’s a pretty safe bet they aren’t going to suddenly talk after twenty-five years.”
“Maybe they’re getting old and they can’t live with what they’ve done,” she’d said. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He’d snorted and settled his steely gaze on her. “I wasn’t for the other stories you chased, but this one...” He shook his head. “Don’t you think I know what you’re up to? I suspect this is your mother’s fault. She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she?”
“She didn’t tell me about my father,” she’d corrected her grandfather. “I discovered it on my own.” For years, she’d believed she was the daughter of a stranger her mother had fallen for one night. A mistake. “All these years, the two of you have lied to me, letting me believe I was an accident, a one-night stand and that explained why I had my mother’s maiden name.”
“We protected you, you mean. And now you’ve got some lamebrained idea of clearing your father’s name.” Wendell swore under his breath. “My daughter has proven that she is the worst possible judge of men, given her track record. But I thought you were smarter than this.”
“There was no real proof my father was involved,” Nikki had argued stubbornly. Her biological father had been working at the Sundown Stallion Station the summer of the kidnapping. His name had been linked with Marianne McGraw’s, the mother of the twins. “Mother doesn’t believe he had an affair with Marianne, nor does she believe he had any part in the kidnapping.”
“What do you expect your mother to say?” he’d demanded.
“She knew him better than you.”
Her grandfather mugged a disbelieving face. “What else did she tell you about the kidnapping?”
Her mother had actually known little. While Nikki would have demanded answers, her mother said she was just happy to visit with her husband, since he was locked up until his trial.
“She didn’t ask him anything about the kidnapping because your mother wouldn’t have wanted to hear the truth.”
She’d realized then that her grandfather’s journalistic instincts had clearly skipped a generation. Nikki would have had to know everything about that night, even if it meant finding out that her husband was involved.
“A jury of twelve found him guilty of not only the affair—but the kidnapping,” her grandfather had said.
“On circumstantial evidence.”
“On the testimony of the nanny who said that Marianne McGraw wasn’t just unstable, she feared she might hurt the twins. The nanny also testified that she saw Marianne with your father numerous times in the barn and they seemed...close.”
She’d realized that her grandfather knew more about this case than he’d originally let on. “Yes, the nanny, the woman who is now the new wife of Travers McGraw. That alone is suspicious. I would think you’d encourage me to get the real story of what happened that night. And what does...close mean anyway?”
Her grandfather had put down his pen with an impatient sigh. “The case is dead cold after twenty-five years. Dozens of very good reporters, not to mention FBI agents and local law enforcement, did their best to solve it, so what in hell’s name makes you think that you can find something that they missed?”
She’d shrugged. “I have my grandfather’s stubborn arrogance and the genes of one of the suspects. Why not me?”
He’d wagged his gray head again. “Because you’re too personally involved, which means that whatever story you get won’t be worth printing.”
She’d dug her heels in. “I became a true crime writer because I wanted to know more than what I read in the newspapers.”
“Bite your tongue,” her grandfather said, only half joking. He sobered then, looking worried. “What if you don’t like what you find out about your father, or your mother, for that matter? I know my daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
He gave another shake of his gray head. “Clearly your mind is made up and since I can’t sanction this...” With an air of dismissal, he picked up his pen again. “If that’s all...”
She started toward the door but before