Twelve Years Later

"M om?"

"In here," the woman replied as Eliza walked into the kitchen and saw her mom staring out the bay window into the backyard, sipping her tea. "It's going to snow," she added.

"Is it?" Eliza asked and sat down at the table next to her.

"Yes, I can tell."

"Mom, can I talk to you?"

"About snow?" She turned to Eliza.

"No. About Dad."

"Did you take the things to the storage like I asked?"

"I did. There are still a few boxes downstairs that I'll get before I leave, but it's not about that."

"Then, what?"

"His funeral."

Her mother tilted her head and asked, "What about his funeral?"

"I know you were… a little… out of it, and you spent pretty much the whole thing in your room, but there's something I want you to look at and tell me if you recognize him."

"What are you talking about?"

Eliza pulled out her phone and turned it to her. On the screen was the sketch she'd worked on with the artist. She swallowed, praying silently that her mother would recognize him and know the man's name, but more importantly, that this exercise wouldn't hurt the woman any worse than she'd already been.

"Him. Do you recognize him?"

"Yes, of course."

Eliza's eyes widened then, and she nearly dropped the phone.

"What do you mean, ‘Yes, of course,' Mom?"

"His name is Albert. He worked with your father. Why? What does this have to do with the funeral?"

"He–" Eliza shook her head. "He worked with Dad?"

"Yes. Your father was a government contractor, so not exactly an employee, but he was an engineer, and he made good money and got to choose his projects eventually. This man worked on one of them with him, I think. The projects were all secret to people outside of the teams, but I remember seeing him one day when I went to drop off lunch for your father. Your dad said they were working together. He seemed strange that day, now that you mention it."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father. I used to pack a lunch for him because he'd get busy and forget to eat. He left it at home that day, so I came by, and this Albert guy was in your dad's office. I thought I heard them fighting before I walked in, but they stopped talking when I got there. I remember your dad calling him Albert. The guy left after that and said they'd catch up another time. Who drew this picture of him?"

"Mom, when was this?"

"Before our trip. Before what happened."

"How long before?"

"A month or so, maybe."

"Did you see him after that?"

"No. Why?"

"He was at the funeral. I saw him."

"Well, that would make sense; he worked with your father."

"He's the only person who didn't come up to me to offer condolences."

"I didn't get the impression he knew your father well. Maybe he wanted to attend to pay his respects but didn't feel comfortable talking to the family. Why are you even asking me about this? And why do you have this drawing of him?"

"Because this is the man who killed Dad," she replied honestly.

"Oh, honey. No. He just worked with your father. The man who killed him was someone wandering in the woods with some kind of problem."

"That's what the cops used to think. But I remembered, Mom."

"Remembered what?"

"Putting Dad's stuff into storage, I… flashed on the memory of what happened. I saw this man stabbing him."

"The man who killed your father had messy hair and a full beard."

"He must have shaved it, or he could have worn a wig and a fake beard," Eliza suggested.

"Why would he kill your father?"

"You said they were fighting."

"I thought they were. But, honey, if this man really wanted your father dead, he could have killed him any day at the office. "

"But then, he would've been caught, Mom. Did you or Dad tell anyone about our trip?"

"Of course, we did. I'm sure your dad mentioned it at work, too. He was excited to take you out and go fishing and hiking. He wanted you to love the outdoors like he did."

Eliza lowered her head and softly said, "I remember."

"You're saying you know that this is the man who killed your father?" her mother asked.

"Yes," she replied, looking back up and meeting her mother's eyes. "Like I know I have Dad's eyes, Mom."

"Well, I don't know why he would do that, but if you think that he did, you can probably find his last name somewhere. The police can, I mean; not you. That office was locked down pretty well. Even I had to sign in just to drop off lunch. And there were badges that they had to use to get into most rooms."

"I'll tell the police that."

Her mother looked out the window again and said, "I still miss him."

"Me too," Eliza replied.

"I wish I… would've seen him. I just remember seeing blackness and you pulling me. Then, we were in the cabin, and I'd left your father to die in the dirt."

"Mom, Dad wouldn't have wanted us to get hurt. He told me to run when he saw me."

While Eliza had no problem alleviating her mother's guilt about that, truthfully, she herself had thought the same thing since it happened: she'd been a coward. She'd left her father there to die in the dirt, worrying about her mom and her own safety more than helping him. Yes, she'd grabbed a shotgun that she didn't know how to use, and she'd gone back outside, but that had been minutes later. Her dad had been long gone by then, just like the man who had murdered him right in front of her.

"He was my husband," her mother argued.

"He was my father," she reminded. "And I'm finally going to do something about his murderer."