The Truth About Jane Doe

He sighed, knowing it made little difference. Whatever his choices, his parents had always loved and supported him. Now it was time to return some of that support. His mother needed him. But how long could he stay here?

Matthew’s thoughts shifted to his dad. Thank God he’d gotten home in time to see him before his death. Emphysema from years of smoking had finally taken its toll on his lungs. He could barely breathe or speak, but he had gripped Matthew’s hand with fierce determination, uttering, “Case.” Matthew assured him he would take care of all his clients, and the stress on his face had eased.

Glancing up now, he saw his mother standing in the doorway. Belle Sloan, a petite woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair, wore a sad expression on her usually serene face.

Matthew was instantly on his feet. “What is it, Mom?”

“Oh, nothing.” She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand as she walked to the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk. “I just couldn’t sleep. I can’t get used to that empty space beside me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Matthew hugged her. “It’s going to take time.”

“I know.” She pushed out of his arms and poured milk into a pan. “A glass of warm milk, and I’ll be fine.”

Matthew had his doubts about that. He wished he could soothe her pain and take the sadness from her eyes, but there was nothing he could do and that hurt him the most.

They sat at the kitchen table, Matthew sipping his coffee and his mother her milk. He glanced around, realizing this big warm kitchen hadn’t changed since he was a kid. White cabinets trimmed in blue, a darker blue counter, stove and a large oak table where all their problems had been solved.

“Your dad had a beautiful funeral, didn’t he?” his mom asked, breaking through the comfortable silence.

His father had been buried more than a week ago, and every day she asked him the same thing. Tonight, for some reason, the question triggered thoughts of the young woman in black. He had been meaning to ask about her.

“Yes, it was a very special funeral. The whole town turned out.” He smiled reassuringly, then said, “Mom, there was a young woman at the funeral. I didn’t recognize her. She was completely dressed in black. Even her hair was black and hung below her waist.”

Belle took a nervous swallow of her milk. “That has to be the Doe girl.”

“Doe? You mean the baby who was left on Pete Watson’s doorstep?”

“Yes.”

The Doe girl. How could he have forgotten the little girl who’d paralyzed a town? Until she mysteriously appeared on the Watsons’ doorstep, the people in Coberville had been close and friendly. The abandoned baby changed things. People began to look at each other a little differently, and they distanced themselves from the child. She represented a dark side of the community and they didn’t know how to deal with her. So they left her alone.

Christmas Jane Doe. God, how she’d changed. He remembered a small thin girl with thick black braids and a face that never smiled. The last time he’d seen her she was about six, sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus. The other children were teasing her, calling her names. She held her back rigid and stared straight ahead, never reacting to their words. Much as she had at the funeral, he thought. Some things never change. But C. J. Doe certainly had. The little waif had turned into a beautiful woman.

“That must have been twenty-five or more years ago.” His mother’s words interrupted his reflections. “You know, I don’t think Pete or Harry was at the funeral. But I guess that’s understandable under the circumstances. It’s so sad the way we all grew apart. So sad.”

His mother was rambling. She did that a lot these days. He tried to make sense of her words and failed.

“What circumstances?”

She glanced up, her face puzzled, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Oh,” she said, and blinked, obviously collecting her composure. “The Townsend case. Your dad was their lawyer.”

He still wasn’t following her. “Dad did a lot of work for the Townsends.”

With a nervous hand she set the glass of milk on the table. “I don’t like talking about that girl and the mystery that surrounds her. It’s depressing, and your dad and I never saw eye to eye about her.”

His eyes narrowed. “You and Dad argued about this girl?” In all the years he’d been growing up, he couldn’t ever remember his parents arguing. They had a unique way of talking things out.

“We didn’t actually argue. I just felt he knew something about the girl he wasn’t telling me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head and got to her feet.

“I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Matthew kissed her cheek and watched her leave the room, his curiosity running riot. He would’ve sworn his father had never kept anything from his mother. What did he know about the Doe girl that was so confidential he couldn’t talk about it? Matthew ran a hand through his hair. While he was here, he intended to meet Christmas Jane Doe and find out for himself.

CHAPTER TWO

COBERVILLE WAS A QUIET community of fewer than five thousand people. A three-story limestone courthouse in the Second Empire style sat in the middle of a town square. Main and Cober streets ran parallel, and just about every business in town was located on one of those two streets, except for larger stores like Wal-Mart and H.E.B., which were located on the outskirts of town. Matt Sloan’s office was across from the courthouse in a nineteenth-century building typical of the business district.

Matthew stood in the middle of his father’s office, soaking up the atmosphere. Shelves filled with law books lined one wall and filing cabinets were up against another. On the third wall, beside the large window, hung family pictures. Files cluttered the desk and in the single ashtray was a half-smoked cigar. This big cluttered office was the essence of his dad. He remembered visiting here after school, and the way his dad had always smiled and said, “Come on in, son. I could use a second opinion.”

He had spent many afternoons here, reading, watching his dad labor over the letter of the law. He could almost hear his voice. “Never forget that people are human and never take their opinions or feelings lightly.” Had he lost those finer aspects his father had taught him? He ran his finger along the edge of the large oak desk, hoping he hadn’t.

Even after his dad had retired as judge, he never forgot about people and their emotions, their needs. People kept calling him, wanting his advice. So he’d come out of retirement and reopened his old office and practiced law part-time.

Matthew took a deep breath and glanced around at the general chaos of the office. Before he could decide what to do next, the front door opened and Miss Emma, his dad’s secretary of forty years, walked in.

A short plump woman, Miss Emma Stevens had a mound of dyed red hair curled atop her head. As a boy he used to wonder how it stayed there so neatly. She frowned at him from behind thick glasses with cat’s-eye frames and rhinestones at the corners. They must have been made in the 1950s.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming in today,” she accused in her irritating high-pitched voice.

He didn’t like having to explain his actions, but remembering the manners his parents had instilled in him, he replied, “Mom’s visiting with the reverend and I thought I’d get acquainted with Dad’s files.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“It’s no big deal, Miss Emma. I only plan to stay for a little while, and I really don’t need any help.”

“How will you find anything?” She waved an impatient hand. “I have a special filing system, and I don’t like anyone messing it up.”

He forced himself to take a calming breath and wondered how his father had put up with this woman for so many years. Diplomacy, that was it. His dad knew how to handle people. He hoped he’d inherited some of his father’s tact.

He looked around at the dust and clutter. “Can you get someone to clean the office?”

“Clean?” she shrilled, her eyes darting around.

“What’s wrong with this office?”

“Everything needs to be cleaned, from the floors to the windows. The place has been closed up for weeks.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

Yeah, he thought, she probably had cataracts the size of doorknobs. He smiled his best smile. “Humor me, Miss Emma. Find someone.”

She hesitated, then his smile won her over. “Okay, I could get Bertha. She cleans the bank.”

“Fine, get Bertha.” His smile broadened at the small victory.