Chapter 8: Everything the Ground Kept
The detective's name was Sayers.
She was in her forties, methodical, with the particular manner of someone who had learned to keep their reactions off their face without losing them entirely.
She came to our house four days after the night at the hotel.
Michael sat at the kitchen table.
I made coffee.
Sayers set a folder on the table and opened it without preamble.
"The property on Dunmore Road," she said.
"We found evidence consistent with long-term unlawful confinement.
Physical evidence, trace evidence, and documentation buried in a crawl space beneath the secondary room." She paused.
"We also found remains."
Michael's coffee cup stayed on the table.
"Eleanor," Mr.
Harrison said.
He was sitting at the end of the table.
He had asked to be there, and Michael had said yes without hesitating.
"We believe so.
Formal identification is pending, but the evidence is consistent with the timeline and the physical description." Sayers looked at Mr.
Harrison.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded once.
His hands were flat on the table.
"What happens now?" Michael asked.
"Your mother has retained a lawyer.
She's cooperating, within limits." Sayers turned a page.
"Based on her statement and the physical evidence, we believe Raymond Aldrich held Eleanor Harrison against her will for an extended period beginning in late 1993.
We believe Eleanor p@ssed during that period.
We believe Carol Aldrich became aware of the situation no later than 1994 and took no action."
Michael was quiet for a moment.
"Can she be charged?"
"That's for the prosecutor to determine.
Given the age of the events and the available evidence, it's a complicated question.
But—" Sayers closed the folder.
"Complicated doesn't mean no."
After she left, the three of us sat at the table without speaking for a while.
Mr.
Harrison was looking at the window.
The morning light was coming in at a low angle, the way it does in late autumn, making everything look a little more fragile than it is.
"Thirty-one years," he said.
Not to anyone in particular.
"I'm sorry," Michael said.
"For all of it.
For what my father did.
For what my mother didn't do.
I know that doesn't—"
"It matters," Mr.
Harrison said.
He looked at Michael.
"It matters that you're saying it."
Michael nodded.
His eyes were wet but he didn't look away.
"She would have liked you," Mr.
Harrison said.
"Ruth.
Eleanor.
Whatever name she was using when she was happy." A small, careful smile.
"She liked people who were honest even when it cost them something."
I got up and refilled the coffee.
Set a fresh cup in front of Mr.
Harrison.
He wrapped both hands around it.
"There's a memorial," he said.
"I've been planning it for years, not knowing if I'd ever have a reason to hold it.
I'd like you both to come.
If you're willing."
May you like
Michael looked at me.
"We'll be there," I said.
