“And neither of them did, right?” Alice asked Dylan.
“No. Small satisfaction, given what they should have been nailed for,” he said grimly.
“You brought the truth to light, Dylan,” Sidney said quietly. “Who else would have had the determination and patience to chip away at an ice-cold case after so many years … after so much hopelessness.”
AGAIN, Dylan averted his face. Alice wondered what he was shielding from her.
It was like her consciousness crouched at the center of a swirl of confusing thoughts and feelings, like she existed at the still eye of the storm. She felt calm and clear enough, but chaos swirled all around her. She was so overwhelmed, she wasn’t sure what she was feeling. She did know one thing. When Dylan looked away like he was right now, she didn’t like it. It made the storm of confusion whirl closer.
“How did you find out the truth, Dylan?” she asked, damning the tremor in her voice.
She saw his jaw working subtly, but he didn’t answer.
“He never gave up hope,” Sidney said after a pause. “He’s had an investigator on retainer for the last eleven years, searching around on a trail that had long ago been swept clean. Most importantly, he insisted upon visiting Avery Cunningham twice a year for ten years. It looked as if it wasn’t going to pay off. Cunningham maintained he knew nothing about the Durand kidnapping. Until this past April.”
A shiver tore through her.
“Dylan … what happened on April eighteenth?”
Another shudder went through her when she recalled the heaviness of Dylan’s expression when she’d asked him that. Some part of her must have guessed that date was crucial.
“Are you all right?” Dylan asked, glancing around. He must have noticed her shivers. His dark brows slanted as he stared at her.
“What happened on April eighteenth?” Alice repeated her earlier question numbly.
She read a fierce misery in his dark eyes.
“Dylan?” she prodded.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “You’ve heard enough for now.”
“I disagree,” she said vehemently. “What happened on April eighteenth?”
“Alice—”
“Tell me.”
“Avery Cunningham confessed,” Dylan said through a tight jaw. “Every year when I made those visits to the prison, he was adamant about one thing: He swore he’d never killed a child in his life. Strangely, it was one of the few things he ever said that I believed. Most people thought it was just the standard denial of the guilty, but for me … Cunningham’s claim had a ring of truth to it.”
“That’s what kept you going,” Sidney said. “And as it turned out, you were right.”
“Cunningham was dying of prostate cancer, and he had nothing to lose,” Dylan continued. “He finally confessed to the Durand kidnapping, along with Jim Stout, after years of denying it. He also insisted he hadn’t killed Addie Durand. Stout had truly believed her to be dead. But Addie was still alive when Cunningham had last seen her. Addie Durand was still alive,” he repeated, his hand tightening on Alice’s knee. “And I found her.”
SHE held Dylan’s stare, her lungs burning, as his voice echoed all around her head.
“Take a deep breath of air, Alice.” She blinked and inhaled with a hitch of her lungs. Sidney must have realized she was holding her breath.
“What are you thinking?” Sidney asked her, his manner intent and concerned as he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I’m thinking it’s too incredible to believe,” she said. She glanced at Dylan uneasily. “But if you believe it,” she said. “It must be true. And that’s hard to comprehend, let alone accept.”
“It’s true, Alice,” Dylan said.
Her lungs jerked involuntarily, making her breath hitch. “Well … then I’m thinking that I’m sorry you went through all of that.”
Dylan opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to stop himself at the last minute. “The important thing is that it’s done. Addie Durand has come home.”
Alice shook her head in denial. Suddenly, she felt very tired. “I don’t know what that really means.”