It happened thirty years ago today, and I’m still not over it, nor is the case closed.
I came home that October afternoon to find the house very cold, in schambels and my parents dead. It’s not something a thirteen year old should ever see.
The police investigated, but never came up with any leads. After a year, the case went cold. I called a privote investigator. He was just as baffled.
I went to the empty lot where the house was to lay flowers. Our old house was standing.
I walked up and knocked on the door. A lady answered. She looked like my mother.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“How long have you lived here?”
“My husband and I have been here seven years.”
She turned and picked up a little boy. I asked what the boy’s name was.
“Jimmy,” she pinched his cheek.
I thanked her for her time and left.
I sat in the car a while to process what I just saw. But it was nice seeing my mother again.