A Safe Place

The three-hour car ride was mostly spent in silence. Cristine sat motionless, the folder open in her lap. Was she reading the same page over and over, or looking through the pictures? David couldn't tell. She occasionally looked out the window, clearly hiding her face from him. The not-knowing made him uneasy. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and turned up the heat. Cristine seemed cold to him; he noticed her pale hands, her shaky fingers resting on the folder.

"If you want, we can stop and grab a bite."

"No. I'm not hungry." She sounded distant.

He didn't answer. The music—slow, peaceful—filled the deafening silence between them. Neither spoke for the next two hours.

"We'll be there in an hour or so."

"Your mother lives far from the city."

"I think she'd love to live on another continent if I agreed to go with her," he said without thinking, and immediately regretted it.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I have a promise to keep."

"What promise?" She finally turned to him, her face pale.

"You'll know when we arrive."

Cristine turned back to the window. "Whatever."

His shoulders tightened. Whatever?

"My mother is a wonderful woman." He paused, afraid his voice might shake. He cleared his throat. "After everything, she still is wonderful."

Cristine didn't answer, but the way she clutched her owl brooch told him his words had reached her.

Sarah Richards lived in a picturesque countryside. A small, tranquil lake stretched near her house. He had bought it for her, even though she'd asked him not to.

He visited every weekend. But October 15th was special—the day David allowed himself to ask about what had happened twenty-five years ago. She had promised to answer honestly. They both knew the pain it would bring, but also the need to speak.

David stood at his mother's door, Cristine at his side. He rang and waited.

"This is a beautiful place."

Cristine looked around. The peaceful smile on her face made David exhale.

"People feel good here."

The door opened, and Sarah stood there with open arms. David hugged her warmly.

"Good morning, Mother." He kissed her forehead. "This is Cristine. My assistant."

"Good morning, Mrs. Richards." Cristine's voice softened into a smile. "This place is magical."

"Good morning, darling." Sarah stepped forward and embraced her.

Cristine's eyes widened at the hug.

"Welcome." Sarah tapped David's shoulder and leaned on his arm. "Let's go inside."

As soon as he walked in, the aroma of his mother's cooking washed over him, easing the tension in his muscles.

"What is that divine smell, Mother?" he teased.

Cristine looked surprised—shocked, even. For the second time since they arrived.

"Wait until you try her food." He winked, and she blushed.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"He's always like a baby around me, darling." Sarah laughed, and for a moment, David forgot the trauma his mother carried.

The house was decorated with every painting and ornament they'd made together. The warm walls and soft furniture always relaxed him. Everything here smelled like his mother. Just like twenty-five years ago—his room, his pillow.

"I'm glad you're here, Cristine, but I don't understand why you brought your assistant today, David."

David turned to his mother. "She's the girl I told you about." He took her hands and guided her to the sofa. "She's Sylvia Robertson's daughter."

Sarah looked at Cristine, who stood silently nearby.

"I'm Cristine Robertson, Mrs. Richards." Her whisper was cold against the warmth of the room.

Sarah stood sharply. The next moment, she was holding Cristine's hands.

"Oh, honey, I am so sorry."

"Please, Mrs. Richards." Cristine lowered her head, shoulders shaking as she cried silently.

"Let's sit down." Sarah led her to the sofa. "David, water please."

David glanced at his mother. Her shaky hands held Cristine's. He knew the pain on her face. But Cristine's pain—he had no idea. Tears rolled down her cheeks, wetting her blouse. Her whole body shook.

"David!"

"Coming." He hurried to the kitchen.

He filled a glass. Just as he was about to take it to her, he stopped and emptied it. Then he filled another and brought it.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Cry if you need to." His mother patted Cristine's back gently.

She comforts her when she herself needs comforting.

"Here." David extended the glass. Cristine took it without looking at him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Richards and Mr. Richards." She finally spoke. "I'm so sorry. It's just so overwhelming." She took a napkin and wiped her eyes.

"You don't need to apologize, honey." Sarah smiled softly. "David and I know exactly what you feel."

David sat in the armchair across from them. His shoulders felt tight and heavy. His eyes darted from Cristine's tear-stained face to his mother's pity-filled one. The emotional weight didn't trouble him much—but the anticipation of what came next did.

"Alright," he said. "Let's talk now."

Both women turned to him.

"What exactly do you want us to talk about, Mr. Richards?" Her voice was deeper now, steadier.

"Today, my mother and I talk about what happened. Every time, she remembers a new detail—and I write it down."

"She has to go through all that again?"

"Yes. It's necessary."

"For what?"

Her posture reminded him of a wounded animal—cornered, alert, ready to fight.

"For my investigation. I have a promise to keep. Right, Mother?"

He looked at Sarah. The ghost of a smile on her face faded.

"Yes, honey. You do."

"What promise?" Cristine wasn't looking at him, but he answered anyway.

"I promised to find him. I promised to make sure he's punished."

"You aren't a detective. You aren't FBI."

"I'm a son who watched his mother go through hell because of that man."

"How do you plan to find him?"

"That's why you're here."

David stood and walked to the large shelf filled with photographs and drawings. Every item was about him—a quiet display of his mother's devotion. Something sharp twisted in his chest when his eyes landed on a photograph of Sarah, young and smiling. It had been taken weeks before the tragedy.

He had never seen her smile like that again.

"You see, Cristine," he said quietly, "I've been stuck for years."

"Stuck?"

"The police called it a dead end and walked away. Everyone did. I didn't."

"David, darling," Sarah said softly, her voice cracking, "I've told you so many times—you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. And I will." He turned back to Cristine. "You and I will sit together. We'll talk. I'll take notes. And who knows—this time, I might find something that helps."