Chapter 7: The Neighbor Who Kept Records
His name was Gerald Fitch.
He was seventy-one years old, a retired postal worker, and he kept a spiral notebook on his kitchen windowsill where he wrote down license plates.
He'd started doing it three years ago, after a hit-and-run took out his mailbox and the driver was never found.
After that, he wrote down every plate he didn't recognize on his street.
Date, time, make of vehicle, color.
He had six notebooks going back thirty-eight months.
He met me at his front door with the current one already open.
"Gray Volvo," he said, turning the notebook toward me.
"Partial plate — I only got four digits because he parked at an angle.
But I've got him on six separate dates going back fourteen months."
I looked at the entries.
Neat, careful handwriting.
Dates in the left margin.
Times.
Notes like *stayed approx.
2 hrs* and *arrived after dark* and once, underlined: *children present on lawn when he arrived.*
"You saw children?"
"Last spring.
April, I think.
There was a birthday party or something at Brenda's.
Balloons on the mailbox.
He pulled up while the kids were still outside." Gerald tapped the entry.
"I wrote it down because it felt wrong.
Couldn't tell you exactly why.
Just felt wrong."
I took a photo of every page with his name on it.
"Will you talk to the detective?" I asked.
"Already called her this morning.
She's coming at two." He looked at me over the top of the notebook.
"How's the little girl?
The one they brought out in the blanket?"
"She's home."
He nodded.
He closed the notebook carefully.
"I should have called someone sooner.
When it felt wrong in April, I should have called."
"You called now," I said.
"It shouldn't have taken this long."
I didn't argue with him.
He wasn't wrong.
Vasquez called me that evening.
Gerald's notebook had given them the four partial digits.
Combined with the make and color and the dates, they'd been able to pull traffic camera records from the main road two blocks over.
They had the full plate.
"It matches the vehicle registered to a Dennis Alan Pruitt," she said.
"He used the name Ray as an alias.
He has a prior in another state — charges were reduced, he served fourteen months, was released two years ago."
"Fourteen months," I said.
"The prior victim was nine years old."
I sat down.
"We executed a search warrant on his residence this morning," Vasquez continued.
"I can't detail what we recovered.
But I can tell you that the DA's office has been notified and charges are being prepared.
Multiple counts."
"And Brenda Cole?"
"Her attorney entered a not-guilty plea this morning on her behalf.
She's been charged with three counts so far.
The investigation is ongoing.
More charges are likely as the camera footage is fully reviewed."
"Three counts," I said.
"For one night."
"The footage covers more than one night," Vasquez said.
I pressed my hand flat against the table.
"There's something else," Vasquez said.
"Chloe Marsh's mother has been in contact with two other families whose daughters attended previous events at the Cole residence.
Both families have now come forward.
We're looking at a pattern going back at least eighteen months."
Eighteen months.
Six notebooks.
A gray Volvo parking after dark while children played on the lawn.
"The other families," I said.
"Did their daughters know?
Did any of them say something before?"
A pause.
"One of them told her mother that Mrs.
Cole's sleepovers had a special game.
The mother thought she meant something like truth or dare." Another pause.
"She's had a hard few days."
I thought about what to say to that.
There wasn't anything.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"The DA moves forward.
There will be a grand jury.
It will take time." Vasquez's voice was steady, the way it always was.
"But the footage is the center of it.
And the footage doesn't lie."
After I hung up, I sat at the table for a long time.
Then I picked up my phone and called Chloe's mother.
May you like
She answered on the first ring.
She'd been waiting.
