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California, 1972 There was so much arguing going on that June between Rox, Mom and Dad that even with my bedroom door closed, I had very little solitude. During that stormy time, the rink was my only source of tranquility. You see, in my family we were all skaters-ice skaters. Each of us had been competing since we were eight, respectively. It was the last week of school-sis and I had just gotten home when I first heard the news flash. I had just plopped down on my bed worn out from ice skating practice when I flipped the radio on and heard the disc-jockey announce, “Local teen found dead this morning up at Rose Hill Cemetery-more after this commercial break.” I ran out of my room when the disc-jockey said it was a teen from Rox’s school. Heading toward Rox’s bedroom, barely meeting up, she nervously hollered out, “Jilli, did you just hear the news over the radio about the boy up at Rose Hill?” “Yes,” I answered. We both stood there in the living room, stunned! Later that night my family tuned into the local news, as I’m sure many other families did in our town of Cowell in Northern California. They said it had been thirty years since the last murder-where the boy was found. “Oh my God, he’s that girl’s brother!” Rox blurted out, pointing at the TV set. Earlier that year, we’d all been overjoyed when my brother Luke accomplished his goal in skating, and won a Silver Medal in the 1972 Winter Olympic Games held in Sapporo, Japan. Upon his return we celebrated his success with a party. One of the girls who had a crush on Luke introduced her brother to him. “Are you saying the boy in the news was here at Luke’s party?” Mom said in a surprised hush. “Yup,” Rox confirmed. “Weird, huh?” Mom just shook her head indicating she had no words to express how bad she felt for the boy and his family. We all stared into the TV set. .“ . . while the police search for possible suspects.” The newscaster broke-in, “Coming up next-more protests on the Vietnam War.”
