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Dead or didn’t want to be found. Jessica Shaw now knew there was a third category she had never even considered. Those who didn’t know they were missing.
The name of the kid in the photo was Alicia Lavelle, and she was three years old when she disappeared. She was last seen with her mom on a fall day at the grocery store, then the post office, then nothing. She officially became a missing person the next day after what was described only as “a serious incident” at the family home. That was almost twenty-five years ago.
The last known sighting of Alicia Lavelle had taken place on York Boulevard, another of Eagle Rock’s main thoroughfares.
The name across the bottom of the screen identified the man as LAPD detective Jason Pryce.
On that day, she’d felt like an actress thrust into the starring role of a movie she hadn’t auditioned for, for a part she didn’t want. All those eyes on her, looking for a performance, and she couldn’t get into character, didn’t know her lines.
Her mother was a woman called Pamela Arnold, who had died in an automobile accident when Jessica was just a baby.
“Not everything’s black and white in this world, Jess. Sometimes good people make mistakes. Sometimes innocent folk are locked up for things they didn’t do. And sometimes, the really bad ones never have to pay for what they’ve done.”
The writing on the back told Jessica the couple captured by the camera’s lens were Eleanor Lavelle and Rob Young.
The photo itself told her they were Eleanor Lavelle and Tony Shaw.
Tony Shaw. Rob Young. Murder suspect. Liar. Jessica remembered the scribbled dedication in the yearbook’s inside front cover—Life moves pretty fast! His real name was Brad Ferezy.
