Grace Dawson

Aunt Clara always had the saddest face. She never married, lived alone, rarely left the house except to teach a bunch of kids. Nobody understood her including me, Grace Dawson, and I was her only niece. That’s how it was until a curious day in the spring of 1951 when Aunt Clara lay dying in the hospital with secrets still to tell and chose me to hear them. What she said was downright shocking and hard to believe, and I just couldn’t rest until I figured it all out.

The Roommate is a fitting title for an account of my first year at Stapleton College, where she and her worrisome problems rub off on me, steal sleep and even force me to hide once or twice. Some will say I bring it all on myself by butting in, and maybe I do. But in my defense, it’s mostly necessary. In the middle of her mess, my own life takes a swerve, upending plans for a snug little future.

In June, 1953, after my freshman year at Stapleton College, a twenty-minute drive was all it took to go from there to Roanoke, Virginia and a summer job with Piedmont Investigations. Looking back, it’s hard to believe what all happened in those twelve short weeks away. And I didn’t have to wait long for it to start. I mean, in the first hour of walking in the door I was smack in the middle of a blackmail investigation. High-octane stuff, and more to follow.