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I’m gross.
I hate my life.
Another one:
My hair is falling out. It’s so thin the sun shines through the strands in pictures. I’m going to shave my head. Like Britney. I feel like that sometimes. Like I’m screaming for help but no one hears me.
I’m going to get on hormones.
Call doctor tomorrow.
I flip though the next handful of pages, which are more of the same. The writings of a mentally unwell anorexic woman—the stereotype of most of my forty-plus patients.
My phone beeps, alerting me to a text message. I glance at the clock. I’m going to be late to my meeting.
I close the notebook and hide it in a crock pot in the cabinet. I needn’t worry, Mark never cooks. After grabbing my purse and packed lunch, I dart out the door.
For the entire drive to work I think about the notebook, and wonder who it belonged to.
Why do I get such an uneasy feeling when I read it?
TWELVE
ROWAN
Kellan begins his update. “There was no sign of forced entry anywhere in the home. So, either the doors were unlocked and the assailant walked right in, or, as Rowan mentioned, Mrs. Kaing knew her assailant and willingly let him or her into the home. There were also no viable footprints or boot prints anywhere inside or outside the home. The Kaings do have a security system, but according to my buddy at the security company, the system was not active on Monday, nor any of the surrounding days. He said they rarely turn it on.”
I click to a picture of Alyssa and her husband Zach that I screen-shotted from social media. “Zach is the chief operating officer of a new startup tech company called Zeus Technologies Inc. He’s currently in Japan for business. Interesting note, Hoyt informed me that Mr. And Mrs. Kaing have been trying to have a baby but have been unable to conceive.” I clear my throat and look away, my pulse beginning to increase.
“Have you verified that the husband is, in fact, in Japan?” Evelyn asks.
“Yes, I’ve left a voicemail with his assistant. I’ve not heard back; I’ll let you all know when I do. At this point, we have no idea if Zach knows his wife is dead.”
Sergeant Chris Hoffman raises his calloused hand. “Tell me more about this witness and his connection to the victim.”
I click to a picture of Amos Hoyt that I found on the internet, taken during a local Veterans Day parade. “Amos Hoyt is a seventy-one-year-old former marine.” I flick a glance to Kellan. “He’s a widower, his wife died of breast cancer three years ago. Two weeks ago, Alyssa gave Hoyt a key to their home to use in case of emergencies, and he also has her personal cell phone number.”
“The victim gave her neighbor a key in case of emergencies two weeks before she was murdered?” Sergeant Hoffman frowns.
“Exactly.” I shift my weight. I’m beginning sweat. “It makes me think that Alyssa might have known something was coming. If so, what? With who? These are all things we need to find out.”
“How often did Hoyt see her?”
“I’m not certain. He said they kept running into each other at the edge of their back yards and struck up a friendship.”
“Feels odd.”
“I know. I agree. I bluntly asked him if they had a romantic relationship. He emphatically said no.”
Suspicious gazes flicker across the room.
“How reliable is this Hoyt guy? Health-wise? Vision, brain, that kind of stuff?” Evelyn asks.
“Good question.” I quickly wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, feigning an itch. “I spoke with him myself inside his home. He seemed alert, lucid, quick-witted. Healthy, strong. I think he’s a neighborhood watch kind of guy, and also, that he likely knows more than he’s telling us.”
Kellan interrupts. “Like, he’s the real killer and used his key to walk right in.”
I nod. “We can’t ignore that option, I agree. But, remember, he also had her trust. Enough for her to give him a key to the home and her personal cell number. She trusted him.”
