Page 116 of The Life She Had

Daisy

There areruts in Maeve’s lawn. Tire ruts from someone doing a three-point turn to leave the driveway. The police, probably, having presumed that a lawn in such rough shape was fine to drive on, even wet. I tamp down the edge of a rut as I prepare to face Celeste. I’m still nudging the dirt into place when the door swings open, and I start toward it, my face fixed in the most neutral expression I can conjure.

“Hey,” I say as Celeste appears. “Just came to collect my things. Is that okay? I can wait until you’re gone if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“And where would I be going?”

I shrug. “Wherever you want to go so you aren’t alone in the house with me.”

When she doesn’t answer, I say, “May I retrieve my things? We can wait for Tom if you’d rather have him here.”

She tenses at his name, and fresh frustration darts through me. Is there nothing I can say that won’t upset her more? Put her on guard? Exactly what I do not need.

“Come back later,” she says.

“With Tom?”

Her jaw hardens. Goddamn it, does she think I’m taunting her?

She sent me to Tom and encouraged me to do more than sleep on his sofa.

“May I get my books?” I ask.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“My books. I’m stuck at Tom’s place with nothing to do. He’s out for the day, and I’m bored. While I’d love to grab all my stuff, I’m fine with a couple of books.”

She waves to the house. “You have three minutes.”

She lifts her watch as if to time me. I walk past her at a normal rate, neither speeding along nor dawdling. Once inside, she follows, and I tense, expecting her to trail me up the stairs, but she only calls, “Three minutes!” and lets me continue.

I open my bedroom door and snatch the first book I see. Then I head into the bathroom.

“Hey!” she calls, as if hearing the door click and lock.

“Using the toilet!” I call back. “I’ve still got two minutes.”

I ease open the medicine cabinet to double-check the prescriptions. Yep, as Dr. Hoover said, they’re in her name and prescribed by him.

I need to let her go. Let her run. I don’t give a damn if she killed Liam. She did not kill my grandmother, and that’s all that matters to me.

I’m turning to go when I spot a sock on the floor. It’s a men’s crew sock. Not Liam’s—he’s a dress sock guy. These are the cheap white socks you buy by the mega-pack at Target.

Tom’s.

When I undressed him last night, I pulled off a sock that was the twin of this. I turn it over in my hand. Then I ease open drawers and doors until—

“Daisy!”

“Sorry!” I call. “I thought I just had to pee.”

A grumble of disgust. I’m crouched in front of the under-sink cleaning cupboard, holding Tom’s T-shirt and his other sock.

Celeste

Daisy’s footsteps sound on the steps. I will continue, in my head, to call her Daisy. As ridiculous a name as I once thought that, it’s not as bad as CeCe. This old-fashioned country name suits her better. Fresh as a daisy. That’s our girl.

Not so fresh right now, considering how long she’s been in that bathroom. Though she might be a bit fresher after spending five freaking minutes washing her hands.

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