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Something isn’t right with Sylvia Stone.
Something is screaming at me.
A small meow whispers from the across the room.
I look up, spotting Shirley sauntering up the staircase. The cat looks back at me, then disappears into Sylvia’s room.
One more look,I think.
Just one more look around…
42
Rhett
Islowly take the stairs, two by two, carefully releasing my weight so that the warped wood doesn’t creak and wake Sylvia.
Shirley weaves in between my feet on each step, a dangerous game that gives her far too much pleasure.
After one final look over my shoulder, I step into Sylvia’s bedroom.
Shirley meows loudly. I shoot her a look, then click on the lamp on the nightstand.
I open the bottom drawer and begin filtering through the shrine of me. This time, I study each photo, each newspaper clipping, each printout, looking for some sort of clue or link to each one. Trying to find whatever it is that I know I’m missing here.
I linger on one photograph.
It is of me, two decades ago, taking a phone call outside of my accountant’s office. I had requested an appointment to discuss scheduling quarterly tax payments for my business, Cohen Carpentry, in an effort to reduce the inevitable tax hit at the end of the year. I was nervous, young and dumb. Five years into starting my own business, and just beginning to realize exactly how much pressure was involved. I’d been in the negative twice already and was there at my banker’s urging when he realized I had no savings and no means to pay the end of year tax bill.
I was wearing a suit—thesuit that I shared with my father. I remember how hot I was, pacing outside the five-store strip mall where my accountant’s office sat incongruously between a dollar store and a beauty salon.
The call I was on was a potential client, requesting a quote for crown molding in her three-thousand-square-foot home. She wanted the trim custom-made. I wanted the job badly.
The picture was taken from a distance, by someone sitting in a car, likely in the parking lot. I could tell because the strip of a dashboard was just visible at the bottom of the picture. Gray, faded from the sun. An old car, I imagined.
What did Sylvia drive back then?
Did she take the picture? Or did she get it from one of the many journalists who began stalking me immediately after the murder?
I still, freezing in place.
Wait…
This picture was takenbeforeSylvia’s mother was murdered—not after. It was taken while I was still a nobody, a boring, non-murderous kid. The picture was taken literally the day before Marjorie Stone was killed. I remember because the appointment with my accountant was going to make me late for my fourth day on the Stone house job.
A chill slithers up my spine.
Why?
Was Sylvia spying on me? Following me?Beforethe murder?
I frown, lean in closer to the picture.
Dye Hardis printed on the window of the beauty salon next door, and just beyond the glass, I can see the figure of a woman.
I tuck the picture into my back pocket and close the drawer.
After checking to ensure Sylvia is still asleep, I resume my snooping.
