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Once sure I am alone, I return to the top of Sylvia’s driveway and begin my investigation. I search for any sign of suspicious activity, fresh tire tracks, boot tracks, footprints, drag marks. Blood.
The front door is locked so I go around back. Nothing seems out of place or out of the ordinary. Everything is exactly as it had been the last time I was with her.
The back door is locked. Stroud—or whoever responded—must’ve locked it back after their welfare visit.
I fist my hands on my hips and look around, studying the dozen dirt-filled planters scattered along the back porch. Sylvia’s half-assed effort to spruce up the space abandoned for a glass of wine, a reality show, and a self-loathing bubble bath.
What is it about Sylvia that bothers me so much?
I begin tipping each pot until—bingo—I find a shiny gold key.
And just like that, I am breaking and entering into Sylvia Stone’s home.
A wall of stale, humid air hits me like a brick wall. The heater is still running on blast. Why didn’t Stroud turn it down when he left? I register an odd scent in the house, one that I can’t quite put my finger on. Chemicals mixed with stale coffee, is it? Not like Pine-Sol or bleach, just a strong chemical scent.
I look around the kitchen.
The frozen dinner Stroud mentioned is still in the microwave, slowly rotting away. Dishes sit piled in the sink, a shimmering layer of goo beginning to congeal them all together. Three dead flies float in the stagnant water. The trash, overflowing, smells like wilted broccoli. On the floor next to that sits two bowls full of cat food, and a mixing bowl filled with water.
Nothing appears to be askew, more than usual any way. Nothing to suggest an altercation had taken place.
Foregoing the lights, I search the living room—I am losing light quickly—then make my way upstairs to Sylvia’s bedroom.
The soft scent of her vanilla perfume lingers in the air. I feel a twinge of guilt. I’d played her, manipulated this woman to get what I needed and nothing else. Hadn’t she been through enough already?
A soft meow startles me.
Shirley tiptoes into the room, curious.
“Hey, girl.” Not hey-girl-hey, but heeeey-girl, a tentative greeting.
I watch as she slowly crosses the room, her tail high, flicking in interest.
She stops two inches from my feet.
I squat down, scratch behind her ears. Shirley leans into me, rubbing her head against my jeans.
“Where’s your mama?” I ask.
She meows, looks at me with her one good eye.
“Tell me what happened.”
I give her a few more scratches behind the ear, then stand and resume the task at hand.
I search Sylvia’s bedroom, her closet, her bathroom.
Like the rest of the house, nothing seems abnormal or out of place. Naturally, I look for missing jewelry, but everything appears to be intact.
I study the items on her nightstand. A half-drunk glass of water, tube of lotion, a flashlight, handful of used tissues, an old PayDay wrapper that has hardened around the edges, a bottle of pain pills, sleeping pills.
I retrieve the pocket flashlight I picked up at the gas station and click it on, quickly lowering the torchlight at the floor, expecting Stroud to jump through the window with a dramaticah-ha!
He doesn’t, so I continue.
Securing the light between my teeth, I slide open the top drawer of the nightstand. Stacks of magazines, a few paperback books, more used tissues. Eye drops.
I slide open the second drawer.
