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Her closet is a mess, but appears to hide nothing nefarious. Her bathroom, same. I check under the bed, under the mattress, inside the pillowcases. Same with the loveseat in the corner. I even check under the potted fig next to the window.
Nothing.
I make my way to the small bookcase that sits next to the dresser, which I’d also checked through. Agatha Christie, Gillian Flynn, Karin Slaughter, Lisa Jackson, Stephen King, Nora Roberts. A dozen more murder mysteries and horror novels. I look for a diary or journal, but don’t get that lucky.
I glance up at the doorway, darkened by shadows. Shirley is sitting in the hall, in the middle of the pool of light coming from the room. A spotlight on her pale wrinkled body.
We stare at each other for a moment and I get the weird feeling she’s trying to tell me something.
My eyes rake over her body, her round, plump belly. I remember the mounds of cat food and massive water bowl that lined the floor when I broke into the house shortly after Sylvia went missing.
I frown…
That’sextremelyconvenient, isn’t it?
The day Sylvia goes missing, a perfectly adequate week-long supply of food and water is laid out for her cat.
“Talk to me,” I whisper to Shirley. “Tell me what happened.”
She flicks her tail, but doesn’t move.
“Fine.”
Fisting my hands on my hips, I step back from the bookcase, my heel creaking on a very bendy floorboard. I move off the board and study it.
It stands out, visually. The single slat of wood appears different from the rest, like a piece of a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit correctly.
I kneel down, finger the edges.
They’re loose.
I pause, listen over my shoulder.
When I hear nothing, I gently pry open the slat.
A wide, skinny wooden box sits on the subfloor between two parallel support beams.
I carefully lift the box from its hiding spot, my heart pounding, as if my body knows the significance before I do.
Inside is a journal. The pages are faded and worn, indicating it is very old. I flip open the leather flap. The inside cover reads: Marjorie Stone.
It is her mother’s journal.
My heart starts to pound.
I quickly flip through, then decide that I’ll read it after I go through the rest of the box. I set aside the journal and return my focus to the remaining contents.
There is a stack of long, thin envelopes exactly like the ones that contained the letters. Underneath, a clear baggie full of jewelry—the same jewelry that was reported stolen the day Marjorie was murdered—presumably stolen by the man who murdered her: me. And tucked under the bag, is a folded black ski mask—the same mask worn by the person who paid Jesse Taylor to deliver the letters.
43
Rhett
It is morning. I have stayed awake all night, motionless at my perch on the edge of the couch where I have done nothing but watch Sylvia sleep. Clutched in my hand is a small gold band. It is her mother’s wedding band, part of the jewelry that was reported stolen the day Marjorie was killed. Sitting next to me, on the coffee table, is her mother’s journal that I have read cover to cover.
The woods around the house are beginning to lighten, the early morning sun soon to breach the mountaintops.
Sylvia’s eyes flutter open, lock on mine.
