Good as Dead(17)

I entered “Holly Kendrick” in the search bar and surveyed the results. She didn’t have a social media presence, but her name came up in an obituary in the Bakersfield Californian. Kevin Michael McCallum is survived by his parents, Elaine and Martin McCallum, and sister, Holly McCallum Kendrick. She had a brother who died. On any other day, I would have been curious about that, but I was on a mission. I skimmed the obit. No mention of the husband, but at least now I had a maiden name.

I did another Google search, using the maiden name this time, and got a hit. A wedding announcement from sixteen years ago. Holly McCallum wed her high school sweetheart, Gabriel Kendrick, in a simple ceremony. Blah blah blah . . .

I typed the dead husband’s name in the search bar. Too many Gabriel Kendricks to count. I added the name of their high school, Bakersfield High, but they didn’t keep up on him. I typed their names as a couple. They never owned property, together or separately (strange?) or did anything notable together (not so strange). He wasn’t on LinkedIn or Facebook or any social media. I smiled to myself, because I knew who would be on social media: Savannah.

I found her account almost immediately, and started scrolling backward—one month, two months, three months . . . then there it was—a picture of a young man in military blues, with a heartbreaking caption: Daddy, you may be gone but you’ll always be in my heart. The comments section was a treasure trove of sorrow—hearts and flowers and sad-face emojis. I don’t know why I was surprised. Did I not believe Savannah’s dad was really dead? My background had taught me to question everything, even uncontrollable sobs, I guess.

I clocked the date of Savannah’s post—May 20—then started scrolling through the comments: OMG I just heard the news . . . My heart is breaking for you . . . Sending hugs . . . Are you OK? Here if you need anything . . . The outpouring was touching but frustratingly short on details. But at least I had an approximate date—on or slightly before May 20. Holly’s husband had died a little over three months ago. No wonder she broke down, it was still really fresh.

“What are you looking at?” Libby asked me, peering over my shoulder. She was flushed from Pilates, with matching crescents of sweat under each breast. I hadn’t heard her come in. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe she wanted it that way.

It wasn’t a good look for me. Unemployed husband, barely dressed, scrolling through a sixteen-year-old girl’s Instagram. I was supposed to be writing—needed to be writing—not surfing accounts of underage girls. I could only imagine the thoughts that were pulsing through my wife’s mind. My husband’s a pervert, he likes teenage girls, Jesus how could I not have known? We hadn’t had sex in over a month, now she knew why I hadn’t been more insistent.

As a journalist, I looked up all sorts of crazy shit. When I was working on an article about a marine who joined ISIS, I had to become an expert on Islamic extremism, the caves of Afghanistan, how to make a dirty bomb. That had surely landed me on the FBI watchlist. But my wife’s scornful eye was way more frightening.

“Holly’s a widow,” I said simply, turning the laptop so she could see Savannah’s post. Scrolling revealed more photos—a father-daughter dance, a sweaty track meet hug, one with the three of them, Holly in the middle.

“Jesus,” Libby gasped, leaning in close. “How long ago was that?”

“About three months,” I said, pointing to the date. I told her about the bench, and Holly’s tearful confession, making a point not to describe her heaving breasts as she sobbed. “I just wanted to see what I could learn about his death, it felt disrespectful to ask.”

“Yes, of course,” Libby reassured me, and I felt relieved, and I imagined she did, too.

“Wait,” Libby said. “Then who’s Evan?” Someone who’s helping Savannah and me, Holly had said. I remember thinking that was an odd way to describe him. But I just shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

“New boyfriend?” Libby postulated, and I shook my head.

“I didn’t get that, talking to her. I think she would have told me.”

Now it was Libby who shook her head. “Her husband’s only been dead for three months. She’s probably self-conscious about it. Maybe they were even a thing before the husband died?”

That was not my instinct, but I supposed it was possible. “Yeah, maybe . . .”

“I mean, look at her. She’s kind of a bombshell,” Libby said, and I took that as my warning—Don’t get too close. “I would totally believe she could snag a rich boyfriend,” she added, and though it was a backhanded compliment, I had to agree.

“I’m sure the truth will come out in time,” I said as I closed the computer, indicating that I was not going to do any more digging. I had other things to focus on. My (rescheduled!) big meeting was coming up, and I needed to finish the spec script I was writing and get my pitches in order in case he wanted something different.

I looked at Libby. Her gaze was distant, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Is she threatened? Jealous? I’d never known her to be either, but perhaps this was a first.

We both sensed there was something untoward about Holly and Evan’s relationship. I didn’t think they were lovers, their body language was closed bordering on antagonistic—chairs far apart, arms crossed across their chests, rarely meeting each other’s gaze. But Holly didn’t consider him a friend, either—she had made that abundantly clear.