The Last Housewife (15)

“Morning.” He dropped inside and held out a cup. “You still drink this, right?”

I took it gratefully, the cup hot against my fingers. “Inhale it, more like.”

Jamie yanked the door closed. “That’s the Shay I remember.”

I took a sip and almost spit it out. It was sweet and milky.

“What?” Jamie frowned. “Two sugars, fill the milk a quarter way, right?”

It was my old coffee order, the one Cal thought was gross and childish, though the latter was only subtext. I’d been practicing mature asceticism by drinking it black, so the sweet sip was a shock to the tongue. It turned out I still liked it this way.

I fit the coffee cup into the drink holder and threw the car into drive, pulling away from the motel. “I have no idea how you can remember the way I like my coffee. Don’t you need that mental real estate for something more important?”

Jamie shrugged. He wore all black today—slim-fitting jeans and a well-tailored shirt I could tell cost money. He’d shed Texas so well. “I remember everything about you,” he said casually, leaning back and propping his feet on the dash. “Probably because we knew each other during a formative time. Imprints on the brain, you know?”

I kept my eyes trained on the road. “Half a pack of sugar, splash of milk. Any more than that and you’ll toss it.”

He laughed. “Guilty.”

I smiled at the upcoming streetlight. I’d forgotten what it felt like to have a friend.

***

Laurel’s neighborhood in Bronxville was one of the less manicured ones: small houses, fewer trees, more long-grassed lawns, the occasional loose trash rolling like tumbleweeds.

We pulled up in front of her duplex, a modest two-story home, painted a light olive green that might have been fashionable a few decades ago. It was dated, but I could imagine Laurel here. She wasn’t one of those Whitney students who came from money, and she never strove for it, either. It just didn’t seem to interest her, not the way art did, especially theater. I could picture her being happy in a place like this.

There was an old, beat-up car in the driveway. I parked and followed Jamie up an exterior staircase to the door on the second floor. He rapped a few times, and there was scuffling from inside, a dog’s bark, then the door opened.

“Hi,” Jamie said brightly. “Ms. Morgan? It’s Jamie Knight. I called you earlier to see if we could ask a few questions about your former tenant Laurel Hargrove.”

The woman was in her sixties, with short, ash-blond hair and thick bifocals. She was wearing a light-pink house robe, so I was afraid she’d turn us away. But she nodded. “The podcast guy?”

Jamie tucked his hair behind his ears. “Yes. And this is my partner, Shay—” He turned to me, a question in his eyes.

“Deroy,” I supplied.

The woman blinked at us. “Are you sure you’re not TV actors or something?” She studied me. “You look familiar.”

Jamie and I glanced at each other. “Shay was one of Laurel’s friends from college,” he said.

Linda snapped her fingers, then shooed the small dog that whined at her feet. “I must’ve seen you from Laurel’s pictures.” She stepped away for a second, out of sight, returning with a key. “You probably want to look through it, right? Her mom promised she’d get it packed up, but so far no movers have shown up.” The woman squinted. “I’m not trying to be insensitive, you know, but I’ve got to get another renter in there soon.”

“That makes sense,” I assured her. “We can help with whatever you need.”

Jamie gave me an approving nod, like I’d said it to butter up the witness.

“Follow me,” she said. “And you can call me Linda. Are you going to record me?”

“Only if you consent.” Jamie pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and handed it to her. “Otherwise, we’ll keep our conversation private.”

She nodded, and we followed her down the stairs to Laurel’s front door, which she cracked open with a twist of the key.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. It was a woodsy, almost patchouli scent, and it was Laurel’s signature. She’d always said it made sense to deliver on what her name promised. The scent was faint, just barely there, but so familiar and distinctly Laurel that my throat seized. A thousand memories of her gelled into a sense of presence, almost like she was here.

The space was small and tidy, very spare. Laurel had always been neat, but this was a step beyond—almost unlived-in. She’d loved nesting, but here, there were only a few pieces of furniture—a couch, small dining table, the hint of a bed in the back room.

Linda sighed. “You know, I already told the police this, but Laurel was rarely here.”

“Hold on,” Jamie said, pulling out his phone. “Let me start recording.”

I moved to touch the single coaster on her small coffee table, which sat facing one of those boxy, old-time televisions. “How often did you see her?”

“The first two years, she was here all the time. Heard or saw her every day, like you’d expect. I liked her, and we got friendly. She was a sweet girl. But then at some point—I can’t remember exactly—I realized I hadn’t seen her in a while.” Linda shifted uncomfortably. “I tried calling, but she didn’t answer. I got worried, so I let myself in here, but nothing seemed amiss. And the rent checks kept coming. I figured maybe she was traveling. And then a few months later, she just showed up, out of the blue. I asked her where she’d been, if everything was okay, but she brushed me off.”