The Last Housewife (17)

Words crawled across the back in unfamiliar writing: Tongue-Cut Sparrow.

Jamie looked up. “Either of you know what this means?”

“No idea,” Linda said. “Never heard of it.”

I frowned. “Me neither. Can we keep the picture?”

Linda glanced at Rachel’s scratched-out face. “You’d be doing me a favor.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “I’ll get you those accounts Laurel used to pay her rent.”

Jamie paused on the way to Laurel’s closet. “Accounts, as in plural?”

“She paid with a personal account for years,” Linda said. “Then, one month, her rent started coming from a new one. Some corporate-sounding place. Dominatrix…no, that’s ridiculous. Dominus Holdings, that’s it. Figured it was coming from wherever she worked, though that’s still a little odd.”

Jamie caught my eye. Laurel hadn’t held a job in years, at least according to the police. Where was the money coming from?

“Before you leave,” Linda said, “I’ll go upstairs and write them down for you.”

“Thank you.” Jamie slid open the closet to reveal a sparse collection of jeans and T-shirts, hanging neatly. “We appreciate it.”

I looked under the bed, the pillows, even swept my hand under the mattress, looking for anything Laurel might’ve hidden. Nothing; but then again, Laurel was an only child, like me. She’d never learned to put things in hiding places. One thing did strike me: “Where’s her sewing machine?” She was never without one.

Linda looked dumbfounded. “I didn’t know she sewed.”

I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. It was like Linda and I had known two different people. “I think I’m done,” I told Jamie. Coming to Laurel’s place had turned out to be chilling, not comforting.

“Wait a sec.” He reached above his head into the high, empty shelf in Laurel’s closet. When he pulled his hand back, it was covered in dust, but he held another photograph. He looked at it and his face paled.

“What?”

Wordlessly, Jamie handed me the picture.

It was another from college, but earlier: sophomore year, when the three of us were nothing but happy. Younger, smaller versions of Clem, Laurel, and me backstage, after one of Laurel’s plays. Clem was blue-haired. Laurel was beaming with pride.

My entire face was scratched out with vicious, cutting marks.





Chapter Six


That night I dreamed Laurel bent over me in bed, pressed a hand to my mouth, and whispered, Shh.

“You’re all right,” I said against her fingers, and she nodded.

I’m not dead, she whispered. Only hiding where the light doesn’t reach. I sat up and her hand fell away. She looked just like she did sophomore year, when she was strong and happy.

“Hiding from him?” I asked, and she nodded.

For the first time, it made sense. Laurel wasn’t dead; Laurel didn’t hate me. She was waiting. I was so relieved.

Don’t let him find me, she breathed and shifted into the girl she’d been when I found her in the basement freshman year, stringy-haired and sucked by horror.

“Laurel.” I reached for her, but she slipped away. The ground opened, tugging her into the dark.

I’m waiting, she echoed, disappearing inch by inch. Come find me.

“Stop!” I yelled, lunging.

Shay, she whispered. What did you know, and when did you know it?

The ground swallowed her whole.

I woke the next morning to a spot of blood on my pillow from where I’d bitten deep into my tongue.

***

I let Jamie drive this time. He walked out of the motel in another all-black outfit, holding an orange soda and a root beer, the kind I’d liked when I was a kid. When I slid out of the driver’s seat, he handed me the root beer and got in without a word. He’d been cautious with me since yesterday, when he’d asked why Laurel might do that to my picture, and I’d snapped I don’t know.

We were on two missions today: first, talk to Laurel’s former employer, the head of a catering company called Hudson Delights, which was up in Beacon, an hour away. Jamie had set up the interview last night, presumably after I’d fled back to my hotel room. Second, we were going to track down the college student who’d discovered her body. I’d called Laurel’s mom three times in the last twenty-four hours with no luck; the last time, the call went straight to voicemail. I remembered Laurel telling me her mom was moody and unpredictable. She suffered from depression, Laurel had said, and it had gotten a whole lot worse after Laurel’s father passed away when she was fifteen. Sometimes Laurel didn’t hear from her mom for weeks at a time. I wondered at my chances of getting through to her.

It would be a long ride up to Beacon, and by the set of Jamie’s mouth, I could tell he was determined not to provoke me. I sighed. I’d been nothing but prickly and withholding since we’d reunited. He probably regretted finding me after all.

My phone rang; I pulled it out to find Cal calling yet again. I knew I needed to talk to him—texts wouldn’t suffice—but the truth was, I was dreading it. Cal was due back from his work trip soon, and he’d ask when I was coming home. I clicked it silent and caught Jamie watching me out of the corner of his eye.