A Mother Would Know (33)

But what if he was?

Even if he didn’t kill her, with his past, the police will think he did.

“I just can’t find my employee parking badge.”

My stomach plummets. Is it possible that he was in her house, and that’s where he lost his parking badge?

This morning when I passed Molly’s house, the crime tape had been taken down. And I’m sure the news crews are gone by now. Police presence has all but ceased in the neighborhood. Over the years, I’ve watched enough crime dramas to know that they’ve probably confiscated all of the evidence in Molly’s home by now. But even if they saw the parking badge, they wouldn’t necessarily think it meant anything. They might think it’s Molly’s.

As long as they don’t scan it or look into the barcode. Once they find out it’s for parking at the mine, it won’t take more than a minute to connect it to Hudson.

I can’t let that happen.

If Hudson was with Molly the night she died, and if he went to her house and lost his badge there, I have to find it before the police do.

I should wait until it’s dark, but I’m too restless. After putting on my shoes, I hurry outside. It feels weird walking down the street without Bowie. Halfway to Molly’s, it dawns on me how silly I look. How conspicuous. When a car drives by, I lower my head. My heart pounds loudly in my chest.

Turn around.

Go home.

Unable to make my feet obey my thoughts, I continue on. I’m wearing joggers and a T-shirt, sneakers on my feet. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of my neck. To anyone passing by, I look like someone on a brisk walk. Sure, I don’t have Bowie, but who says I can’t go on a walk without my dog?

Air flowing a little more freely through my chest now, I hurry forward. If I stay calm, this’ll be easy.

The mailbox with the flag on it is before me. I glance subtly up at the houses to the right and left of Molly’s. Quiet. Blinds closed. I peer across the street. No prying eyes there either. Probably all at work. Thank god it’s Monday.

Eyes tracking the street, I move stealthily forward, ducking into the side yard. Movement tickles the corner of my right eye. Carefully, I turn my head. Through the leaves of a nearby bush, I see one of the elderly neighbors I spoke with the morning Molly died. Her kitchen window overlooks Molly’s side yard. She appears to be standing over her kitchen sink, and by her movements, I’d guess she’s scrubbing a pan or something difficult to clean. I wonder about the man she saw with Molly on the day she died. Was it in Molly’s home? Outside?

I should have asked more questions.

Lowering my body, I hunch over and walk below her window, careful to keep myself concealed behind the large bush. The backyard is enclosed by a tall privacy fence, its gate closed with a simple latch. Once I’m safely inside, I heave a sigh of relief and stand up straight.

The yard is small—a patch of grass and a cement patio. The grass is yellow, and weeds line the fence. On the patio sit a couple of plastic chairs, surrounded by a few planters spilling over with red geraniums and something pink I don’t recognize.

I make my way across the dead lawn to the back door. I’d been expecting a slider, but it’s a regular door. And it’s locked tight. I make my way to the other side of the house and come upon a high window. Even on my tiptoes I can barely reach it. There’s no way I’m getting inside through it. I blow out a frustrated breath. Clearly, I hadn’t thought this through before racing over here. How will I get in?

Rounding the corner, I find myself on the back patio again. I glance down at the potted plants, green leaves and colorful petals springing out of the soil. It’s odd how she didn’t care for her grass, but she did care for the plants on her patio. Maybe as a renter, she didn’t feel obligated to maintain someone else’s yard? As I’m staring into the planter, something catches my eye. A rock nestled beneath one of the plant stems. But not a normal rock. It almost appears to be plastic. I reach out and pick it up, hoping my hunch is right.

I roll it over in my hand. Sure enough, there is a cutout on the bottom, lid secured. I open it, revealing a key inside. Shocked, I palm the key. It can’t really be this easy, can it?

I hurry to the back door and jam the key in the lock. It slips in easily, and I turn the knob. My heart is pounding erratically in my chest as I open the door and step inside. I can hardly believe I’ve made it in so quickly.

It smells bad, like mold or spoiled food, reminding me that there has recently been a dead body in here. My stomach churns, the nausea I felt last week returning momentarily, and for a split second, I want to flee. Remembering Hudson and why I’m here, I swallow hard, determination propelling me forward. The first thing I’m struck with is the mess.

It’s obvious that no one has been in to clean since the police left. Magazines litter the coffee table, and a few lie open on the carpet. Knickknacks, a couple of remotes and an empty cup are also on the ground. Footprints of all shapes and sizes are stamped into the ivory carpet. I wonder if the items on the ground were knocked over in a struggle or if the police knocked them over while they investigated. Either way, I don’t want to disturb anything. I keep my eyes peeled, scanning the carpet, the tables, the countertops for Hudson’s pass.

The walls are relatively clean. So probably not a gunshot or stabbing, right? Wouldn’t there be blood all over if that were the case? Unless the police cleaned it. Yes, I suppose they could have. I don’t know much about how police process crimes.