A Mother Would Know (64)

From where Alex had installed the camera, it appears to be catching everything directly in front of their house, including their entire front lawn. So when I crept across the street, I did so to the left of Leslie’s house to not be detected. I came up on the left side of the porch, crawling onto it through the board railings. I’m not as agile as I once was, so it was a struggle. I slipped a few times, but finally made it.

Thanks to trusty key number three, the knob turns easily, and I shove open the door and rush inside. When I firmly close the door behind me, I sigh with relief. It’s dark, and I feel my way along the wall.

My eyes adjust slightly, but I can still barely see anything. I tug my phone out of my pocket to turn on my flashlight and pause. I need to be away from windows when I turn it on just in case a neighbor sees.

Fingertips skating along the wall, I walk further in. Once I’m in the family room, away from the entryway, I swipe up on my phone and click the flashlight. A beam of light sprays the carpet in front of me, illuminating my path.

It bounces along the wall as I turn down the hallway. To my right is the bedroom that used to belong to Heather. It looks like it was turned into a guest room; the four-poster twin bed that teenage Heather had been clamoring to upgrade is a neatly made double with a rattan headboard, a dream delivered far too late.

The next room had always been the office, and I’m grateful that seems to have remained the same. Holding the phone in front of me, I make a beeline for the blinds and tug the cord to close them. Then I head to Leslie’s desk. Sure enough, the top drawer is filled with notepads, Leslie’s handwriting scrawled all over the pages.

The first one I flip to is instructions on plant propagation, taking pothos cuttings, yada yada. I toss that one aside. The next is filled with to-do lists.

These aren’t what I’m looking for. The ones she used to write in about neighborhood goings-on were more like diaries. Leather-bound books with pretty stationery-like pages. Not run-of-the-mill notebooks.

Leaving the office, I head into Leslie’s room. The comforter is off-white with roses all over it. There is a mirror above the dresser, my reflection staring back at me in it. Her closet door is open. It’s a spacious walk-in. She used to joke that it was the best feature in her house. As I step inside, I’m assaulted by Leslie’s familiar scent. She’d worn the same floral perfume for years. I swallow hard, taking in her clothes hanging neatly from the racks. Below them are her shoes. I back out of the closet.

There is a decorative bookshelf in the corner. On the top two shelves are a collection of romance novels and some books on how to care for plants. But when I glance down at the bottom shelf, I find them. The leather-bound notebooks, little cutouts on the sides, dates written in Sharpie.

I drop to my knees and run my finger along their spines.

Reading the dates, I come across one from the year Heather died. Although it isn’t what I’m looking for, I can’t help myself from opening it.

The entry is dated a week before Heather’s death. My palms moisten at the first line on the page.

Leslie had written, “Heather came home from Hudson’s in tears. Said she doesn’t want to go over there anymore. When asked why not, she told me she’s scared to.”

I stare at the words in disbelief. I never knew this. I mean, I do recall Leslie screaming at me one day that Heather had been afraid of Hudson generally—and that’s how she knew her daughter’s death was no accident. But she said a lot of things then. Anger-fueled, revenge-filled things. And much of it wasn’t rooted in reality.

At least, I hadn’t thought it was.

I hear a click. My scalp prickles. I don’t dare move. When the heater clicks on, I feel silly. I’m kind of surprised no one thought to turn it off, then realize I don’t know who that would be. Beth, maybe. Leslie doesn’t really have any family left.

I am wasting time, though. I need to pick up the pace. I’m about to put the notebook down when I change my mind and tuck it into my sweatshirt. I want to see what else she wrote about Hudson and Heather at that time; I just can’t right now.

She has a notebook for every year except this one. But there is a distinct gap between the last notebook and the end of the shelf. In fact, the last book is propped at an angle as if it fell that way when something had been removed next to it.

Had the police taken the last notebook? Surely a diary might be helpful evidence.

Or maybe I’m wrong and there never was a final notebook. Perhaps Leslie finally joined the twenty-first century and started taking notes digitally. Standing up, I hurry out of her room, return to the office and rush to the desk. I reach for the computer mouse to my right and shake it over the mouse pad, which is unsurprisingly a photo of a plant. Even in here, she has a few hanging from the ceiling. Odd that the computer is still here and had been left on. It almost deters me as I draw the conclusion that the police found nothing of significance on it. Then again, I might find something they wouldn’t. The screen comes to life, blue light filling the room. When the lock screen comes up, I curse and try the most obvious passwords—Heather’s name and then Heather’s birthday, which I’ll never forget because it’s two days before Hudson’s, a fact Leslie and I marveled about often. In fact, one year we took the kids to Six Flags for the day, a joint celebration. When that doesn’t work, I try Leslie’s birthday, which is also one I can’t forget, the day after Christmas. She always complained about the fact that her birthday got caught up in the chaos of the holidays. When we were friends, I empathized. Afterward, I realized how childish and entitled she’d been.