Chapter 13
All I can think about the whole way home is Deborah going to the clinic I just visited. Why would Deb go there? Did she actually go there? Or just write the address down for some reason? People write down addresses all the time and it means nothing. Maybe she thought she’d go there one day.
Except it was one day before Roy killed her, so…no. There’s something there. I can feel it.
Roy is already home when I get there. I find him in his office, focusing on his laptop.
“You’re home early, that’s nice,” I say.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I get you a drink? I got my hair done. Do you like this dress? I got your suit from the dry cleaners. Did you have a good day?”
I do that a lot, say things one after another without a thread to link them. My mother used to say, if I would just shut up, then it wouldn’t happen.
He looks up. “A haircut? Yes. So you have. Very nice. A drink would be good, thank you.”
“Coming right up.”
I go upstairs first, to make sure my purse is here, and it is. Right where I left it.
I go back downstairs and prepare a drink for Roy.
Getting Roy’s drink—Scotch and soda—is something I do every day.
I like to choose the perfect glass—cut glass tumbler in this case—and nice, chunky ice cubes, not those small ones that melt as soon as they hit the liquid.
I measure the amount of Scotch into a small silver thumb cup I bought especially for this.
Then I grab the bottle of soda from the refrigerator.
When I turn around, I notice the tall cupboard door is ajar.
I’m about to close it when I notice something else. The packet of Oreos is gone.
I open the door wide and touch the items on Deb’s snack shelf.
No doubt about it, the packet of Oreos was there yesterday, and now, it’s gone.
And I don’t know why that upsets me, except that I only just found out that this was Deb’s special indulgent shelf, and I wanted to keep it just the way it was.
And now, the Oreos are gone.
Just then, Marie walks in. She doesn’t speak to me. She never does, unless she has something specific to say. Communicating is done on a strictly need-to-know basis with Marie.
“Did you take the Oreos?” I blurt.
She is rummaging through the cutlery drawer. She turns around. “I’m sorry?”
I point to the shelf. “The packet of Oreos? And it’s fine, of course. You can take whatever you like, I’m just wondering, that’s all, because yesterday—”
“I’m diabetic,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yes. I couldn’t eat a chocolate cookie. It would send my blood sugar haywire. Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” I say. “I didn’t know you were diabetic. I wish I’d known.”
“Why?”
“Because I would make sure to cook things that you can comfortably eat. Especially desserts. I’m very good at making desserts, you know. Everyone says so. I’m sure there’s something I can make that you could eat. Something delicious.”
She blinks at me. “Was there anything else?”
I swallow a sigh. “No, that was it. Thank you, Marie.”
“It’s Meeerrie.”
I bring Roy his drink. “Roy?”
“Mmm?”
“Did you take the packet of Oreos from the kitchen?”
He looks up. “What packet of what?”
“Oreos. Cookies. Black and white?”
He goes back to his screen. “No. Why?”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I sit down in the armchair, drum my fingers on the leather arm.
“Why?” he asks.
“They were probably out of date,” I say.
He looks up. “You’re asking me if I ate cookies that were out of date?”
“Never mind,” I say. He goes back to his screen. “I probably should get dinner ready.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did Deborah ever have a facelift? Or any kind of cosmetic surgery done?”
He stops typing, his fingers an inch from the keyboard. He raises his head slowly. “What did you say?”
“I really don’t mean to upset you. And I’m not being jealous, I’m just wondering, that’s all.”
“Wondering what, exactly?”
I shrug, but something in his tone feels wrong. Like I’ve hit a nerve. “I was wondering if Deborah ever had any cosmetic surgery done. A nose job? Eye lift?”
He is staring at me, absolutely still, his fingers still hovering. “Why are you asking me that?”
“No reason, Roy.”
“But there must be a reason,” he says.
I scratch the side of my neck. “I was… I don’t know. Maybe I’d like to get something done, and if she had something done, I could go to the same place.”
Silence.
“There’s a couple of places that have great reviews. One of them in Thousand Oaks. I haven’t looked too deeply yet—”
I stop. His nostrils are flaring.
“Did I say something wrong?”
He narrows his eyes at me. I shouldn’t have said Thousand Oaks. I should have kept it generic. I’m giving away too much too soon. “Not to worry. I’ll ask Meredith when I see her on Friday. But I know there are a couple of places around here that have great reviews.”
A beat. Then, “No.” He goes back to his screen.
I tilt my head. “No…”
“No, Deborah never had anything done. And you don’t need anything done either, Jodie, so please don’t even think about it. I mean it. Were you saying something about dinner?”
There’s something there. I know it. I can see it in the tension in his neck, the vein bulging on his temple. My heart is racing. I’m onto something.
I get up. “I’ll come and get you when it’s ready.”
That night, I wait until Roy is asleep, then I carefully, silently push the covers off me and get out of bed. His keys are on the dresser and I pick them up, carefully so as not to make any noise. I take my phone from my bedside table, shrug on my robe, and tiptoe down the stairs.
I unlock the door of his office and close it after me. It’s very dark, with only the moonlight coming through between the drapes.
I turn on my phone light and put it down on his desk. I wish it wasn’t so bright, but it’s all I have.
Then I open the bottom cupboards. I know, in my bones, in my heart, that the place in Thousand Oaks is significant. Deb knew it, and he knows it.
And I’m going to find out what it is, because I bet it has something to do with why he killed her.
I’ve been here at least an hour, slowly and carefully taking files out of boxes and putting them back in. I haven’t found a single mention of the clinic, and I’m beginning to think it’s a dead end, and that his reaction earlier had more to do with the fact that I brought up Deborah again.
I rub the back of my neck. I try the next cupboard and pull the next box. This one has a yellow notepad on top, with pages and pages covered with Roy’s handwriting.
More patient notes.
I’m about to put it back when a piece of paper falls out. It’s folded once and is handwritten.
I pick it up and open it.
24 August
My darling…
I stare at it. This isn’t Roy’s handwriting, and it’s not Deb’s either, and it’s dated a month before she died.
I sit back to read the letter, my heart thumping, when I hear something that makes me go very still.
A noise, the creak of a door.
I bolt upright and snatch my phone that I’d balanced on the desk, sending the pen cup flying in the process.
I turn off the phone light and shove the notepad and the letter back in the box, then push it back where it belongs.
Fortunately, the cup landed on the rug. The only noise came from a pen rolling under the shelves.
I hold my breath. Silence. Except for the sound of my heart, which is like a barrel full of tennis balls rolling down a hill. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was the wind? It didn’t sound like the wind. It’s not even windy outside.
I stand in the dark by the desk, unmoving, for a few minutes. Nothing. I turn my phone light back on, get on my hands and knees, pick up the pens and the cup, and stick everything back in. I look under the shelf for the pen that rolled out, and when I drag it out, I realize it wasn’t a pen.
It’s a key.
I know that key. I put my hand in the pocket of my robe and bring out Roy’s keys. I hold up the office key and compare it to the one I just found. It’s the exact same key.
I open the door by a hair. Nothing. I open it a little more, take one last look behind me, shining the torch to make sure everything is as it should be, then I slip out and close the door behind me.
Everything is quiet.
I slip the key I just found in the keyhole, and it works. My chest expands with excitement. I have found the spare key to the office. I slip it into my other pocket. I won’t have to tiptoe like a thief in my own house anymore. I can go into that office whenever I like.
I walk silently to the stairs when I feel a draft.
Not a big one, but enough to make me stop.
I look around, and it takes me a few minutes to realize the back door is ajar.
It leads to the back garden, and it doesn’t close properly.
That must have been what I heard: Marie or Roy didn’t close it fully—you have to brace yourself against it—and it creaked open a little.
I close it and make a mental note to get it fixed. It has an excellent electronic lock, but still. Useless if we keep leaving it open.
And then I have the strangest thought. I picture the missing Oreos and I picture Deb’s gorgeous happy smile.
My eyes water. I know it can’t possibly be true. I know Deb isn’t sneaking in and out of this house from heaven because she’s got a craving for Oreos or whatever, but I wish it were true. I wish it so hard it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I slip quickly into the kitchen, tear off a page from the notepad on the fridge, and write:
You’d love those. x
I put the note in the glass jar, so it’s nestled with my chocolate chip cookies.