In the center of the room, a large, king-size four-poster bed is neatly made. No throw pillows. I don’t know why that strikes me as odd, but an unwanted memory of another bed and dozens of useless fucking throw pillows that had to be taken off every night and put back on the next morning flashes in my mind, and I wonder how Malcolm Jennings won the battle against throw pillows.
Crisp, new, white blinds at the window are closed, and I open them and peer down into the backyard, where the crew is searching under the deck and in a small storage shed near the back. The grass is overgrown. How long was this house on the market? Might be worth a look into the previous owners. I make a note to call the Realtor listed on the FOR SALE sign out front.
I move away from the window and look in the large walk-in closet. Nothing’s been hung on the racks or placed on the shelves yet. Packed boxes—one labeled “Kelsey’s Clothing,” the other labeled “Malcolm’s Things”—sit open on the floor.
They are still living out of boxes. Odd. Clothes would be one of the first things I’d unpack.
I keep searching. There’s nothing under the bed or in the dresser drawers. There’s nothing hidden under a mattress.
A writing desk in the corner of the room contains paper, pens, stationery, and an old fountain pen sitting in an inkwell. A laptop sits on the desk. I open the lid. Password protected of course. If needed, I’ll have to get a warrant to access it.
In the bathroom, everything is spotless. Not even toothpaste or water spots on the mirror.
I open the drawers and find deodorants, makeup, perfumes, a nose-hair trimmer, razors . . . nothing out of the ordinary.
It’s almost as though the Jennings knew someday their home would be searched.
I open the medicine cabinet, and it’s a whole new story. Dozens of prescription bottles are lined up inside. I scan the labels—they all belong to Kelsey Jennings. They are all from a medical clinic in Florida.
I google the names of the drugs.
Memory impairment. Painkillers. Sedatives. Muscle relaxants. Depression and anxiety medication.
Jesus, Kelsey, you really are a mess, aren’t you?
“Hey, Detective, we’re done.” Tom, the lead search crew member, appears in the bathroom doorway.
“Find anything?”
He nods to the medicine cabinet. “Only that Mrs. Jennings seems to require her own pharmacy in order to function.”
Right.
September 6—3:01 p.m.
A loud knock on the bathroom door means my hiding reprieve is over. I grip the edge of the counter as the floor ripples beneath my bare feet. I’ve lost all hope that this is just one big nightmare. That I’ll wake up and my life won’t be collapsing around me.
“Mrs. Jennings? You okay in there?” Detective Ryan’s voice, coming from the other side of the door, contains a sharpness.
No. Nothing is okay. Nothing may be okay ever again.
And the fact that they’ve assigned a detective to the case who believes I’m crazy, that I’ve made all of this up, doesn’t help.
“Ma’am . . . whenever you’re ready, I’ll need to ask you some questions.”
To determine I’m lying.
I open the door, and he’s too close. In my space. I can smell his poorly masked body odor and twenty-year disdain for his job. The younger cop questioned me at the day care, the crisis worker asked a dozen questions of her own . . . but I’ll keep answering them. I know the drill, how this all works. So many questions, over and over again, in slightly different variations. The goal is to trip me up, catch me in a lie . . .
“I’m ready,” I say. I need to do this now. I need to hold it together. For Mikayla’s sake. The best-case scenario is that she is with Malcolm. The worst . . . I shake my head. “In the living room.” The other officers are done combing through the house, digging into places that are none of their business.
I never expected to have someone here, scrutinizing every aspect of this new life I was about to start living. Have they found anything interesting? Incriminating? Any secrets even I don’t know about?
I swallow my nerves and sit on the edge of the chair near the window. The cushion is stiff. Not at all comfortable. Definitely not a relaxing cuddle chair. The pale-beige fabric a horrible choice for a house with a toddler in it—it’ll have dirty handprint stains in no time. I’d never have selected this chair had the furniture choice been mine to make.
Detective Ryan continues to stand. He studies me. “How are you feeling?”
Is he seriously asking me that? “How do you think I feel?”
“I know the officer at the day care asked you a series of questions already, but I have a few more.”
I nod, bringing back the details of the day to the forefront of my mind. The sedatives have completely worn off by now, and I find myself craving a little of the numbness back. My chest is tight, and air struggles to make it to my lungs. My hands clench and unclench involuntarily, and I shove them beneath quivering legs.
The detective refers to his notes, but before he can ask his first question, the two dogs appear in the living room entryway.
“Detective Ryan . . . we are just about done here.”
Just about.
The handler’s gaze shifts to me. I can tell that this is the part of his job he likes the least. He looks as uncomfortable and apprehensive about this as I am.
But Detective Ryan simply nods as though he witnesses dogs sniffing out potential murderers every Tuesday morning, and the handler leads the dogs into the living room.
I hold my breath. Two large, menacing-looking snouts and dark, piercing eyes approach. Thick, muscular bodies under soft-looking fur.
“It’s okay—they just need to smell you.”
To try to pick up the scent of a murderer. How the hell can he say it’s okay?
I stare straight ahead as they sniff my knees, my toes, my hands gripping the seat cushion. One walks around the back of the chair, and the other sits, staring at me, as though waiting for me to break under its intimidating gaze.
Silence.
Seconds pass torturously slow.
I didn’t hurt Mikayla! I want to scream at the dogs. But I clamp my lips together tight and await their verdict.
The second dog rejoins the first one, who stands. They both turn to walk away from me; then one pauses. One reapproaches.
Detective Ryan and the handler stare at the animal.
Everyone waits. Everyone stares.
Silence.
“Okay, let’s go,” the dog handler says from the hallway, and both dogs accept their treats and leave the house.
I’m shaking. What if they’d barked?
Detective Ryan clears his throat, and I jump. I’d almost forgotten he was still here. He is now surveying the pictures on the mantel. “There’s quite a few of your husband and daughter, but not many of you.”
My hands clench tight together on my lap. “I’m sure you’ll find that true of any family. Moms tend to shy away from cameras. Too fat. Bad hair day. One day we’ll look back, and there won’t be a trace of ourselves in our children’s lives.”
He nods, pointing to the only family photo in the group. Malcolm holds a baby Mikayla in his arms. Waves crash up on the sandy beach. “Hawaii?”
“Yes. Our first real family vacation.” Hopefully not our last. This move was supposed to make things better. This was supposed to be a fresh start. So where is Malcolm, and why has he been lying? I want to believe it’s everyone else who is lying. That Malcolm is in danger too. As bad as that sounds, it would be easier to live with.