“What?”
“I noticed it the other night when I checked on Bella and came back down and looked at the monitor. I could see myself in the video feed. For a second, I thought it was someone else, but then I saw the figure lean in and adjust the camera, which is what I’d just done, and I realized my mistake. Sorry, I meant to say it to you but we’ve…you’ve…”
But you’ve been avoiding meis what he wants to say.
A shaky laugh. “I’m such an idiot. Standing in the driveway at half ten at night over a glitchy baby monitor. Why didn’t Leesa say it does that? I feel like that’s pretty relevant information.”
“She did, on Friday night when they were over. Maybe you didn’t hear her.”
Maybe I was distracted by a rose-gold bracelet.
35
Venetia
Sunday
Venetia hunches over her phone late Sunday night, shoulders tight. Twenty-four hours have passed since Felipe told her about the results of his Google search. About the wrong house. About Savannah Holmes and the other 26 Oakpark. The woman who is not—wasnot—Susan O’Donnell. Venetia’s blocking it out. She’s scrolling, searching for more information on Susan O’Donnell. Susan who sent the message. Susan who has two sisters. Susan who has a baby. Venetia has no sisters now, because Aimee is dead. And there’s no baby, because Aimee’s baby died with her. The size of a bean, and no chance to grow. But Susan’s baby grew, and Susan’s sisters are fine. Greta and Leesa. All happy in their nice houses with their nice lives. Venetia flings the phone on the floor. It skitters across the carpet, slowing when it hits the rug in front of the fireplace. She gets up to retrieve it and keeps reading.
Felipe is at her side in seconds, hunkering down.
“I’m not sure this is helping…” he says, trying to soothe the phone from her hands.
“Of course it’s not helping,” she snaps, “but I need to know everything about her. She’s the reason Aimee is dead.”
Felipe rubs his beard and briefly closes his eyes. “We don’t know that for sure.”
She stares at him. “We absolutely do. That message is what killed Aimee. And Aimee’s baby.” Her voice cracks. “And Susan has a baby who is fine.”
He sits beside her, leaning in to look at her phone.
“I searched for her online, and nothing. How did you find out about her baby?”
“Facebook.”
“You found her on Facebook? I didn’t see her there.” He says it in a neutral, almost chatty way and she knows he’s trying to humor her, to keep things calm, while secretly worried this will send her back to heroin. And Felipe doesn’t know what she has in the shoebox in the bottom of her wardrobe.
She humors him back. “Susan O’Donnell has an old Facebook account she doesn’t use, but her sister, Leesa, tags her anyway. I found pictures of the baby on Leesa’s Instagram.”
He’s still leaning, looking at her phone.
“What’s MumsIRL?” he asks, pointing at a logo on her screen.
“It’s—” She stops. She’s told Felipe enough. He’s not going to be on board with what she’s doing. “It’s an ad I clicked on by accident.”
“Ah. Will I make another pot of tea?” He gestures toward the mugs on the coffee table.
She nods.
“Oh, by the way,” he continues, with false nonchalance, “where did you go, this afternoon, when you went out?”
“For a walk.” It’s the same answer she’d given him earlier.
“Not to Oakpark, right?”
She looks him in the eye. “I was at the supermarket, that’s all.”
“Good. Good. I think it’s better if we stay away from Susan O’Donnell and all the rest of it. The police will be doing investigations and…OK, I’ll make the tea.”
