There it was again, Vaughn carrying on as if his son not returning home was nothing out of the ordinary, but it did give me an idea.
Vaughn and Tilly weren’t the only ones with plans.
I had plans of my own.
Plans to do a little sneaking around.
6
The sun hung low in the sky, melting into the horizon in a wash of amber and violet. In another thirty minutes, the neighborhood would be cloaked in darkness, giving me the perfect opportunity to get in and out of Logan’s parents’ house without being seen.
From my vantage point, the house sat quiet, appearing uninhabited. Vaughn’s car was no longer in the driveway, which told me they’d left to meet up with Tilly’s college roommate. Still, I needed to be sure.
Checking my phone for the time, I confirmed it wouldn’t be long before dusk would give me the cover I needed to cross the street and make my way inside their house and into Logan’s room. It was the one place I hoped to find clues about Audrey’s death and provide me with answers about why Logan left town and hadn’t returned.
As the last bit of light faded over the horizon, I crossed the street, opening the side gate into the back yard. Walking up the wooden porch steps, one of them creaked, something I hadn’t expected. I stopped and listened, glancing around to see if any neighbors were around. I heard nothing and saw no one, and I approached the sliding glass door. Getting in was easier than I’d expected; the door had been left unlocked. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me, taking in the faint aroma of lemon cleaner and something else—a hint of vanilla.
To make sure Vaughn and Tilly were out for the evening, and I was all alone in the house, I cupped a hand to the side of my mouth and shouted, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
I was met with silence.
I called out once more and was met with the same, giving me the all-clear to continue with my plan.
Moving through the kitchen, I caught sight of the living room curtains at the front of the house. They were drawn, so I pulled the mini flashlight I always carried out of my purse. I clicked it on and scanned the room. On the opposite side, a table was set with plates and silverware, as if waiting for the family to sit down for dinner. Maybe it was always arranged that way—for appearances, if nothing else.
I walked to a bookcase, peering down at a photograph of Logan in his cap and gown, his parents at his side, beaming with pride.
They looked happy, so put together.
But were they?
Or was it an illusion, a way to make everything seem perfect when it wasn’t?
I found the stairs and took them one at a time until I reached the top. Logan’s room was at the end of the hall, his door half open when I got to it. A faint smell of cologne lingered in the air. I stepped inside, allowing time for my eyes to adjust. Beside Logan’s bed was a wooden desk. On top of it were tin cans filled with colored pencils. Given the wall was lined with colored sketches, drawing appeared to be one of his hobbies.
I continued to search the room and spotted an easel near the window. The sketch attached to it stopped me cold. It was a woman’s face, unfinished, and ghostly, drawn in graphite. The features were unmistakable. Audrey’s likeness stared back at me, captured with an intimacy that made my stomach twist.
I wondered when he’d drawn it.
Before she died, when she was still full of life?
Or after, when guilt and grief had driven him to preserve her memory in lead and paper?
I snapped a photo of the drawing and continued to look around. Shifting my attention back to the desk, I saw a series of notebooks next to the pencil cans. I grabbed one of them and began to flip through its pages. Each drawing seemed to tell a story, small fragments of a life pieced together in colored pencil. Some of the drawings were of ordinary things like coffee cups, street corners, and a dog sleeping by the fire. Others appeared much more personal. I felt like I was walking through his memories, each page representing a moment in time he’d captured so he wouldn’t forget.
I set the notebook back down and rested my hand on the edge of the desk. And that’s when I felt it, something that didn’t belong, a texture that was different, smoother than the rest of the wood. I crouched down and aimed the beam of my flashlight under the desk. There, taped to the underside, was another notebook. It looked identical to the others, but the fact that it had been hidden told me something about it was different.
Flipping it open, the first few pages were filled with sketches of a wooded landscape and trees leaning toward a narrow creek, the kind of place where the air smelled of moss and rain. I couldn’t tell if Logan had drawn it from a memory, but the detail suggested the place mattered to him. I turned another page, and the tone of the drawings changed. The woods gave way to something smaller and more personal—a locket. The locket was silver and oval in shape, and along the outer edge was a delicate ring of hearts. At its center was a name: Anne.
I flipped to the next page and found the same locket staring back at me, only the second version was a lot more refined. I turned another page, then another, my pulse quickening, hoping for something that might explain why he’d sketched the locket in the first place. But the pages ahead were empty.
I snapped the sketchbook closed and slid it into my purse, my mind filled with questions.
Was the locket real and had it belonged to someone?
Or was it something he’d imagined?
If it was real, was Anne real, someone he knew?
