He nodded and Rosemary led me upstairs to Audrey’s room, pausing at the door before opening it.
“I guess you can say I’m the opposite of my husband,” she said, flicking away a few tears. “I’ve been in here every day, but I haven’t touched a thing. It’s just the way she left it.”
She opened the door and stepped aside.
I walked in, getting the immediate sense that the room felt frozen in time. The walls were painted a soft purple, and there was a full-size bed with a gray comforter and a knitted blanket that was folded at the end of the bed. Miniature Polaroids were strung across the headboard—laughing faces, forest trails, snapshots of moments past.
A dresser sat beneath a round mirror and taped to the glass was a sketch of Audrey and Logan inside a heart, their initials overlapping where the lines met. The sketch held a simple sweetness, and yet it twisted my insides at the same time.
Two young people in love, a love that would never grow to fruition.
“I’m guessing Logan drew this of the two of them,” I said.
Rosemary stepped beside me, her hand pressed to her chest. “She loved that drawing. She stuck it here the day he gave it to her.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Would you mind if I had a few minutes in her room alone? It’s part of my process.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ll be downstairs with Dustin if you need anything.”
She left the room, leaving me in the quiet of Audrey’s space.
I started with the dresser. Each drawer held folded clothes, organized in a way that suggested Rosemary helped her keep it tidy. Nothing looked out of place. I checked beneath the clothes, inside pockets, behind the drawers, still seeing nothing of note.
I moved to the desk. The surface held notebooks, gel pens, and a single photo strip of Audrey and Talia making faces. I checked the drawers, flipped through the notebooks, and scanned pages of homework and doodles.
Still nothing.
Next, I moved to the bed. I lifted the mattress and checked beneath it, feeling along the slats as I searched under the frame. But again, I found nothing helpful. Nothing to help me solve her murder.
I looked through her nightstand, her closet, her shoes, even the tiny jewelry box on the dresser. No clues. Whitlock and Foley had done a thorough job when they were here.
Frustrated and left without a single clue, I stepped back, my hands on my hips as I studied the room one last time. Something tugged at me, an instinct telling me I was missing something that should have been obvious but wasn’t.
Then my gaze drifted toward the window.
A small potted plant sat on the sill, its soil dry, leaves curled at the edges. I wondered if it had died before Audrey did, or if Rosemary had neglected to water it after her daughter passed.
I walked over to it and lifted the pot.
It felt light, almost too light.
I set it on the desk and attempted to separate the pot from its saucer, but it didn’t budge at first. It was as if it had been taped or glued together, but not well. I pulled on the saucer again, and this time, it broke free. A small baggie was taped to the underside of the pot. I pulled off the baggie and opened it, reaching inside. As I removed its contents, my pulse quickened, and I froze, staring down at the silver locket in my hand—oval, delicate, and etched with a ring of tiny hearts.
In the center, a name: Anne.
Foley and Whitlock had missed it, though I understood why.
And Rosemary had never known to look.
Audrey had hidden it well.
I closed my hand around the locket, and a chill swept across my spine—a truth I couldn’t shake. I was now certain someone had murdered Audrey to keep their secret buried, and I was closing in.
20
I arrived at the San Luis Obispo Police Department just before noon, the locket tucked inside an envelope in my coat pocket. The winter air clung to me as I stepped outside. I walked to the department, pulling open the glass doors as I headed toward Foley’s office.
Whitlock stood in front of Foley’s desk when I entered, one hand on his hip, the other drumming against a stack of files, as he hummed a familiar jazz tune. Foley sat at his computer, typing something, maybe a report.
