I’m still on edge, but here, in this bedroom that’s nothing like my bedroom, the urge to leave lessens. I sit on the bed beside her and reach for the iPad, pressing the power button on the top. It’s dead.
“Did you find a charger?” I ask.
She shakes her head no. I check the surface tops first, which are clutter- and dust-free, then the bedside table. When I see a vibrator, I shield the drawer from Barb. The charger isn’t in there, so I begin the indignant process of squatting until I’m low enough to see beneath thebed. Sure enough, an Apple cord is plugged into the outlet below her headboard. I further disgrace myself by flopping onto my side so I can wiggle toward the bed to reach beneath it.
“Tessa, my god.” Barb breaks free of her trance and reaches a hand to help me up. She guides me to the bed, where I catch my breath while she plugs the cord into the tablet.
The screen remains black. She taps it. Nothing happens. Frantically, she starts prodding it. “Is it broken?”
The screen lights up, and we both startle. I don’t like that it’s on, that we can bring Regina back to life that easily. I swipe up, surprised to see that it doesn’t have a password set on it, then quickly understand why. There’s no social media on the tablet. No Documents icon. The iMessages and FaceTime are turned off. The mail isn’t linked to an account. Just apps for streaming devices. She used it as a TV, nothing more.
“Anything?” Barb asks.
I shake my head no. This gives me an idea. I go to Settings, not sure it will work. I scroll until I see three green icons in a row. Phone, messages, and FaceTime. iMessages and FaceTime go through your Apple ID, something Regina would need to have linked to be able to download the streaming apps. I push the iMessage button over to activate it. FaceTime too.
“Anything?” Barb asks.
“Not sure yet.” I close the settings and wait.
“Tessa, what are you looking—”
Suddenly, texts materialize across the screen, four in total, all new messages. Regina must have deleted messages after she read them, something I’ve never seen anyone do. If that doesn’t scream sketchiness, I don’t know what does.
There’s one message from a 310 area code; another, 626. LA County. The other two area codes I don’t recognize. The first text reads,Hi! It was nice to meet you last week. I’d love to talk more about your project. The second text is colder,Not interested. Pls leave me alone.It’s the third textthat gets my attention:Hey! Running late. So sorry! See you at the Brig in ten.The Brig. This must be the woman she went to meet.
We should hand this over to the police. It may be useful to their investigation. Except the iPad was on her dresser. They didn’t take it. They won’t want it now. There is no investigation except ours, the mothers’.
Before I can second-guess myself, I punch the telephone number into my phone to call the woman from the Brig and put it on speaker, motioning to Barb to stay quiet. I’ll do the talking. It rings three times, and as I’m debating what to say in a message, the woman picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you like this. I’m a friend of Regina’s,” I cautiously begin.
Before I can say anything else, she interrupts, “I told Reggie never to contact me again. Or maybe she was too drunk to remember. I’ll make myself clear now. Leave me alone. I’m not interested in Reggie’s offer, from her or from you.”
With that, she hangs up. I call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try her again, to the same result.
“Call her again,” Barb insists.
“It won’t work. She’s blocked me.”
“She’s wrong. There’s no way Regina was drunk.” She incantsdrunklike it’s a spell, a curse this woman has cast over her daughter. “She must have tricked Regina into drinking.”
Even I can hear how unlikely this sounds. Although I was reluctant to believe it before, I know it’s true now. Regina was drunk the night she died. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t murdered, but it’s a fact Barb can’t continue to deny.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you, from when I talked to the bartender at the Brig.” I hesitate. Is there really any purpose in telling her that Regina was drunk? How would it change her murder? Barb deserves to know, though. Even if she hates me for being the messenger, she needs to confront the truth about her daughter’s death. “She saidthat Regina ordered a tequila. That she kept ordering. I’m sorry I left that part out before. I didn’t want to be the one ... it doesn’t change anything.”
Barb peers over at me, bruised. Betrayed. She shifts away as she scrolls up to the newest message from the 626 number.Hey! It’s April. I finally have an LA number. No going back now!!! Speaking of, got a call back.So Stoked. Need to resched tho. Hope that’s okay. Still totally interested!
Barb narrates as she types. “‘Hi April. Congratulations on your big break. I’d still love to meet up. Does tomorrow work for you? Hope to see you soon. Best. Regina.’ Sent.”
It’s not a text anyone under sixty would write, but I don’t correct her. Besides, she already pressed Send.
Waiting for April to respond is anticlimactic. Plus, the room’s still charged with the secret I kept from Barb, the betrayal she feels in response.
“Barb, I’m really sorry. I should have told you what the bartender said.”
We both jump as the iPad pings in Barb’s lap.
