As I start to drop the phone into my purse, I notice that my client Michelle has texted with an update: her boss wanted to meet, it turns out, to give her a special assignment, a plum one that will be great for her career. She’s eager to set up a call to discuss. I shoot her a thumbs-up emoji, but tell her that I’m in the middle of something and will email her later to arrange a time to speak.
My main objective right now is figuring out how to get enough information to prove that Liam had a clear motive for murder. I could drive to the other houses on the list, hoping to speak to additional tenants, but I’m not sure what more there is to discover that way. Besides, making contact with additional renters will only increase the likelihood of my snooping getting back to Liam.
Without warning, an idea blooms in my mind, one I can’t believe I’m thinking. At first, I push it aside. It seems like a big risk, andperhaps even a violation, and yet I can’t ignore the thought as I drive, barely noticing the lush farmlands on either side of me. Before I know it, I’m taking a left turn onto another road, a turn that clarifies that I’ve made a decision. I’m going to the assisted-living facility where Jamie’s grandmother lives.
I spent time with Liz on at least a dozen occasions while Jamie and I were together, first at Drew’s house, when she still felt comfortable going out, and then more recently at the residence, when I sometimes accompanied Jamie on his visits. According to Jamie, Drew encouraged his mother to move in with him after his father died and her house became too big for her to handle alone, but she valued her independence and opted for a retirement community. Initially she had a roomy two-bedroom apartment, allowing for plenty of autonomy, but as her dementia revealed itself, she was moved into the facility’s memory care center.
From what I recall, that section has very generous visiting hours, but not anyone can just show up. You need to be on a list. Fortunately, Jamie placed my name on that list, and I can’t imagine him having bothered to ask for it to be removed.
The drive takes about twenty minutes, and I pull into the parking lot just before eleven. I take a moment to touch up my makeup in the rearview mirror, and once I’ve exited the car, I smooth out my skirt. From what Jamie told me at the party, Liz’s condition has worsened since I last saw her, but I’m praying that a chat might reveal a detail or two about her visit with Jamie, the one that led Sam to believe something was really troubling him. Had he come right out and asked her about Liam?
As I cross the parking lot, with the odor of hot asphalt filling my nostrils, I have second thoughts. What if my visit upsets her? What if it makes her wonder about Jamie and why he hasn’t been to visit her over these past days? But Liz—at least Liz-before-her-decline—wouldsupport what I’m doing. She and Jamie were extremely close when he was growing up and became even more so after his mom passed away.
Since the temperature is already in the mideighties, it’s a relief to step into the attractive lobby of the building, where the AC is going full blast. I glance quickly around. The reception desk is on the right, and farther ahead of me, the lobby widens considerably, with passageways shooting off in different directions to the independent living section, as well as the library, beauty salon, and gym.
It looks busy ahead, with people coming and going and others stopping to chat with each other. My heart instantly picks up speed.Please, I think,don’t let me run into one of the Larssons today. I have no idea how often Liam visits, but I know Drew stops by a couple of times a week. I just have to hope Monday morning isn’t one of them.
I head to the reception desk, where a pretty brown-haired young woman on duty raises her head and smiles in greeting.
“Good morning,” she says pleasantly.
“Morning. My name is Kiki Reed, and I’m here to see Liz Larsson. Is this a good time?”
“Let me check.” She types for a moment on the keyboard of her desktop computer, pauses to read what comes back on the screen—hopefully a verification of my presence on the list—then types a little more before offering another smile. “Mrs. Larsson is in the dayroom at the moment, so your timing is perfect. Do you know how to get to the memory care area?”
“Yes, thanks, I do.”
“Great, if you just sign in, you’ll be all set.”
I reach for the clipboard with the sign-in sheet and surreptitiously scan the names of everyone who’s checked in before me this morning. Fortunately, no members of the Larsson family are here at the moment. And since the sheet is a daily one, it means that as long as noneof them visits later on, the Larssons aren’t likely to find out I’ve been on the premises. I sign my name illegibly and then proceed into the larger section of the lobby, my guilt intensifying with each step. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but at the same time I know it’s the right thing.
I keep going until I reach a more remote area that leads into a separate small lobby. A locked door there is marked with a sign sayingMEMORY CARE, PLEASE CALL FOR ENTRYand a phone number.
A friendly voice answers when I call, and after I give both my name and Liz’s, I’m asked to please wait. About five minutes later, a female staff member opens the door and politely ushers me inside. Unlike the receptionist, this woman looks vaguely familiar, and I spot what seems to be a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
She leads me immediately to the sunny dayroom, where about ten residents and several staff members are seated, and I spot Liz immediately. She’s in a comfy-looking chair by the window, wearing a floral top and loose cream-colored pants, with an unopened book in her lap. Her short, wavy white hair is nicely styled. From a distance, she seems pretty much the same as she did when I first met her—curious and serene at the same time. But as I approach the chair, I notice that there’s a vacant look in her pale blue eyes.
“Liz, Katherine is here to see you,” my escort says. “Isn’t it great to have a visitor this morning?”
Liz glances up, her expression blank, but after apparently registering my presence, she offers a vague smile.
“Liz, hello, it’s so wonderful to see you,” I say. And it is. But with a terrible ache, I suddenly recall that the last time I was here was in early March, when I’d finally acknowledged to myself that my relationship with Jamie was doomed. Racked with self-reproach over what I’d soon be doing, I listened to him regale his grandmother with plans for a wedding that would never be.
After suggesting I take a nearby chair, the attendant wishes us a nice chat and tells me she’ll be on the other side of the room if I need her.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” she adds quietly to me. “But we’ve been finding that she tires after about ten minutes. She can also become a little agitated—if that happens, just signal for me.”
“Thank you,” I say and drop into the nearby chair.
As soon as the attendant walks off, I return my attention to Liz. My decision to come was so spur of the moment that I haven’t given any thought to what to say. But I realize my first step should be making Liz feel as comfortable as possible in my presence.
“Liz, how is your day going so far?” I say, smiling.
She stares at me, her expression blank.
“Your outfit is lovely. Is it a favorite of yours?”
Again, no reaction. Her condition must have worsened more than I’d imagined since I was here last.
