“Anyone for an Oreo mini?” Marjorie asked as Gerry popped the locks on their Honda Fit. “I think I have some in the glovebox. Funerals always make me hungry.”
“Why would you keep my least favorite snack in your car?” grumbled Hazel. “Oreo minis are worse than no cookies at all.”
“I bet the Hales have Crumbl cookies in their glovebox. They look like boxed-snack kind of people.” Gerry cleaned his glasses with the end of his tie.
“Boxed snacks, maybe. Cookies in the glovebox, I’d doubt it.” Hazel sank onto the back seat with a relieved huff.
Leah, climbing in beside her, thought of Jackson Hale’s girlfriend and her flawless appearance. “Blinis in the conservatory. That’s the kind of people they are.” She wrapped her arms around her body for warmth and gazed out of the window at the sign that read “Sandy Grove Funeral Home and Cremation Center.” The letters blurred, the conversation around her faded out.
She was alone. Again. She’d lost someone she loved. Again. And the feeling of isolation that clawed at her chest was worsethan grief, worse than fear, worse even than the prospect of having nowhere to live.
Leah did her best to bury herself in work for the rest of the week; Esther had left plenty to get on with. Fragile rays of sun eased through the smeared study window, pooling in dappled patches on the wooden floor and playing on the desktop as Leah shifted through some papers. The verse of a song had snagged in her mind and she hummed the lyrics on repeat as she busied herself, searching for what she needed.
“Come on, Esther. Give it up—” It should be here somewhere.
She was transcribing Esther’s last manuscript—the conclusion to a crime series—which Leah had helped the old lady complete in her final months of life. Most of it, plotted before the swift illness had stolen her strength, was written laboriously in longhand on sheaves of white paper, the end dictated breathlessly into a hurriedly purchased Dictaphone. For their own reference some time ago, after struggling to keep things ordered in their minds, they had written out a complicated timeline together, plotting the protagonist’s career path, cases and work colleagues over the years. And now Leah couldn’t find it.
She spun her pen on the desk, scrubbed at a smear of ink on her forefinger, and stared sightlessly at the fraying drapes framing the window. She knew it was in one of Esther’s old notepads. Her gaze wandered the room. She really needed to tidy up soon; it was a mess. But, haphazard though it may be, there was some sense in the order and she knew where most things were.
Definitely not here.
Leah pushed back the chair. Maybe Esther had stored her filled notepads upstairs.
The pulsing silence that enveloped the old house beat even louder in Esther’s bedroom, as if this room actively missed andmourned its mistress. How did people just stop being? It still seemed impossible to Leah—that someone could be there one minute, doing everyday things, and gone the next. Not only gone but never to come back again. Not even to pop up and say, “Whoops, sorry! I forgot to say such-and-such.”
One hundred percent gone.
She took the lid off a pot of face cream on the vanity and held it to her nose. Honeysuckle sweet, it brought a flicker of a smile to her lips but gave her no sense of the old lady’s presence. Esther had been so much more than a scent.
Recapping the pot, Leah replaced it gently in front of the mirror and looked around. Fairly sure the dresser contained only clothes, she tried each drawer in turn regardless, proving herself right. With no closet in the room, there were few other places to store anything. Apart from under the bed.
Leah dropped to her knees and lifted the frilly valance, recoiling at a hidden wasteland populated not so much by dust bunnies as tumbleweed-style balls of debris she’d rather not identify. Plus one storage box and an old suitcase.
She pulled the box out first, grimacing at the thick layer of dust that covered the top. Peeking inside, Leah found it filled with shoes—about eight pairs, some sturdy and practical, some extravagant, obviously expensive and pristine. She wished she’d known the Esther who’d bought and worn the stylish shoes. They were fabulous.
The suitcase was cream in color and scuffed, the hard-shelled lid dipped and creased with age. She heaved at the handle and dragged it out from beneath the bed. Brushing at her dusty knees, Leah flipped the catch and opened it up an inch or two.
Bingo.
A stack of notepads nestled next to a bundle of old photographs, held with an elastic band. On top was a casual shot Leah hadn’t seen before of Esther and a small child at the beach—it must be JacksonHale’s father. Tempted to leaf through them, she left the photos where they were. It seemed intrusive to rummage any more than necessary.
There were eleven notepads in total and she stacked them in two piles on the floorboards. Flicking open the top one, she smiled to see Esther’s handwriting covering the pages. Green ink. Always green ink. She had no idea why. There were snippets of ideas, diagrams, names, and questions throughout. Some sounded familiar, and Leah linked them to one of Esther’s more recent books. Putting the first notebook to one side, she reached for the next.
Before long, she had identified the novel that each notepad related to—there was a new book for each title (thanks for making this simple, Esther)—and they rested in chronological order beside her knees. She gave a hum of satisfaction when she came across the one containing the timeline she needed.
A cloud drew across the sun as Leah reached for the last book, the bedroom darkening a little. She debated turning on a lamp but was distracted by the notepad on her lap. Smaller than the others and thin, it had a faded purple cover that looked well-handled, and her fingers brushed the battered edges of an old black-and-white photograph poking from the pages. Leah pulled it free.
The two girls, posing joyfully on a bridge over the Chicago River, were immediately identifiable as youthful versions of Esther and Hazel. Their smiles wide, their arms linked. Their coats, hats, and hunched shoulders told Leah it was wintertime. With unlined faces and dark hair, they looked to be quite a bit younger than her own twenty-seven years. Joy spilled from the image and settled on her own lips as Leah placed the photo to one side.
With casual curiosity, she flicked the book open at the first page and found herself staring at diary entries in a flamboyant hand. They were completed sporadically, a few lines here, a longer paragraph there, not every date given an entry. She ran her gaze over the first few, her smile growing wider.
January 1st, 1972
This is going to be the best year of my life. Lots of firsts already and it’s only day one! First New Year’s Eve back home with Hazel—fun!! First hangover—not such fun!!! First kiss—better than I ever imagined!!!!!!!!!!!
(Please excuse all the exclamation points.)
January 6th, 1972
