I thumb through a few books stacked on the coffee table. The first two don’t elicit much interest from me, but when I leaf through the last one, the word cock jumps out at me. I start reading, the grin on my face growing with every sentence I finish.
So little Miss Perfect isn’t as perfect as she appears. She likes her smut. Noted.
Maybe there’s more to Hattie than meets the eye. I dislike the way that thought intrigues me, so I set the books back down as I found them and continue.
The kitchen doesn’t hold anything of interest, unless you consider that she appears to eat like a college student based on the amount of mac and cheese and ramen noodles in her cupboard.
A quick search through the bathroom tells me she owns little, if any, makeup, but she has a whole skin routine she must follow. There’s a plethora of lotions and scrubs and serums littering the counter. The medicine cabinet yields nothing, so finally I make my way into her bedroom.
If there’s anything interesting to be found, I’m sure this is where I’ll find it.
The first thing I notice is how different the space feels from the rest of her apartment. It’s not as well-kept and put together.Whereas the rest of the apartment holds very few personal mementos, this room is filled with them.
Pictures of Hattie and another woman her age make up a collage on a bulletin board. Some are from when they’re very young and others from their teen and college years. In one, the girls are in what I’d guess is their early twenties, and they’re standing on the end of a dock with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, big grins on their faces.
My gaze snags on the swell of Hattie’s breasts under her one-piece swimsuit.
She’s got a banging little body under those baggy clothes she wears, that’s for sure. Maybe I’ll be able to convince her to get on stage. I laugh at the thought.
Perhaps she’ll actually enjoy male attention at some point, and I can use that to my advantage. Imagine what Mommy Dearest would think if her precious little girl danced on stage and let men slide dollar bills into her G-string.
A feral smile spreads across my face.
There’s nothing interesting hiding under the clothes in her dresser, and when I open the top drawer of her nightstand, I half expect to find her sex toy collection, but all I discover is her sock drawer. Maybe she is as repressed as I thought. What single twenty-something woman doesn’t have at least one sex toy?
But then I open the next drawer to find her bras and underwear and am surprised they’re all made with lace. I figured Hattie for a white cotton panty kind of girl, but under those oversized clothes, she wears pretty, if not sexy, lingerie.
The dichotomy of this woman grows more interesting every minute.
I continue to her closet, taking a picture of how it’s arranged before I search through it. There are a couple of fancy boxes on the shelf at the top, and I pull those out to go through them.
The first one seems to be a memory box of sorts. It’s filled with old movie stubs and concert tickets, greeting cards, most of which are dated from a few years ago. When I get further down in the box, I find some pictures of her and a guy with blond hair and bright blue eyes—Mr. All American himself. Go figure. It’s clear they were in a relationship. Though there are no intimate pictures of the two of them, they’re holding hands in one, and in another, he has his arm draped around her shoulders as he kisses her cheek.
Based on the dates on the things in the box and the fact that his picture is nowhere on display in the apartment, I’m going to assume the relationship is long over. Is this what women do? They hold on to all this shit? To what? Feel the heartbreak all over again? I’ll never understand them.
I put the lid back on the box and look into the next box. It’s filled with mementos from school—report cards, awards, participation ribbons. I’m not surprised that little Hattie was quite the student.
I put the boxes back where I found them and search the bottom of the closet, where I find several photo albums. I still for a moment with my hand on them before I pull them out.
My chest is tight as I slowly pull back the cover of the first one and am greeted with a picture of Hattie—probably ten years old or so—and her parents at an amusement park. All three of themhave the kinds of smiles that would let anyone looking at them know that they’ve never been happier. This is a family who truly loves each other and looks out for each other.
My eyes focus on my mother as I flip through each page, the rest of the people in the photos becoming a blur. I don’t remember ever seeing her smile like that. Not once in my eleven years with her. All I remember is the dead look in her eyes or the disappointment and regret she always had when she looked at me. Whether it was about our situation or directed at me specifically, I could never tell.
Fuck this.
I slam the front of the photo album closed and shove them all back in the bottom of the closet. I’ve seen enough to know who Hattie is and how I might manipulate her for my gain.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check how the closet looks compared to the image on my screen and find they look nearly identical.
I don’t know why, but before I put my phone away, I snap a photo of Hattie’s collage board with all the photos of her over the years.
After one final check that everything appears to be how it should be, I make my way to the sliding glass door. I plan to leave it unlocked and hope that Hattie thinks she forgot to lock it before she went to work. Either way, she’ll never suspect me.
I suppress the urge to hurry away from the building. That’s the kind of thing that gets people’s attention. Instead, I leisurely walk back to my car, my mind spinning with all the images of my mother in those pictures.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I approach my vehicle, and Steph’s name lights up the screen. Once I’m seated inside the vehicle, I accept her call, putting it on speakerphone as I start the car.
“What’s up?” My voice is clipped.
