There’s a third picture closer to the bed of Dash and Lennon. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Who took this?” I ask.
“London did.”
“It’s familiar but I don’t know if it’s because I took it or because I’ve looked at it every night before bed.”
His lips thin in what I assume must be disappointment, but he nods.
“I want to stay here tonight.” I drop the bomb on him out of nowhere.
“It very well could be your house anyway. You can do what you want,” Dash says.
“I think I need to stay alone, though,” I add.
He crosses his arms. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. You could be in danger. You heard Jimmy yesterday. They have no leads on the driver.”
I face Dash and touch his face. “I know. But this is something I feel I need to do. Everyone wants me to trust them. Can’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you. But I don’t trust that you’re safe alone with an unknown killer possibly after you. Don’t ask me to leave.”
“I’ve been fine at the apartment. Why do you think this house would be any less safe?”
Dash steps closer and I can see the whiskey-colored streaks in his brown eyes. “Whoever caused the wreck may have been after Lennon. It was her car being tailed, not London’s.”
“Maybe. But if that’s true, then they think she’s dead. Why would they come back?”
“Because they know one of you survived. And they might not want to take the chance you could remember and point the finger. One or even both of you had to see the car. What if you saw the actual person too? Or what if they just wanted you both dead?”
“I need to do this alone, Dash. But I’ll call you if anything feels off. Give me the day to myself here. Then you can come back tonight. What are the chances someone would try something during the day?” I ask.
“Depends on how determined this person is, Valkyrie.”
I smile. “I’ll lock the doors, I promise.”
“I don’t like this,” he says.
“Noted. Which is why you’ll be back in a few hours.”
He leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips before walking out.
Once I hear him close the front door downstairs, I pull open the drawer of the nightstand.
I find a leather-bound journal and open it. I flip to the last entry and see it’s dated the day before the accident. What I read makes my jaw drop. Hendrix was getting ready to propose to London. Lennon had helped him pick out a ring, and apparently, he was going to talk to our parents in the next few days to get their blessing first.
I wipe away the tears as I read how clearly excited Lennon was for her sister. Lennon wrote how London would be marrying a great guy and how she couldn’t wait to have a brother, even if it was by marriage. And she continued, saying it was finally time they started settling down since they’re in their thirties.
I flip back a few pages and read other entries, but nothing clicks. Deciding to read more later, I go to put the journal back in the drawer when I hear something hit the floor. I glance down and see a small key.
I swipe it from the floor and open the journal again. On the inside of the back cover, a slit has been made in the leather. I try it by sliding the key in and it’s a perfect fit. How strange.
I pull the key back out and glance around the room for a minute trying to find where it goes. My gaze settles on the closet, and I make my way to it. I open the door and turn on the light.
I run my fingers over the clothes hanging in here. I see shoes neatly placed on the floor. But a cedar chest catches my eye in the back corner. I lift the lid up to see inside and find trophies and medals and what is probably older journals.
But tucked in the corner under a leather jacket that’s seen better days is a locked box. I lift it out of the cedar chest and the lock appears to match the key I found.
“What are you trying to hide, Lennon?” I ask out loud.
