Page 37 of A Hidden Past

“Yeah, you’re breaking into their house again, dipshit. Don’t act like you’re being careful.”

My blood boils at that. Damn it, someone has to care. It has to matter to someone. She was a person, for fuck’s sake.

Lila or Annie?

“Both of them,” I say aloud again. “This is for both of them.”

Bullshit. This is for yourself.

“Yeah, whatever.”

I reach the street behind the Kensingtons’ house and look around. The windows are all dark, and there’s no one else outside. I walk in between two homes and end up behind the Kensingtons’ house.

There’s a light on in their house, so I slip back into the shadows and wait. My heart pounds. It’s been a long time since I’ve broken into anyone’s house.

I only did this a few times back when I was using. When business with Arturo was light, and I ran out of money for a fix, I would break into apartments and steal drugs if I could find them and cash if I couldn’t.

I didn’t like it. Boosting an empty car is one thing. Walking into someone’s home when they’re sleeping inside of it is another. It’s a miracle I’ve never been shot.

But I have to do this. For Lila.

The door opens, and I hear Julian and Clara talking and laughing. I can't see them well from this distance, but I can see that Julian has his hand on Clara's ass, and she's leaning on him with her chest pushed forward so he can see her tits push out. Evidently, offing the kid is working wonders for their marriage.

They get in their car and drive away, just as merry as can be.

I wait until their lights disappear, then get to work.

Apartments in Cudahy don’t usually have security cameras or alarms, but ten-million-dollar houses in West Hollywood usually do, so my first step is to walk around the house and see what I’m looking at.

I count three cameras and spot a sign that announces that this home is proudly protected by Advanced Security Systems. That means they’ll have entry alarms at the doors, but probably not the windows. Most people with real security hire commercial firms, not residential firms. ASS is a residential security firm, so chances are there’s only a basic level of protection.

I hop the fence to the backyard. The camera faces the fence door, and there’s a large blind spot that I use to make my way to the back just below Lila’s bedroom window. I jump and catch the balcony rail, then pull myself up.

I take a moment to pray the glass door isn’t locked. I brought a glass cutter just in case, but I’d rather this was easy.

I plant my fingertips on the door and pull. To my great relief, it slides open easily. I step into the room and leave the door open.

Looking around Lila’s room breaks my heart. There’s a stuffed kitten on the bed and vanity mirror with selfies, notes from friends and pictures of celebrities tucked in between the glass and the frame. There’s a closet with at least twenty pairs of shoes and a pile of dirty clothes on the floor in one corner. The laptop is decorated with stickers of unicorns and puppies and cartoon images of shirtless surfers.

It’s a rich girl’s room, but it’s a girl’s room. It’s normal. Just a normal girl hoping for a normal life who now won’t get any life.

I look around for something that could prove that Clara and Julian are the ones who killed her. Clara’s too far over the cuckoo’s nest to tell her ass from a kangaroo, but Julian’s probably smart enough to make sure there’s nothing in the house that would incriminate him. I’d bet anything he was the one who cleaned the pool.

But neither of them would think to check Lila’s room. Lila was nothing to them. It wouldn’t occur to them that she might have suspected them of evil motives or that she might have recorded things they said or did that could prove that they weren’t innocent.

Maybe I just hope that’s the case. Maybe I’m wrong about all of this and Lila really did just slip and hit her head.

But I doubt it.

I carefully open drawers and look through dressers. I check under the bed and in the bathroom. I check the closet, and just when I’m about to give this up for a waste of time, I find a notebook on the top shelf of her closet pushed all the way back to the corner.

I pull it out and see the word DIARY on the front.

Jackpot.

I look through the diary, and my heart breaks again. I can see her journey from hopeful, vibrant teenager to anxious, frightened drug user to disillusioned, dejected junkie. She was using. Not coke or heroin. Percocet. She got some from a friend and never looked back. Or rather, she looked back constantly, but she had ridden the wagon too far to get off the train.

I know how that feels.

---