Page 15 of I Know She Was There

“Nothing here,” said Jeffrey, stepping back into the bedroom.

“Guess not.”

“Looks like all the other rooms upstairs and down. Empty.”

I sighed. “I just don’t get it.”

“Are you sure you saw...” He let his voice trail off.

I placed the backs of my hands over my eyes and rubbed them, feeling exhausted. “I’m not sure of anything right now.” I dropped my hands and looked at him. “Could you give me a minute?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

As Jeffrey walked out of the room, I crossed over and half sat on the oversized window ledge, the spot where I’d seen Melanie. I stared at the nearby birch leaves shimmering in the breezy early afternoon light just beyond the glass. The tree looked like it was covered in suncatchers. This may have been the last view Melanie had of this life. The birch tree, the street, the hedge. Me, looking up at her. But how could violence have occurred in this room? In this house? It was literally dust-free, not to mention blood-free. I tried to recall the night I’d seen Melanie and Matt dancing, weeks earlier. Had there been furniture in the living room? Wall art? I couldn’t remember. All I could recall was being captivated by Melanie’s graceful movements.

Was I losing my mind? I thought about my activities of the past few days and realized I should go back to therapy. Things in my world were clearly spinning out of control. I was having a hard time holding my marriage together and dealing with the impending anniversary of my mom’s death. Was it stress that prompted me to recall incidents that may not have even happened? Was I making things up? The back of my head throbbed. A subtle reminder of my most recent injury.

I shifted, facing the empty room, and let myself slide down the wall until I was sitting on the cool, wide-planked floor. I placed my palms on either side of me for support and recoiled as a sharp pain pierced the skin of my right thumb joint.

Lifting my right hand and holding it in front of my face, I saw a tiny hole in my palm filled with a minuscule amount of blood. No more significant than a paper cut. I looked back at the floor, noticing something wedged between the floorboards. I plucked it out and studied the oddly shaped object. It was less than a quarter inch long. It looked like a tiny, concave piece of plastic, rounded at one end, and jagged to a point at the other. I turned it over and my breath snagged in my throat. I was holding the remnants of a fake fingernail. A neon-orange fingernail. I remembered the woman from the night before, holding her neck. The red oozing from her throat and the bright orange thumbnail clearly visible in the twilight. I felt dizzy.

I looked back at the floor where my hand had been, at the groove between the wide floor planks. Just deep enough for a broken nail to wedge into without being noticed. My body began to shake.

Jeffrey appeared in the doorway. “We really should get out of here,” he said. “We’ve trespassed enough for one day.”

I closed my left hand around the nail shard. I wanted to reveal my finding to him, to prove I wasn’t crazy, but I needed time to process everything. Nothing made sense. Why would the broken nail be here but nothing else, not even one tiny drop of blood?

Again, I thought somebody had cleaned up everything else.

I stood on shaky legs. “You’re right. We need to go. Now.”

My mind was spinning like a centrifuge, I followed Jeffrey down the stairs and out the back door. We were just rounding the back of the house when Jeffrey said he’d left his credit card on the kitchen counter. I didn’t recall seeing it there, but then I’d been distracted when passing through the room. He turned back.

“See you around,” I said.

“Yeah, see ya,” he called over his shoulder. He’d already forgotten me.

Anger stirred in my chest as I rounded the house. How dare he dismiss me. How dare everyone dismiss me. I’d found something important, something that would prove I’d witnessed violence. Possibly even a woman’s death. I opened my left hand and looked at the nail remnant nestled in the center of my palm. I’d show him, and everyone else. I turned and walked back around the corner just in time to see Jeffrey in profile, his body bent slightly over the sliding door handle as he twisted a shiny silver key in the lock. My mouth dropped open.

I stepped back as he reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wiped down the door handle. Without making a sound, I rounded the corner of the house and ran, thoughts colliding like bumper cars through my mind: Jeffrey didn’t break into the house with his credit card. He had a key, which meant he knew the people who’d lived there. Had to. He was a news reporter, not a real estate agent. He’d have no professional reason for possessing a key to the empty house. And why would he erase evidence of his presence unless that same evidence was incriminating? I reached my car, heart thumping heavily as I thought of something else, the most frightening thought so far: Jeffrey Trembly knew who I was, what I had seen. And he knew where I lived.

CHAPTER7

THURSDAY, AUGUST 17

The doorbell rang, surprising me. I opened the door, seeing Tasha Turner on the front stoop. A vision in a bright pink sundress, the luxurious drape of the garment hugging her jutting hips and accenting her tiny waist. I self-consciously placed my hands against the stubborn post-baby pudge clinging to my waistline and blinked, taking a second to translate her into my world.

“Are you going to let me in?” she said, smiling. I realized with a start that I hadn’t even opened the door all the way.

“Oh, yes.” I stepped back, swinging the door wide. I had few friends. Tasha’s weekly visit after work each Thursday was something I looked forward to. Of course she had no idea how upside down my world had become. “Is it four already? I’ve lost track of time.”

“As long as one of us remembers, it’s fine.” Her teeth were dazzling.

“Oh, I remembered.” I mimicked her smile. Recalling how much Muzzy had appreciated specific meeting times, I strained to keep my lips upturned. “I just got caught up in chores.”

Chores, really, Caroline?Mother’s voice was disapproving.

Tashacrossed the living room in front of me, not glancing to the left where a talk-show host doled out advice from the dusty television screen, or to the right where the sticky-looking, red-rimmed wineglass resided on the end table. Fortunately, she didn’t look back at my reddened face either. The place was a mess.

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