Page 92 of The Only One Left

Lenora gives me a pleased-with-herself look. She knows it’s an offer I can’t resist. One that makes me wonder if this was her plan all along. Not for me to break the snow globe and feel so guilty I’d promise her anything. No one could have planned that. But giving me just enough details about the night of the murders to make me want more? Refusing to type the moment I mentioned the baby? It’s entirely possible Lenora did all that on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment to manipulate me into giving her what she wants.

Two can play that game.

“You’ll also need to give me the rest of your story,” I say. “If we dothis, you’ll have to tell me everything you told Mary. Just like you promised.”

Lenora doesn’t type or tap a response, probably because she doesn’t know what it’ll be yet. Filling her silence is a swift knock on the door, followed by a voice saying, “Kit? Are you in there?”

Mrs. Baker.

Speak of the devil.

“Just a second,” I call before lugging the typewriter back to the desk. On my way to the door, I try to kick some of the remaining gold flakes under Lenora’s bed. A fruitless attempt to cover up what I did. One glance at the shattered snow globe in the room’s trash can will tell Mrs. Baker everything.

I open the door, prepared for a lecture about how it’s past Lenora’s bedtime, which must be strictly observed. Instead, Mrs. Baker simply says, “There’s someone here to see you.”

My body jolts in surprise. “Who?”

“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Baker replies, which I interpret to mean she didn’t ask because she doesn’t care. “He’s waiting outside the front gate.”

“I’ll go out to see him,” I say, adding, “As soon as I put Miss Hope to bed. We’re running behind this evening.”

Mrs. Baker surveys the room, practically sniffing like a bloodhound for signs something is amiss. If she sees the glitter on the floor or the broken glass in the trash, she doesn’t show it. “Please tell your guest to call at a decent hour next time,” she says, waiting until she’s out the door to add the kicker. “Or not at all.”

Quickly, I change Lenora into her bedclothes and arrange her beneath the covers. As I place the call button in her left hand, I whisper, “We’ll talk more when I get back.” Then I turn out the lights, grab a sweater from my room, and rush downstairs.

Outside, the night is cold but clear, with stars twinkling brightly against a black velvet sky. I walk down the center of the driveway, wondering not just who awaits me at the end of it but why they’re here. Myhope is that it’s Detective Vick, pulling me away from the others in the house to finally admit he believes me. My fear is that it’s Kenny, angling for a peek of Lenora Hope for the second night in a row.

I’m wrong on both counts.

It ends up being my father standing on the other side of the gate, gripping the bars like an inmate in a jail cell. He does a double take as I approach, as if I’m the one making a surprise visit.

“What’s with the uniform?” he says.

I ignore the question. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to take you home.”

His calling it that makes me roll my eyes. That house hasn’t felt like home in six months.

“Who told you I was here?”

“Kenny,” my father says. “And Rich Vick. And half the damn town. You didn’t think I’d find out you were taking care of Lenora Hope?”

I knew he would. Eventually. But judging by his reaction now, I was right not to tell him when I left. Giving him a cold stare through the gate’s bars, I say, “Why do you care?”

“Because every person who knows you’re working for that woman will think what the police have said is true. Soon everyone will think you’re guilty.”

“And what doyouthink, Dad?” I say, pain slicing through my voice like a switchblade.

“What happened to your mother was an accident.” He says it quickly. The way people do when they don’t want you to notice they’re lying. But my father’s bad at it. He doesn’t even look at me while he’s doing it.

“I wish you really believed that.”

My chest tightens as grief and disappointment well up inside it, spilling out of my heart, pouring over my ribs. My eyes will be next if I don’t leave immediately. I back away from the gate and start moving up the driveway. I refuse to let my father see me cry over him.

“Goodbye, Dad,” I say. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“I’m worried about you being here. Rich Vick told me you’re the one who found that dead girl.”

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