Page 65 of The Only One Left

“Did Mary ever tell you why it needed to be a secret?”

Lenora types instead of taps.

yes

She then adds three more words to the line.

she was scared

I glance again to the page beside the typewriter, onto which Lenora had typed the same answer to a different question. As I do, a thoughtoccurs to me. Something I should have considered sooner but was likely too scared myself to contemplate. But now there’s no avoiding it.

“Lenora, did you really think Mary left?”

I study her face—the key to all her emotions. Even the ones she’s trying to hide. This time, though, she doesn’t even attempt to disguise the way she feels. Sadness clouds her features as she taps once against the typewriter.

No.

“You thought she jumped?”

Another single tap. One that kicks my pulse up a notch.

“Do—” I swallow. My mouth, suddenly dry from fear, can barely get the word out. “Do you think what happened to Mary is because of what you told her?”

Two taps from Lenora confirm my worst fear.

She thinks Mary was murdered.

Swirling within that dreadful realization is another, smaller thought. One brought about by another quick glimpse of the page next to the typewriter.

“What did Mary do with the pages the two of you typed?”

Lenora responds with a confused look.

“She helped you write the whole story.” I think about the pages the two of us have typed, now sitting with Lenora’s pill bottles in the lockbox under my bed. If Mary and Lenora had typed for weeks, why haven’t I seen any evidence of it? Every piece of paper inside the desk is blank, and I saw no sign of typed pages anywhere else in Lenora’s room or mine. “That must have been a thick stack. What did Mary do with them?”

Lenora’s reply—she hid them—doesn’t help me.

“Do you know where?”

This time, her response provides a bit more clarity.

in her room

A bad feeling skitters down my back. What had once been Mary’s room is now my room—and the truth about the murders has been hidden there all this time.

A truth that might have gotten Mary killed.

The rest of the evening passes with agonizing slowness. I bathe, dress, and lift Lenora into bed, the whole time telling myself that we could be mistaken. Maybe Mary really did jump. Maybe she had deep wells of despair within her that she could no longer control. Maybe this is just another sad chapter in the overall tragic story of Hope’s End.

Or maybe she was murdered because she knew that story.

After leaving Lenora with the call button, I go to my room and conduct a thorough search. Since all of Mary’s belongings are here, it stands to reason that whatever she and Lenora typed is still in here as well. Where, I have no clue. But I’m determined to find out.

I begin with the dresser, removing Mary’s clothes until every drawer is empty. I even check behind the dresser and beneath it. There’s nothing.

Next is the bed, both under it and between the mattress and the box spring. The only item of interest is my lockbox. I open it with the key from the nightstand and check its contents. A stack of typewritten pages and six bottles of pills.

After that, I do a scan of the bookshelf, thinking the pages could be tucked among all the books Mary had left behind, and check the bathroom for potential hiding spots. Both yield no results.

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