Page 108 of Don't Say a Word
I convinced Mrs. Osterman to let me go through Megan’s room alone. First, because I could see she was upset with the reminders and memories of Megan’s last few years, and second, because the room was very small.
I stood at the door, surveying the room, which had once been a storage space behind the carport. A tiny bathroom tucked behind a pocket door was cramped with a toilet, sink, and a barely functional shower. Despite its size, it was clean and organized—whether because of Megan or Mrs. Osterman, I couldn’t tell.
The room itself was small, with a double bed, a narrow dresser, a small wooden desk with a pull-out stool, and a mounted TV. There wasn’t much room for anything else, but Megan had made the most of it. A fan hung from the ceiling in the ten-by-eight-foot space, and a small window let in some natural light. The cement floor was covered by an indoor/outdoor rug, and the bed, with a purple comforter and colorful pillows, was set up to comfortably watch TV. Two shelves above the desk displayed neatly arranged books and knickknacks, while tropical beach posters and pale lavender walls added a personal touch. What struck me though was the absence of personal photos. And there were no mirrors in the bedroom or bath.
Megan reminded me that addicts came from all families, all races, all socioeconomic ranges. Addiction didn’t discriminate.
I carefully searched the room, though there weren’t many places to hide anything. Her clothes were made up of shorts, jeans, and T-shirts; shoes were tucked under her dresser. No jewelry or makeup. Her books were the sort you read for school, with a lot of fantasy mixed in. I flipped through them, nothing fell out, but based on the condition of the spines, they had all been read multiple times.
Maybe there really was nothing here that pointed to who Megan associated with during the last months of her life. Nothing to point to who might have been involved in the drug ring three years ago—and now.
But I hadn’t lookedeverywhere.
I had shared a bedroom with my sister Tess my entire life, until Tess went to college the year I was a high school senior. Tess had a diary that I loved to read—mostly to annoy her. She would hide it; I always found it. I was a brat as a kid, I can admit it now, and I eventually grew out of invading her privacy.
Sometimes, Tess found ingenious places to hide her diary—like in the tank of the toilet. She did that until the bag leaked and ruined her book. And I’ll admit, that was the one place I had never thought to look because all five of us kids shared one bathroom.
So I checked the tank; nothing. I looked between the mattress and the platform it rested on; nothing. Nothing under or behind the dresser, desk, or drawers. I even looked behind the television—only a little dust.
Maybe Megan didn’t have a diary. Maybe she kept a diary on her phone, or her computer, which wasn’t here, if she’d even had one. I should ask Mrs. Osterman about Megan’s phone—she might have contacts in it, if I could get through the passcode.
Then I started opening DVD boxes, not expecting to find anything except DVDs.
I was wrong.
Megan had the entire collection ofBuffy the Vampire Slayer,which was one of my favorite series. Nico and I had binge-watched it as teenagers one summer when he was going through a bunch of tests in the hospital that left him tired and grumpy, before he was diagnosed with a rare but curable bone cancer. The series took his mind off not knowing what was wrong with him and immersed him into a new world.
The collection came in a box with a hinged lid, each of the seven seasons in a separate case. When I opened the lid, I noticed that one of the DVD cases protruded a half inch above the others. I took all the cases out and at the bottom was a flash drive.
After searching every other DVD, this was the only oddity I found.
I carefully put everything back, contemplating whether or not to ask Mrs. Osterman’s permission to take the flash drive. If shesaid no, I was screwed. But if there was evidence of a crime on the drive, I would need to turn it over to police and tell them how and where I found it. And at that point, I would have to admit I stole it, which could jeopardize my license.
I was all about bending rules. Hell, I’d broken a few when I had a good reason. But the truth was I didn’tknowif this was important to my investigation, so I didn’t have a solid reason to pocket it.
I made sure the room was in the same condition I found it, and went back inside the house. “Mrs. Osterman?” I called, then saw her in the living room. She was sitting on the couch looking through a book. As I came closer, I saw it was a scrapbook from Megan’s childhood.
“Megan made this for my fiftieth birthday. She was thirteen. It’s all the things we did together. I try to remember the fun years.”
She was silently crying, and I really hated that I had reminded this woman of what she’d lost.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Osterman.”
“Did you find anything to help?”
“I might have.” I held out the flash drive. “This was hidden in one of the DVD sets. Do you recognize it?”
Mrs. Osterman frowned and shook her head.
“Would you mind if I borrowed it? If it’s personal pictures or anything like that, I’ll immediately return it. But I think there was a reason she hid this.”
She bit her lip, then nodded.
“Did Megan have a cell phone?”
“Of course. The police returned it with her personal effects. I haven’t gone through it—I don’t know if I want to.”
“Would you mind if I looked at it? I only want to look at her contacts to see who else I can talk to.”
