Page 6 of One More Truth
Thank God for that. “So, there are no more reporters in town?”None who stayed because they caught wind I’m living here?
“That’s right. The lot of them have left.”
“And you have no idea where she went?”
“Her and that adorable little girl of hers haven’t been back. Maybe she went to visit family.” The woman continues to squint at me, but I can’t tell if she’s attempting to put a name to my blurry face. “Once she returns, do you want me to tell her you were lookin’ for her?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll talk to her before then.” If she ever answers the phone or replies to my texts.
The woman ambles away and crosses the street.
Since there’s nothing more I can do here, Bailey and I head home to get my bike and trailer. Maybe Noah knows something about where she went. I need to know she’s all right. Need to let her know if she needs anything, I’m here for her.
Bailey and I walk up the driveway to the rear of the house, enter the garden through the wooden gate, and unlock the back door. I disengage the security alarm.
The newly renovated kitchen looks like it did when Troy and I were here on Wednesday, picking up my things for my stay at his house. The kitchen is tidy and clean—nothing forgotten on the counter. The fresh lemony smell from when I cleaned the sink faintly lingers in the air.
I trace over the light-gray marbling that runs through the white-granite island countertop and grin at the beautiful open space. The white walls, tiles, and cabinets make the place appear bigger, but my favorite part is the creamy-blue feature cabinet doors—so different than the original, outdated ones.
I remove a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water from the tap, and greedily gulp the contents. The cold water is a soothing kiss to my still tender throat.
I fill Bailey’s dish with fresh water as she pads across the wooden flooring to where she left her favorite toys in the living room. She grabs her fire hydrant in her mouth and shakes it.Squeeeeaaaak.
“We can bring it with us if you want,” I tell her, even though she already brought several of her toys to Troy’s house.
Squeeeeaaaak.
“I take it that’s a yes.” I go over and pet her. “I’m going upstairs to grab a few more things. Come.” My gaze darts to the front door where Chief Wilson barged his way in just days ago, and my heart shudders. I draw a shaky breath.
Desperate to avoid a flashback, I knead the muscles in my upper arm. I don’t think I’ll have a flashback, but I can’t be certain. My mind is still a land mine because of the complex PTSD.
Once I’m satisfied I’ll be fine for now, I head upstairs to my bedroom. Bailey trots alongside me.
The room hasn’t changed since I moved into the house four months ago. The floral wallpaper still clings to the walls. It’s peeling and faded, but it’s obvious the white paper, with delicate yellow flowers, was once pretty.
I open the bottom dresser drawer and remove one of Angelique’s journals. I just have two more left to read and transcribe and then I can give them, along with the medal and heart pendant, to Anne Carstairs. Troy will be away this weekend for a Wilderness Warriors excursion. I might as well come here while he’s gone, do some gardening, and read the journal.
I return it to the drawer and grab clothes for the next few days. I put them in my backpack, and Bailey and I go downstairs.
I check the time on my phone. “We gotta get going. It’s Game Night, and it’s Troy’s turn to host it.”
Which means two things.
I’ll be joining Troy and our friends for Game Night for only the second time. The first was when I discovered Avery’s boyfriend, Noah, is a cop. I was so nervous around him, I was on the verge of having a panic attack the entire time. After that, I always found an excuse as to why I couldn’t join them just so I could avoid him.
But after all the therapy I’ve done and the things Avery has shared about Noah, I know he’s nothing like my late husband. He’s not a cop I need to fear.
The other thing it means is that I need to make snacks. I told Troy I’d cater tonight, so I’d better get started on that.
Bailey and I go outside, and I retrieve the bike and trailer from the garage. I’m helping Bailey—who’s carrying her toy hydrant in her mouth—into the trailer when I’m hit with a weird feeling someone is watching me.
I glance over my shoulder toward the street. A man in his late forties with a German shepherd by his side is standing at the end of my driveway. He’s one of my neighbors from a few doors down. Usually, he waves at everyone when they walk past his house while he’s mowing his lawn. He doesn’t wave at me this time. He slowly nods as if silently answering his own question, a frown wrinkling his brow, and walks on.
I close my eyes against the growing fear churning inside me.
Please tell me he didn’t recognize me from Cora’s article.
Please tell me he has no idea about my past.
