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I nod. “Then I’ll stay.”
She closes her eyes and I gather the typed pages and take them to the divan. As Lenora’s breathing deepens with sleep, I begin to read what she typed. Despite seeing snippets all day, I’m surprised by the quality of her writing. I assumed the prose would be choppy and weak—a string of half sentences not unlike the typed responses she’s given me. Instead, Lenora is a natural storyteller. Her writing is clear and unfussy, while retaining a distinctive voice. From the very first line, I’m hooked.
By the time I’m near the end, though, my surprise has curved into shock.
Now I know what happened to the knife used to kill Winston and Evangeline Hope.
Lenora tossed it into the ocean.
That act—plus the fact that her nightgown was covered in blood—makes her look more guilty than ever.
It doesn’t help that she declares herself both good and evil. Now, some of that could be attributed to her home life, which was anything but happy. An addict mother. A philandering father. A sister she seemed to have nothing in common with. No wonder Lenora longed for escape and the attention of someone of the opposite sex. I know that feeling all too well, even now in my thirties. It’s why I started sleeping with Kenny, after all. But Lenora was so young, soinexperienced. When you’re that age, full of raging emotions and, yes, desire, it’s very possible Lenora saw those natural feelings as wicked—or worse.
Yet that doesn’t explain the bloody nightgown.
Or getting rid of the weapon that killed her parents.
Or why she fetched a rope as her sister’s screams rang through the house.
I can’t stop thinking about all of that as I read the last three sentences Lenora typed today.
But here’s the thing--I wasn’t a good girl.
Not in the least.
You’ll see for yourself very soon.
I lower the pages and look to the bed, where Lenora lies fast asleep. As I watch her, a sense of unease creeps over me.
I’d assumed she wanted to tell her story in an attempt to finally clear her name. And that she chose me to help because she saw us as kindred spirits. One falsely accused woman telling her story to another, working together to declare her innocence.
Now I fear it’s the opposite.
Lenora didn’t pick me because she thinks I’m innocent.
She did it because she thinks I’m guilty.
And what we’ve been typing today isn’t an attempt to clear her name.
It’s a confession.
FOURTEEN
I put the pages in the lockbox under my bed, pretending I’m not hiding them, when that’s exactly what I’m doing. Secreting them away beneath Lenora’s rolling, rattling pill bottles because I don’t want anyone else to find them. But it’s not Lenora I’m worried about as I lock the box and slide it back under the bed. My concern is that having Lenora Hope’s partial confession in my possession will somehow make me look equally bad.
Guilt by association.
I’m dropping the lockbox key into the nightstand drawer when I hear a series of noises from above and outside.
A crack, a scrape, a clatter on the terrace.
I rush to the window, struggling to see what it was. It’s dark outside, and the lights inside the bedroom merely reflect my worried, tired face onto the window’s glass.
Thinking whatever I just heard could be related to the noises coming from Lenora’s room last night, I decide to investigate. I whisk out of my room and take the service stairs to the kitchen. From there, I move through the dining room on my way to the terrace. As soon as I step outside, something crunches beneath my feet.
A slate shingle recently fallen from the roof.
That’s at least one mystery noise explained.