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Lenora slowly pecks the keys.
it had to be a secret
“Who decided that? You or Mary?”
mary
“And whose idea was it to start typing your story?”
Rather than signal for me to hit the return bar, Lenora types Mary’s name a second time, running it together with the first.
marymary
I’m not surprised, given that Jessie told me Mary had been obsessed with the Hope family massacre. She said it might have even been the reason Mary took the job caring for Lenora. If that’s true, then it makes sense she would want to hear Lenora’s version of things.
“That’s why she bought the typewriter, isn’t it?” I say. “She wanted you to write it all down for her.”
This brings another two taps from Lenora.
“Did you want to?”
Lenora thinks about it a moment, her face falling into that pensive expression I’ve come to know so well. When she types, her response is as rambling as I imagine her thoughts to be. Further evidence that what she’d typed with me had all been written before. The second draft, so to speak.
not at first i didnt want to talk about what happened because the memories make me sad but i loved the idea of writing again so i told her yes
“How long had you been working on it?”
weeks
Even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, I say, “So what you typed with me, you also typed with her?”
Lenora taps twice before typing additional information.
and more
“How much more? About you and Ricky?”
Lenora keeps typing. Ten keys she presses slowly and deliberately, making the importance of her response clear.
everything
“When did you finish telling her?”
Lenora doesn’t need to think about it.
the night she left
My stomach suddenly drops. Mary knew everything about the night of the murders—including who did it, how they did it, why they did it. And the day she learned all that, she—
Jumped.
That’s what I should be thinking, since it’s what Detective Vick said happened. Yet it feels wrong. Like a lie. Instead, a different word ricochets through my brain.
Died.
That’s the brutal truth.
And it can’t be a coincidence.