Page 23

23

FLORENCE

The sun is setting but you wouldn’t be able to tell that from looking outside since these January days are hazy and overcast already. The mood at the Oleander’s is a bleak one. Heather is out for two weeks because the stress of it all got to her and she said she didn’t think an hourly job barely above minimum wage was worth getting potentially murdered over, and she wanted away from this place, and Shelby, and all of it for her own safety for a little while. I guess that’s fair.

Evan has the night off for a bowling tournament, and Shelby said she’s stopping in this evening, but there has been no word from her, so I’m starting to get a little worried. The four of us sit in the rec room eating Hot Pockets that Herb heated up for us and discussing the arrangements for Bernie’s funeral accommodations. His daughter is doing most of the planning, but we wanted to help so we’re coordinating volunteers to set up chairs at the church and serve refreshments.

PBS is playing on the TV in the background, and Bob Ross is painting little clouds in front of a winter moon on canvas, but nobody is watching even though we usually love to get canvases of our own from the craft room and drink chardonnay and paint along on Saturdays.

“I got my permanent today at Frannie’s Cut and then I see fingernail clippings in a small jar, and my stomach lurches. The photos around the room are mostly candid shots—pictures taken when she didn’t know they were being taken. Some are blurry, like they were clipped from video footage. Most are everyday shots—Shelby eating a scone at Mack’s, Shelby crossing the street on Main holding a newspaper over her head, Shelby laughing at the Christmas party with a cup of punch and a Santa hat.

Some are more than that. Some were moments stolen from her: she’s undressing, or crying, or mostly nude, sleeping in bed. How were these taken? The whole room is a terrifying shrine that I’m standing in, and I suddenly feel faint—it’s more than I was prepared for. I don’t even know where to begin. Then I see something in a small bowl next to the burning candle. It’s an ID. I pick it up to see that it’s Leo’s driver’s license. My stomach drops and I know all of my suspicions are true. This isn’t just about an obsession with stalking Shelby. It all ties together.

I think to take my phone out and start snapping photos as evidence, because I can’t take the whole room with me. It needs to stay in context anyway. My hands shake, and then I realize…I’m not alone.

I feel a presence before I even hear anything, and then a voice behind me cuts through the quiet house, stopping me cold.

“Florence. You shouldn’t be here.”

But it’s too late for me to run.