Page 13 of The Last Housewife

For a second, all Jamie did was look at me. Then he slugged down his drink and dropped the empty glass on the table. “Yeah. Interviews.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mentioned in the episode Laurel’s file is missing pictures—”

“And that’s unusual?”

“Very. Every police report I’ve ever seen with a body involved pictures. Photos of the crime scene, the body when it was found, possible evidence. But Laurel’s… Zilch.”

“What about Clem’s?”

His eyes softened. “It’s a slim file, but there is one picture. I’m sorry, Shay. I wish I could’ve been there for you back when—”

“Did it show the words carved into her arm?”

Jamie frowned. “What?”

“When they found Clem, she had ‘I’m sorry’ carved into her arm. Razor-thin cuts. They thought she’d done it herself because there were cuts on her fingers. It wasn’t in the police report?”

“No.” He hunched forward. “Razor-thin cuts. That’s another similarity.”

“I know.” I nodded at the file. “So who’d they interview in Laurel’s case?”

Jamie pushed the papers toward me. “Only four people. The girl who found her—a college kid, sophomore who was up early for swim practice. Then Laurel’s former employer.”

“Former?”

“Yeah. Apparently, she hadn’t held a job in five or six years.”

That didn’t sound a thing like Laurel, who’d been perpetually busy, always wrapped up in making costumes for one play or another. “How’s that even financially feasible?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “And the cops did zero digging. The employer’s a local caterer.”

“Caterer?” Laurel working at a theater, I could picture. Even…I don’t know, a tailor. But catering? Food had never been one of her interests.

“Then they interviewed her landlord, who’s also her neighbor…lives in the apartment above her. And her mom.”

“Oh.” I’d never met Laurel’s mother, though I’d heard plenty about her. “Is she in town?”

Jamie shook his head and pointed at the police report. “Nope. They talked to her by phone. She’s out in the Midwest, still in the same town where Laurel grew up.”

“South Bend,” I murmured, and Jamie nodded.

“So where do we start?” I asked.

“We do our own interviews, retrace the cops’ steps. First, I bet they were sloppy, and second, you were Laurel’s friend, so you might see things they didn’t. We can start with any of them.”

“I’ll call her mom tomorrow,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, she can be hard to get ahold of. Might as well start trying. And I want to talk to Laurel’s landlord. Ask about her habits, how she could afford rent without a job.” I didn’t say it, but what I really wanted was to walk into her apartment, into the private heart of her. It felt like the closest I could come to seeing her again.

Jamie nodded. “Pick me up tomorrow morning at nine. I’m at the Motel 6 in Yonkers.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Nothing but the best for Stitcher’s third-highest-rated true-crime podcast.” He stood up, dropped two twenties on the table, and pointed at the police files, still splayed out in front of me. “I made these copies for you. Do you mind trying her mom when I’m around? I’d like the audio for the episode.”

“No problem.” I watched him prepare to go with a dense ball in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to open up to Jamie about my life, but I also didn’t want him to leave. I wished he would just sit across the candlelit table and let me look at him. Let me catalog his changes; convince myself there were none too many. Just exist in the same space again, breathe the same air.

I’ve always had such strange desires.

Jamie gave me an imaginary tip of the hat. “Night, partner. See you bright and early.”

***