Page 44 of The Locked Ward

Colby’s text lands on my phone just as my Uber driver pulls up: So sorry. Let’s try again… another night this week?

I tap a heart on his message and text love to, let me check my schedule and get back to you before jumping into the backseat, glancing out the rear window as we drive off.

There aren’t many pedestrians around, and no one seems to be looking my way, but the back of my head tingles, as if someone’s eyes are boring into it.

My imagination, I tell myself. But my body refuses to unclench. Once we reach Georgia’s apartment, I take the precaution of changing up my routine, and I direct the Uber driver to the back entrance.

“Would you mind waiting until I’m inside before you drive away?” I ask.

“I’ve got a daughter,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get in safe.”

My heart constricts. It’s the sort of thing my father would have said.

Both my parents used to wait up for me whenever I was out late. They pretended they didn’t, but the telltale sign was their bedroom light flickering off as I climbed the stairs to my room.

I’ve been so upset with them for the secrets they withheld.

But now grief pinches me, causing my shoulders to roll forward and my back to hunch, as if I’m trying to make myself a smaller target for it.

Memories flash through my mind: My mother singing “You Are My Sunshine” to me in the mornings to wake me up for school.

My father teaching me how to change a flat tire, ignoring my complaints about how hard it was to get off the lug nuts.

Keep trying. You need to learn this. I don’t want my daughter to ever be stuck on the side of a road alone at night.

And the two of them leaving my first apartment after they helped me move in, my mother’s soft voice catching as she said good night, all of us knowing I’d never live at home again and things would never be quite the same.

I breathe through the pain as I unlock the security door.

It’s the strangest thing. I notice something I’ve glimpsed a dozen times before.

It just hasn’t fully registered until now.

It’s a mailbox key on Georgia’s chain. I know exactly what the smaller key is for because I have one on my chain, too.

The police probably checked her mailbox immediately after Annabelle’s murder. Still, I have nothing to lose by looking now. I easily find the rows of mailboxes behind a wall near the elevators. The apartment numbers are engraved at the top.

I slide the key into PH4 and turn it until I hear a click and the door opens, revealing a few catalogues and envelopes.

I take them up to Georgia’s apartment, and as soon as I’m through the door, I spread them out on the kitchen island.

The clothing catalogues confirm what I already know: My sister has exquisite, expensive taste.

The thin white envelopes are junk. But there’s a small, lightly padded brown envelope, too.

It’s addressed to Georgia in blocky handwriting. There’s no return address.

I start to tear it open, then hesitate. Georgia is a murder suspect, and her address is easy to find. The contents could be anything from a love note by a deranged “fan” to something gruesome or even deadly.

But the envelope is so small and light. And the postmark is dated the day Annabelle died—which means it was in transit before the murder occurred.

I rip it open, and a small rectangular object slides out. A thumb drive.

It could hold anything from documents to photographs to videos. I’m desperate to see the contents. But I can’t, because Georgia’s computer is gone.

I pick up the shiny, silver drive, turning it around in my fingers and watching it catch the light.

The longer I look at it, the more certain I grow of one thing: There won’t be any sleep for me until I see what’s on it.

I change into Georgia’s sweats and a pair of her sneakers and head out again, this time to drive home as quickly as I safely can.

An hour and a half later, I turn off the highway into my neighborhood, thinking about how Charlotte is just far enough away that traveling back and forth is a hassle.

Three hours round trip is a lot of road time—and that’s without traffic.

It’s probably why I don’t need all my fingers to count the times I’ve been to Charlotte in my life.

A couple of concerts, once to see a friend from college, a few ball games, and once to visit the NASCAR Hall of Fame when I was dating a guy who was obsessed with racing.

I’m sure Georgia never visited my town, given there’s no draw for someone who lives in a more sophisticated, vibrant city.

Then it hits me: Maybe that’s the whole point.

I switch my radio off, stopping Kacey Musgraves mid-ballad so I can think more clearly.

Maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong thread.

Instead of trying to unravel what about our town had beckoned my parents to move here, maybe I need to look at what our town didn’t offer.

If my parents wanted to move far enough away from Charlotte that they’d be unlikely to bump into anyone from their past, but remain in the same general area, they’d probably pick a town just like the one they settled in.

Especially if a small business was for sale and they had a sudden cash windfall to buy it.

It’s late and very dark when I finally pull into my apartment’s lot. I keep my hand on my gun as I make my way to the elevator.

Typically, the hallways of my building are filled with evidence of my neighbors’ presence—muted voices on a television, the aroma of dinner casseroles baking, someone shushing a barking dog. Tonight it’s utterly silent, as if I’m the only one in the whole building.

Before I unlock my front door, I check for the strand of hair I wet and stuck across the doorjamb. The hair hasn’t fallen off—which it would have if someone had pushed open the door, according to a security hack I found on the internet.

I open my door and step inside, flicking on the lights. I hold perfectly still and listen for a long moment, but don’t hear a thing. Still, I check every potential hiding place. I don’t put my gun away until I’m satisfied I’m alone.

Am I being nuts or taking a wise precaution?

It makes my head swim that I’m not sure.

I double-lock my front door and head for my laptop on the kitchen counter.

I slip the thumb drive into my computer and click to access the file.

After a few seconds, a video begins to play.

As the first image takes focus, I blink and rear back: The camera is panning across long wooden shelves that hold bottles of booze.

I recognize the location instantly, but it’s disorienting seeing something so familiar in a new context—the equivalent of running into your dentist at the grocery store.

Then the camera shifts, homing in on a new angle. My heart leaps into my throat. Of all the things I imagined seeing, I never anticipated this.

I’m looking into my own eyes. The subject of the video is me.