The Housewife(22)

Everything is quiet.

I slip the key I just found in the keyhole, and it works. My chest expands with excitement. I have found the spare key to the office. I slip it into my other pocket. I won’t have to tiptoe like a thief in my own house anymore. I can go into that office whenever I like.

I walk silently to the stairs when I feel a draft. Not a big one, but enough to make me stop. I look around, and it takes me a few minutes to realize the back door is ajar. It leads to the back garden, and it doesn’t close properly. That must have been what I heard: Marie or Roy didn’t close it fully—you have to brace yourself against it—and it creaked open a little.

I close it and make a mental note to get it fixed. It has an excellent electronic lock, but still. Useless if we keep leaving it open.

And then I have the strangest thought. I picture the missing Oreos and I picture Deb’s gorgeous happy smile.

My eyes water. I know it can’t possibly be true. I know Deb isn’t sneaking in and out of this house from heaven because she’s got a craving for Oreos or whatever, but I wish it were true. I wish it so hard it makes the hair on my arms stand up.

I slip quickly into the kitchen, tear off a page from the notepad on the fridge, and write: You’d love those. x

I put the note in the glass jar, so it’s nestled with my chocolate chip cookies.





14





I feel happy this morning, and as someone who is never happy, it’s a welcome change. I won’t lie. I was getting worried that after almost five weeks, I was getting nowhere.

But finally, I’m getting close. The irrefutable proof that my sister was murdered is in the office. I know it. I can feel it calling out to me.

And now I have the key.





Later, I find that Erin texted me her number. I suggest we meet for coffee the following day so I can pay her back. Then I add:

I can meet you near your house. Whatever is easy for you. Or even at your house if you prefer. I could bring cake.





She types her reply:

I live miles away. I can give you my banking details instead, save you the trip.





I think of my mother, bent down, her hands braced against her knees, her face an inch from mine. She is smiling, showing a row of yellow teeth. “Nobody likes you, Joanne. Do you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Neither do I. But nobody does. Not even God.” Then she straightens and walks away, laughing.

I don’t know why I’m even thinking about that now. Erin barely knows me.

I type my reply.

Why don’t I take you out for coffee? Just say when and where.





She replies:

Sure! tomorrow at 1pm at The Slate? It’s a café, corner of Calabasas & El Canon rds.





I imagine Deb smiling at me. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?

I reply with a thumbs-up emoji.





I wanted to go back to Roy’s office last night, but Roy was unwell during the night. He had to go to the bathroom twice, and stayed there for longer than usual, and I wondered if Marie had sabotaged my dinner after all. Anyway, it didn’t feel safe going into his office. And it doesn’t feel safe going in during the day, when Marie could walk in any second, even if only to make sure I haven’t pocketed the Fabergé egg.

This morning, I get up and go through my usual routine, but as I moisturize my face, I notice another blemish. This time, it’s a wrinkle on the corner of my mouth. I study it in the mirror. It makes my mouth a little droopy on one side.

I grab a washcloth and press down on it, pulling at the skin this way and that, trying to lift that corner of my mouth back into place. And to make matters worse, the swelling below my right eye is still there.

I tell myself it’s nothing, but I put on even more makeup than usual. By the time I’m done, you can’t see a thing.

Roy is in the shower, and I think of what I might do today, and I remember that I have the name of Deb’s doctor from her appointment book: Dr. Kowalski. Maybe he will know something about the clinic. Heck, maybe he will know something about what happened to Deb. No stone unturned. That’s my motto.

While Roy gets dressed, I call Dr. Kowalski’s office. I give the receptionist my name and address.

“Oh…you’ve been here before?” she says.

My heart gives a little squeeze. “That would be the first Mrs. Davies,” I say .

She apologizes profusely and gives me an appointment for the following Monday.





Like me, Roy is in an excellent mood this morning. He hums to himself at the breakfast table. By now I have forgotten about the blemish on my face. I’m too excited about the key.

I gaze at him as he stirs cream into his coffee. I can picture him in the electric chair, moments before his executioner flicks the switch. Do you have any last words, Dr. Davies?

He would be so overcome by emotions that he wouldn’t be able to get the words out, even though he’d be trying, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. I would be watching from behind the glass, and I would laugh and laugh and laugh while he sobbed so hard he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and the executioner would get tired of waiting so he’d flick the switch anyway.

Roy grins at me. “You’re very cheerful this morning!”