“Wow. You must love to read,” I said, impressed.
“A regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t ya? Kitchen’s in here.”
I followed her, passing through the dining room which contained a large table littered with more books, and entered the kitchen.
The sink and counters were covered in dirty dishes.
“Excuse my mess. It’s kind of hard to wash with one hand. Jim tried to talk me into getting a dishwasher for years, but I was too stubborn. Should have listened to that old fool.”
“Who’s Jim?” I scooted a few of the dishes over, making room for the pie.
“My husband. He’s been dead for a decade. Heart attack.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Fran grunted. “You promised not to say that again.”
“Oops. I am, though. That must have been difficult for you.” I started opening and closing drawers, looking for a good knife to slice with.
“Why don’t you sit down and let me bring you a piece of pie? Rest that arm of yours,” I suggested.
I expected her to protest, but she simply grunted and walked over to a small two-person dinette. I watched her struggle to pull out the chair one handed.
I thought about Samantha with her neck brace. “How long until the cast comes off?”
Carefully, I sliced the pie and started looking around for a couple clean plates.
“Six weeks at the very least.”
There weren’t any clean plates I could see. I filled the sink with hot water and dish soap, scrubbed off one of the plates and carried it over to her with two slices of pie and a fork balanced on it.
She grumbled something that might have been “thank you”.
I started loading the sink with dishes while she picked at the pie.
A few minutes later, she said, “Who on earth taught you how to bake?”
I rolled my eyes. “No one. My mom and dad died when I was young. I got it from the store.” I started to apologize again, but she shot me a look: don’t you dare.
“How about you? Have any family?” I asked tentatively, as I started scrubbing.
“None that matter.”
I wanted to ask more but didn’t. Fran had to be at least eighty years old. I’d originally guessed seventy but seeing her up close … her skin was paper thin, her face webbed with deep crinkles and lines.
Even without a broken arm, I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to be alone all the time in this house.
“Do you miss your husband?” I asked, struggling to dislodge a dried clump of jelly off one of the plates.
“Do you miss yours?” Fran snapped back. She picked up her fork and stabbed the pie repeatedly.
“Not a bit,” I lied, giving her a sideways smile. “I didn’t know you knew I was married. My ex rarely comes to the house.”
“Well, I didn’t know. And I don’t care, really. But I figured someone had to be responsible for fathering that girl of yours.”
I don’t know why, but her words cut me to the core.
That girl of yours.
I could handle people being rude to me – it comes with the territory when you work in sales.
But no one, and I mean no one, gets to talk shit about my child.
“What does that mean?” I set down the glass I’d been washing and dried off my hands.
Fran shrugged, then flinched in pain, reaching tenderly to rub her arm.
“What do you have against my daughter?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter, waiting. “It seems like you’ve hated us since we moved in.”
“Hate. Now that’s an ugly word. I don’t hate you, or your daughter,” Fran sniffed. “It’s just …”
“Just what?”
“After a while, I got used to being alone. It felt like I had this whole God-awful place to myself. No one ever moved in; the place went belly-up, I guess … and after Jim died, it was hard. But then, I kind of got used to things. I don’t hate you; I just don’t like having any neighbors.”
My heart softened a bit.
She’s a sad woman, I realized.
I could see it in her eyes, which were clouded over with pain. They reminded me of my own eyes, heavy and sad after my mom and dad passed …
“I understand that,” I said, softly. “But it’s not like we play loud music or—”
“Run me down with your car.” Fran wiggled her eyebrows, then surprised me by snorting with laughter. “Seriously though, you all are pretty good neighbors. But I have trouble sleeping and all-night visitors don’t help.”
My stomach flipped with regret.
Is she talking about my recent rendezvous with Max?
“I rarely have any guests over. Sometimes my friend Pam comes by, or one of Delaney’s friends drops her off after school … and I’ve only had one late-night visitor, recently. I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, feeling myself growing angry again.
“For weeks, there’s been a truck out there every night. Black, dark tinted windows. Although, I haven’t seen it in a couple days, now that I mention it …”
I shook my head, confused. What in the world is she talking about?
“He shows up around two in the morning and just sits out there. It makes me uneasy. I figured it was a friend of your daughter’s. Maybe a boyfriend.”
I was still shaking my head. If someone was parking outside our house every night, surely Delaney or I would have noticed …
My thoughts returned to the naked photo messages. Samantha said it was for an art project, but what if she was wrong? What if Delaney had a stalker?
Or could it be someone looking for me?
Maybe someone who knows the truth about my past.
Chapter 20
1993 - Andrea
Streaks of brown and orange mildew lined the walls of my uncle’s bathroom. I thought I’d pulled the shower curtain shut before the girls came over, but when I followed Philomena inside, it was pushed all the way to the right-hand side.
Black scabs of mold gathered in the corners. Flecks of my uncle’s brown-gray beard congregated by the drain.
Philomena, who didn’t seem to mind the mess, sat down on the edge of the tub. Her chocolate-brown eyes were quiet and serious. I sat on the closed toilet seat and stared back.
Three minutes. Probably only two by now …
“Let’s get started then.” Philomena stood up and clicked the tiny tweezers at me, teasingly.
Too fast. The clocking is winding down too quickly …
There was a bang on the bathroom door. I knew it had to be Mandy.
“Open up! Something’s wrong with Tamara. I think she’s going to be sick!”
I couldn’t move. I was frozen on my porcelain throne.
But Philomena didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and unbolted the door to let them in.
I sprang to life, moving aside and lifting the heavy lid for Tamara.
Tamara wasn’t sick. This was part of the plan.
Tamara knelt on the floor in front of the commode. She started making these awful retching noises …
Mandy squeezed into the bathroom too, locking the bathroom door behind her.