The Girl Who Stopped Swimming - By Joshilyn Jackson Page 0,84
who knew how long the DuFresne marriage had been in ugly trouble. If Chuck Dufresne had been threatening to leave, then Molly would have been especially vulnerable.
Laurel could say for certain that Stan had been in the cul-de-sac the night Molly died: He’d admitted as much in the street. Shelby knew about the relationship, and Bet could back that up to some extent. Forensics would have shown if Molly had been pushed, but there were all kinds of pushing. Stan Webelow had pushed the girl, all right, pushed her out into the night and to her death.
It was as Laurel had always believed. Molly had been coming to see Shelby, that was obvious. Maybe she’d been with Stan already, and he had followed her. Waiting for her friend, Molly had been drawn like a moth to the lit pool, and Stan Webelow had found her there. He’d startled her, and she’d slipped, fallen. Banged her head on the board as she fell. He’d stood by and watched. Stan Webelow had been the shadow Laurel had seen moving in the yard when she stared down, someplace between sleep and waking. He’d been what Molly wanted her to see.
“Means, motive, opportunity,” she said on a breath out.
“What?” said Bet.
“It’s enough. It’s enough to take to Detective Moreno. That’s a real thing you told me, Bet, not dreams or Ouija boards. I can’t thank you enough.” She put her hand on Bet’s arm, but Bet pulled back, staring at her with her dark eyes wide and panicked.
“You cain’t tell nobody.”
Laurel said, “Don’t worry. Shelby is not going to be mad at you.”
“She’s sleepin’,” Bet said.
“I know. I need to talk to her dad first, anyway. Don’t worry about a thing, Bet, okay? You did the right thing, telling me. That’s a big deal. You could have kept that secret, kept Shelby in danger, and you, too. That’s what Shelby did. She kept secrets from the people who could help her longer than she should have, and you made a better choice. I’m really, really proud of you right now.”
On impulse, she leaned in and gave Bet a quick hug. Before she could pull back, Bet latched on, winding her arms around Laurel and gripping her so tight and hard that Laurel’s breath was squeezed away.
“I wish’t you was my mother,” Bet said in a fierce whisper, burrowing her face down damply into Laurel’s neck.
“Oh, Bet,” Laurel said, “I’m going to—”
Bet pulled away. Her face flamed red. “Don’t say nothin’,” she said. “Please.”
She pulled herself out of Laurel’s arms and fled, scurrying fast down the hall to the small guest bedroom. She slipped inside and softly closed the door after her.
Laurel got up and went to the window again, looking down at the bright blue pool.
You can’t get there from here, Thalia had said in the dream. Laurel had been helpless, held under.
“Betcha I can get there from here,” Laurel said, and was surprised to hear how strong her voice came out.
CHAPTER 15
Thalia’s yoga mat was laid out on the only floor available in the big guest room. Laurel had done the room in crisp pale blue and white with touches of daisy yellow to warm it, but now it looked like a color bomb had gone off in the center. The floor, the chaise longue, the small desk, and the dresser were strewn with bits of Thalia’s real clothes and a ton of outfits she’d brought from the costume room. There were filmy blouses twining with silk underpants, drifts of pants and skirts dotted with shoes. In one corner, a haystack of gaudy silver feathers lay heaped, a marabou jacket or a long boa of some sort, Laurel supposed. The quilt she’d made was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The shams and throw pillows were wound in it, and Thalia’s favorite lace-up boots stood at attention on top. The white down pillow top and duvet and bedsheets were so scrambled that Laurel could have found a thousand pictures in the humps and creases, reading the bedding like clouds.
It could not have been more different than the bare, clean lines of the emptied black-box theater, but there was Thalia, wearing a sheer sleeveless unitard, twisting herself into shapes more complicated than the ones she’d kicked the sheets into. And here was Laurel, watching. Last time she’d come to call Thalia home with her, a supplicant, needing favors. This time she didn’t wait to be noticed.