The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,75
said his letter was at the bottom of the pile of mail, right?”
“Yes,” I said, and then I understood. He had not been there that night to deliver the letter. He already had been, before the mail arrived on Friday. Probably after I’d ignored him at the grocery store. He’d known I wouldn’t take well to him sneaking up on me. He’d already tried that approach. So he’d left me the letter, and then he’d come back. To . . . what?
To watch me from the borders of my yard? Or did he change his mind—was he coming closer?
What had he wanted to tell me? And why had he been killed?
“Can I take a look around?” she asked, facing away. “See if there are any other signs that he might’ve been snooping around in here?”
She said it so nonchalantly, as if I didn’t know exactly what she was after. Like Rick had warned, they were going to get a warrant to search one of our houses. Easier if we gave permission. She wouldn’t find anything, anyway. But we weren’t there yet.
“You already did,” I said, “that first night.” I’d let her in then, let her feel like I had nothing to hide.
She turned toward me, blinked slowly. “That was before I had reason to think he’d been watching you.”
A chill ran up my spine. What more did they know that they weren’t giving away?
“No,” I said. “I had to cut my day short for this as it is. I’ve got to catch up.”
I held the door open, gesturing her out. She paused, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t leave, that she was going to pull out a warrant right then. But she didn’t.
“A word of advice, Olivia. Stop telling Mr. Aimes things related to this case.”
And with that, she left.
I knew there were two basic theories if Sean Coleman had been hanging around outside our homes:
The first was that Rick had seen him watching and hurt him.
The second was that it had been me. Either in self-defense or not. But I’d given them the letter; I’d cooperated. I’d lost any hope of anonymity in the process.
There was no way to stop it now. I had to protect myself.
TRANSCRIPT OF 911 CALL FOR SERVICE
DATE: OCTOBER 17, 2000
TIME STAMP: 5:47 A.M.
DISPATCH: 911, what is your emergency?
CALLER, UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: Oh my God, it’s my daughter. She’s gone.
D: Ma’am? What do you mean by gone?
C: She sleepwalks, and she’s not in her bed. She’s nowhere. Please, please help me. Oh my God. Arden!
D: Okay, is Arden your daughter, ma’am?
C: Yes. The front door is open and she’s just gone. She’s gone.
D: Okay, have you checked outside yet?
C: Of course I did.
D: What is your exact address?
C: [ADDRESS REDACTED] Please help me. Oh, God, please.
CHAPTER 20
Tuesday, 2 p.m.
THAT WAS BEFORE I had reason to think he’d been watching you.
That was what the detective had said. Implying that Sean Coleman had possibly been out here before.
I waited until after I was sure Detective Rigby and the other police officers were gone, and then I waited some more for good measure, before stepping out the back door.
My backyard was a square of grass and packed earth without a fence line, cleared long ago when Rick must’ve purchased these lots. The tree line, and the start of the wooded area, was still part of my property.
I knew the perimeter because I’d walked it the first day; Rick had given me the tour himself, pointing out what was mine and what wasn’t. Which was how I knew that the slope ending at the creek was the back of the property line. It wasn’t much—a slow-moving stream that I could step across easily, that probably dried up whenever it hadn’t rained in a few weeks.
When I reached the creek, I turned around to see how far I’d come, and was surprised that I could no longer see my house or Rick’s. I was too far down the incline, and though the density of the trees wasn’t that heavy, they overlapped in layers behind one another—a trick of perspective.
My stomach flipped as I imagined being disoriented, lost. I closed my eyes, imagining what that girl must’ve felt twenty years earlier. Waking up as the water knocked her off her feet. Grabbing for the roots or trees or grass, anything to hold her. Everything slipping through her small fingers until her foot caught on a metal grate—the tiniest moment of hope.