I went down to see Hal. I wanted to see what he was like. If he could have…”
“And? You think he did?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
Theo sighed. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, as if he was thinking about what she had said, or maybe what he should say back. Then he shoved his hands through his hair and stood up.
“My mother wasn’t murdered,” he said, his tone final. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m going to take a shower.”
With that, he went off into the bathroom, leaving Kate alone in the bed. She folded her legs and leaned over them, arms outreached as she stretched her spine. Her bra was at the end of the bed, and she snagged the strap and pulled it toward her and put it on. She felt strangely exposed, almost like she had never been here before, when of course she had been spending afternoons here for weeks, crouched right next to this bed. Next to this nightstand. Kate ran her finger along the drawer’s wood grain. She could almost feel Miranda’s journal radiating into her hand.
No. She yanked her hand back. If she was going to do this—thing—with Theo, she would have to stop sneaking around behind his back. God, fifteen minutes ago they had been having sex; now he was showering in the next room over.
On the other hand.
She had upset him with talking about his mother, obviously. But she had gone about it the wrong way. She hadn’t had any evidence. He didn’t know she had been reading the journal. She had the information from Victor, she had the feeling in her gut that something had happened to Miranda, but she didn’t have any conclusive proof. She didn’t even have a specific suspect. She hadn’t liked that last diary entry she had read, where Jake and Miranda fought about him painting Nangussett, but one argument six years before Miranda’s death was hardly a smoking gun. If she wanted Theo to believe her, she would have to back up her suspicions, introduce them at a better time, when they hadn’t just had sex, when they knew each other better. And she would have to know everything he knew—which meant she had to finish reading the diary.
The toilet flushed, and then the shower turned on. Kate held her breath for a second, then huffed impatiently and reached out to open the drawer. She could at least see the journal. She could at least remind herself it was there.
She had pulled that drawer open so many times, knew its contents so well, that it took her a moment to realize that anything had changed. There was the same curled rubber band in the corner, the same single bent bobby pin, grubby at the points … and nothing else.
The journal was gone.
MIRANDA
SERIES 2, Personal papers
BOX 9, Diary (1982–1993)
* * *
NOVEMBER 21 1990
Lynn is out here for Thanksgiving.
She and Candace arrived two days ago. They made a trip of it. They spent three days camping in Big Sur and arrived all dusty. When I saw Lynn, I almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was different. Her face was rounder. I was glad she was so dirty: I pretended that was why my eyes slid over her for a second. But it shook me. It’s just been so long.
Candace is … fine. She seems smart. She seems to love Lynn. She touches her automatically, instinctively. I never really care about whether people are nice, but I found myself wanting her to be nice. She wasn’t. Lynn doesn’t like nice people, I guess. Because I’m not nice either. As we know.
Jake made dinner. It felt weird. I don’t remember the last time we had guests. Candace and Lynn exclaimed over Theo, even though he didn’t do much, just sat there silently, pushing vegetables around his plate. I guess I forgot to enroll him in some after-school thing, and now it’s filled up. Eight years old and already so good at resentment.
After dinner, I showed Candace and Lynn their room. Candace wrinkled her nose when she saw the pile of magazines in the corner but I have things to do besides cleaning.
Candace wanted to read and Jake had gone upstairs, so Lynn and I went out on the back porch and had a smoke. Like traveling back in time. She told me she had seen one of my Inside Me photos at a show. Thinking of her looking