Standing on that sidewalk, where the initials we had traced into wet cement so many years ago were still visible, our suspicions seemed absurd. If our mother had killed our father, we would see the evidence of it. The trim little community could not have concealed such a ground-shaking secret; it would have withered under its weight.
Hand in hand, Lanie and I crept toward our old backyard. The unfamiliar landscaping was difficult to navigate in the predawn darkness, and I tripped over an unfurled garden hose and stumbled through rosebushes, their tiny thorns tearing at my ankles. I froze at the door of our old playhouse, nostalgia and a sense of dark foreboding preventing me from going farther. Lanie barreled past me, yanking open the small door with determination and stepping inside.
Tentatively, I followed her, my sense of dread so strong I nearly expected to see the walls smeared with blood. Instead, the interior of the playhouse looked bright and cheerful. The walls, which had originally been painted the same moss green as our dining room, had been repainted a sunny yellow, and pink flowered curtains had been hung over the miniature windows. A pink plastic table stood in the corner, and a one-eyed doll and a stuffed panda were seated at it, small pink plastic teacups in front of them. A box of Fig Newtons was on the table between the toys.
Lanie looked around briefly and then headed straight for the sink.
A cheap plastic frame holding a picture of Prince William and Princess Kate had been propped up over it, and Lanie tossed it onto the table. She struggled to dig her fingertips between the edge of the sink and the wall, groaning with effort.
“Help me,” she hissed. “They’ve caulked it or something.”
“What are you even doing?”
“Remember the hiding place behind the sink?” she asked grimly.
Numbly, I stepped to her side, trying hard not to think about what we were doing. This little playhouse held so many happy memories; I couldn’t imagine it concealing such a horrific secret. I dug my nails into the rubbery caulking, my fingertips scratching against the wall until they finally closed around the edge of the sink.
Lanie let out a triumphant yelp. She counted to three, and together we tugged with all our might. The sink resisted at first, but finally pulled away from the wall with a shudder. We stumbled backward, surprised by our effort, and dropped the sink on the ground. Where it had once been, there was nothing but a small, dark hole. Limbs heavy with dread, I pulled out my phone and switched on its flashlight. I aimed the small beam inside the hole, illuminating a stack of books, a pile of shiny candy wrappers, and something dark with a dull, menacing gleam. My stomach dropped so fast I nearly fainted.
Lanie was right. She knew where the gun was. That meant . . .
I regained my senses just in time to stop Lanie as she reached for it. “Don’t touch it.”
“Freeze!” someone shouted behind us.
We turned in unison to find a man in running shorts and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt outside the playhouse door, brandishing a baseball bat and glaring at us.
“I’ve called the police,” he announced. “So I think you better scram.”
“Actually,” Lanie said, casting a sad smile toward the hidden gun, “I think we’ll stick around. I have something I’d like to tell them.”
We spent the day in stunned silence. I repeatedly chastised myself for permitting Lanie to leave with the unsmiling police officers who had met us on Cyan Court. They were young, squarely in Poppy Parnell’s target demographic, and the smirk they exchanged upon hearing Lanie’s name made my stomach turn. It was obvious they didn’t believe Lanie had simply found the gun. They thought she put it there.
When they suggested—their tone indicating it was less of a suggestion and more of a command—Lanie accompany them to the station to make a statement, I should have insisted on driving her myself. I never should have let her climb in the backseat of their car, or, at the very least, I should have insisted on riding back there with her. I should have demanded she call an attorney.
But I was too stunned by the discovery that my father had been murdered by my mother to behave rationally, and I drove back to Aunt A’s house alone. After haltingly explaining to the others what Lanie had remembered (a report that was greeted with shocked silence), I spent the day repeatedly calling the police station, alternating between politely inquiring after my sister and sarcastically asking just how long it took them to take a statement. I was finally told to stop making a nuisance of myself and it was hinted that any further calls might be considered harassment, and so I took to pacing the floor. I ignored the calls from my boss, who was following up on my vague voicemail stating I wouldn’t be back in New York that day after all, and the calls from Clara, obviously dispatched by my boss. The only thing I could think about was my sister.
As upset as I was, I couldn’t blame the officers for suspecting Lanie had hidden the gun. After all, she had been the one to finally find it. And it hadn’t been that long since I had entertained similar thoughts myself, and she was my own sister.
Like this was my own mother.
Bile surged into my mouth, and I swallowed it, cringing as the acid burned my throat. I reached for a glass of water on the coffee table and spotted the LFC handbook resting harmlessly beside it. Slowly, I picked it up and flipped to my mother’s words, half hoping that I would find them different, that lack of sleep had made the two of us paranoid and delusional. But there they were: the reference to Pearl Leland, the mention of the cupcakes.
I flung the journal across the room, where it hit the wall with an unsatisfying clunk and fell to the floor. Rage fluttered in my limbs; I wanted more destruction. Her belongings couldn’t just sit there intact, as though she had been a normal woman. She hadn’t been—she had been a murderer. My own mother. Emitting an anguished shriek that sent Bubbles scurrying from the room, I turned to the rest of my mother’s belongings, still heaped on the floor where Lanie had left them. I snapped strands of beads and tore at scarves, smashing an incense burner under my foot and throwing the shards at the wall. I didn’t stop my rampage until Caleb rushed into the room and physically pinned my arms to my sides, whispering soothing words in my ear until I sagged against him, nothing left but tears and an unbearable sadness that threatened to eat me alive if I let it.