Page 62 of The Only One Left
“Right now, the best way to help Mary is to find out exactly what happened.”
“She fell,” Jessie says. “That’s the only explanation.”
I’ve heard that tone before from my father. Uncertain confidence.
What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.
“Maybe not. Especially if Mary was acting weird or nervous,” I say, purposefully using the two words Lenora had crammed into one.
Jessie stares past me to the wall, where a poster of the Eurythmics gazes back at her. “Why are you so interested in what happened? You didn’t even know Mary.”
No, I didn’t. But I am the one who found her. I’m the one who looked down, saw her dead body, and screamed so loud the sound echoed off the back of the house. I’m the one who now fears I’ll be seeing her sand-covered body in my nightmares later tonight.
But that’s not my only worry. The main one—the concern that might keep me from sleeping at all—is that what happened to Mary could happen to me, a notion that’s both utterly paranoid and completely rational. We have the same job, the same bedroom, even the same uniform. If something about this job led to Mary’s death, I’d really like to avoid a similar fate.
“Did Mary ever mention hearing strange noises at night? Coming from Lenora’s room? Or seeing things?”
“No,” Jessie says. “Have you?”
I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. Sometimes not saying no means yes.
“The other night, you told me Mary was scared of this place.”
“I was joking,” Jessie says.
“So you said.” I pause again. “But I think there might have been some truth to it.”
Although Jessie begins to respond with a shake of her head, it soon changes direction, swerving upward into a tentative nod. She muddies things further by saying, “Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”
“Did Mary ever say outright she was scared?”
“Yeah, but it was, like, obviously as a joke. Both of us joked about it all the time. Stupid shit like, ‘I just saw Virginia in the hallway. She says hello.’ Dumb things like that to lighten the mood. God knows, this place needs it. But then Mary stopped playing along.”
I lean in, curious. “When was this?”
“A few weeks ago. I’d make a joke about Virginia or Winston Hope and Mary would shake her head and be like, ‘Don’t say stuff like that.’ She became real serious about everything. Like she was actually scared.”
“Of Virginia?” I say, thinking of the things Lenora had typed. That Virginia was in her room. That Mary was afraid of her.
“Maybe?” Jessie returns her attention to the Polaroids on the floor. They’re all faceup, a dozen images of Mary that Jessie slides around like a tarot card reader. “I know I’m making it sound like Mary was some kind of weirdo scaredy-cat. She wasn’t. I don’t think she believed in ghosts. But...”
“But what?” I say, pressing.
“Something seemed to spook her,” Jessie says. “I don’t know what. Maybe she really did see the ghost of Virginia Hope. Or maybe she just didn’t want to joke about it anymore. Probably because she’d been spending a lot of time with Lenora.”
“That’s part of the job,” I say. “Constant care.”
“But I’m talking, like,a lotof time. Maybe she thought it was disrespectful or something.”
“Did Mary ever mention a guy named Ricardo Mayhew?”
Jessie scrunches her face. “Who?”
“He used to work here,” I say. “Carter told me about him.”
“Never heard of the guy,” Jessie says. “If Mary knew who he was, she never told me. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t. She told me everything else about this place. She probably knew more about the Hope family murders than anyone except Lenora.”
One particular Polaroid in the pile catches my attention. Taken in Lenora’s room, it shows Lenora and Mary at the desk. Lenora’s in her wheelchair, hunched over the typewriter. Mary’s behind her, leaning in close. A sight so familiar it stings.
