Lola’s entitlement came from her slutty mother, her drinking came from her alcoholic father, and yet she thought she was better than them just because she could wear flashy clothes and shoes and drive a Tesla? She was a fucking joke.
I heard her heels click as they came up the stairs, and I cracked the door open, watching as Lola walked down the opposite end of the hallway to get to her bedroom, still with her wine and her glass.
The door snapped shut behind her, and as soon as it did, I hurried out of the room and went across the hall to her office. One of the double doors let off a gentle creak as it opened, and I closed it quietly, going to her desk. This was something I’d wanted to do for a long time.
I sat in the leather chair and opened the first drawer. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there had to be something here that proved she was responsible. A journal, maybe, or some kind of letter.
I know what you’re thinking. Something along the lines of But the incident happened thirteen years ago. Did Lola even live in that mansion then? I don’t know, Marriot. And for all I knew, all evidence was long gone. Buried deep or burned in a fire. But I had to at least try to find something.
I got to the bottom drawer and shuffled around, and then I came across a little blue book. It was a hardback journal, but the edges were peeling, and it was bent at the spine, as if it’d been used many times. Lola’s name was monogrammed on the front of it. I held my breath as I pulled it from the drawer and placed it on top of the desk.
I couldn’t read it in there. There was no telling whether Lola would make a visit to her office to work, or if Georgia or someone else would pass by, so I picked up the journal, tucked it under my arm, and pushed the chair back under the desk.
I left the office, tiptoeing back to the guest room and locking the door behind me. I climbed on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, opening the journal and flipping through it.
It was her journal all right. Her cursive script couldn’t be mistaken. The first few pages were dated all the way back to February 2005. My parents died in April 2007. She’d had this journal way before they died.
I flipped like a madwoman when I found the dates, skipping over the parts about Lola’s worries, her new marriage, her wonderful sex life.
Then I reached April 12, 2007, a page where Lola mentioned it was a good day and that she couldn’t wait to see a Dr. Gilbert.
And then I flipped to April 13, 2007, the day my parents died . . . only there was no April 13. There were no more journal entries at all after April 12, 2007.
They’d all been ripped out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I ran my fingers over the ripped edges in the book. What had she done with the entries? My guess was that she’d torn them out in a drunken rage, hoping to rid herself of her imperfections. Of proof.
A door slammed in the distance and I looked up. I tucked the journal under my pillow and hurried to get up from the bed. I cracked the door open, but the hallway lights were off now and the hall was empty.
I walked quietly out of the room and went to the railing near the stairs, leaning over it as I heard footsteps below. I saw someone pass by, catching only their feet, and from the polished shoes, I knew exactly who it was.
My heart galloped as I slowly took the stairs down and checked the kitchen, but no one was there. I looked out the window to see if he’d be near the pool, but he wasn’t there either.
Leaving the kitchen, I ventured down the hall and went past the staircase, peering up to make sure Lola wasn’t around.
A door creaked on its hinges on the other side of the hall and I followed the noise. But as soon as I stepped around the corner to find the creaking door, a hand cupped my mouth, while another snaked around me from behind and reeled me back.
I started to scream, but then I smelled his cologne, Bleu de Chanel, and instantly relaxed. I knew it was his. I saw it on the sink of their master bathroom. I felt his solid body against my back, his breath running down the curve of my neck.
My back hit a wall and the hand around me was gone, but the front side of his body pressed against me, pinning me there.