𝑺𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓

     Why did she stop? I want to find out more. This one caught me off guard.

     Frantically I turn to the next page, and the next and the next. But there are only blank pages. That’s it? The end of Adrienne Styles’ diary? What a cliffhanger! If this were a movie, this would have been the part where I sit behind the TV screen, muttering curses at the production team for leaving me in this suspense.

     I’m curious why she didn’t write more. The last letter almost drove me to tears. My eyes became watery, and a drop fell. I blink back the tears. The last entry makes me wonder if Adrienne Styles truly killed herself. This was a woman who was trapped in her memories that she wanted so badly to kill herself, but she knew there was light after every darkness. She knew hope. She knew she was going to recover. She just wasn’t sure when, and how long it would have taken.

     My mind lingers on every possibility. What if Adrienne Styles didn’t kill herself? If so, then she was murdered? Murder would require a suspect. Who’d have wanted Adrienne dead? I think hard. Her diary mentioned that a man was spying on her. But she didn’t see his face. He was always hiding behind a tree. If Adrienne Styles was murdered, then this shadowy man is my prime suspect. The problem is, how do I find a suspect who’s a ghost?

     I wish Adrienne had thrown more light on this mystery stalker. It’d have been much easier. Her diary said she didn’t want to tell her husband about the man because she was sure he’d think she was hallucinating. God, I can’t imagine myself in her shoes. If I saw someone I thought was spying on me and told Dan about it only for him to tell me I was imagining things, I’d have been shattered. Poor Adrienne! No wonder she wanted to kill herself.

     But wait! I don’t know how they said she killed herself. She mentioned a couple of ways to end her life, but I don’t know how she did it; if only she wasn’t murdered. I realize there’s so much I don’t know about Adrienne’s case, and I’d need every bit of information to solve it. It would be very inappropriate for me to go asking my neighbors about Adrienne Styles when I haven’t introduced myself yet.

     My best option is to call Adrienne’s husband. I don’t know if he’ll be willing to divulge anything about his dead wife to me. I wouldn’t if I were him because that would only cause me to grieve all over again. I guess he wanted to put the past behind him by selling their house.

     Anyway, I need answers, and I’m going to get them one way or the other. Call me an interloper, or any name you want to call me, but I need to find answers. Somehow, I feel connected to Adrienne Styles in an uncanny way. My gut tells me something terrible has happened in this house, and perhaps we were brought here for a reason.

     Sighing, I rise from the chair and walk toward the refrigerator, taking out the bottle of Chardonnay I had placed there earlier. I retrace my steps to the cabinet, pick a glass, uncork the Chardonnay, and pour some into the glass. Bubbles erupt and settle on top. I take a sip, carrying it with me to the bedroom along with Adrienne’s diary.

     I bring out our laptop and boot the device. As icons pop up on the screen, I stretch my hand to the nightstand and place the glass on top. Sitting on the bed, I place the laptop across from me, then open Google, and begin typing, SUICIDE IN WESTCLIFF, FORT WORTH in the search bar. I include Adrienne Styles to narrow down the search, only if any relevant information appears.

     I don’t know why I’m Googling Adrienne’s death, but that’s what my instincts told me to do. I can’t go around asking questions about a dead woman from her neighbors. I might scare them off. That’s the last thing I want to do. I press the enter button and wait for results.

     Reaching for the glass, I bring it closer to my lips, my eyes glued to the screen. I sip dutifully, using my left hand to scroll down the web page. There’s nothing pertinent here, just news of random deaths and disappearances of people with names similar to Adrienne Styles.

     I continue bringing the cursor down till I reach a site. The headline screams, ‘LOCAL WOMAN IN WESTCLIFF FOUND DEAD IN HER GARDEN.’ I click on the link and follow it, where I find an article written by a minimum-wage journalist for a second-class media house.

     I read the article, paying attention to the details. It says here Adrienne Styles died by throwing herself from her bedroom and landing in her garden. I picture it in my head, wondering why she’d do that. That’s when it occurs to me I’m sitting in the bedroom. A gasp escapes my mouth as it strikes me that this room had once been a crime scene. I feel a chill run down my spine, and a sudden cold engulfing me. I shiver, setting the glass of Chardonnay aside.

     I’m confused as to whether I should continue or not. And by that I mean continue digging into Adrienne’s death. I’m already getting a bad feeling about what I’m doing. I should probably let sleeping dogs lie. But Adrienne makes me curious, and I want to find out more about her suicide.

     I continue reading. A jogger had found her when she followed her dog into Adrienne’s garden. The article goes on to describe the state in which Adrienne was found dead, and I’m least interested in that. I don’t want to be throwing up over the room. I head off to crime scene photos. They are very grainy, and it’s difficult to see Adrienne’s face. What I see is an outline of a woman lying awry on a garden floor. Then another photo shows someone on a gurney covered in a white sheet.

     I try zooming in on Adrienne’s face to no avail. I look up from the laptop and process what I’ve just discovered. If I want to continue digging, I’ll need more than just an article on Adrienne Styles’ suicide. I lean forward and pull out a drawer from the nightstand, taking out our phonebook. I’m sure Dan kept Jeff’s number somewhere here.

     I skim the pages. When I come across Jeff’s number, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the number. While I wait for him to pick, I toy with my nails I recently had them done in a local salon.

     It’s only when a voice fills the line that it occurs to me what I’m doing. I know there’s no turning back once I begin, and I’m known to end what I start. I don’t wait for him to begin the conversation. Quickly I say, “Hi, Jeff. It’s Sarah, the wife of Daniel Miller. I’m hoping you could spare me a minute of your time. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

     “Hi. Jeff’s not available at the moment.”

     I almost mutter profanity when the receiver isn’t Jeff. That’s why it is important to exchange pleasantries first before hitting the point. But I’m too curious to beat around the bush. I’m starting to understand why they say curiosity killed the cat. If Jeff isn’t available, then who picked up my call? The voice is feminine for sure, and this is Jeff’s cell phone. His secretary can’t just answer his calls.

     I giggle coyly, “I’m so sorry. I thought I was speaking with Jeffrey Styles. May I know who I’m to talking to?”

     “Of course. I’m Ella.”

     I wonder who she is. I place my best guess she’s his sister.

      “Okay. Will Jeffrey be available any time soon?”

     “I’m not sure. He went out a couple of hours ago.”

     That’s unexpected. “Okay. When he comes back, could you please do me a favor and tell him Sarah Miller called?”

     “Sure.”

     “Thank you,” I say.

     “You’re welcome.”

     Then I hung up, heaving a sigh. I probably shouldn’t have called Jeff’s cell phone. The lady on the line sounded so friendly, and I’m certain she’ll deliver my message to Jeff. I’m just not sure when he’ll get back to me. I won’t call again till he calls me. I don’t want to disturb his peace.

     The name Ella rings a bell, and I’m certain I saw it in Adrienne’s diary when I was skimming. I don’t remember how Ella came into the picture. In a haste for answers, I pick up Adrienne’s diary and reread the entry Ella was mentioned.