𝑺𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓

     “Mommy?”

     Kevin calls me as he bounces into the kitchen from the backyard where we’re having the housewarming. I divert my attention from the fruit skewers I’ve artfully arranged on the plate to him.

     “What’s the matter, dear? Why’re you not playing with the other kids?”

     Through the kitchen window, I discern the kids playing in the backyard, a few meters away from where we’ve gathered for the housewarming. Gilbert is part of them, and I can’t help but smile seeing how happily he’s playing. The scene brings a smile to my face.

     “Mommy!” Kevin calls again, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look at him, and that’s when I notice his tank top and shorts are smudged. His eyes are watery, and he looks like he’s going to break down into tears.

     I quickly dry my hands with a napkin and rush over to his side. Crouching down, I say worriedly, “What’s the matter?”

     He shows me his arm, and I see purplish marks. “I fell. Gilbert pushed me.”

     This sibling rivalry between my two sons is getting out of hand. I don’t want to think that Gilbert deliberately pushed him. He should be protecting his little brother, not hurting him.

     I dab at the tears with the back of my hand and ruffle his hair. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” I say softly, taking his hand. “Let me clean the bruises.”

     “He didn’t say sorry.”

     I expected that. Gilbert isn’t one to apologize even when he’s wrong, and I’ve got to do something about his uncouth manners.

     “I’ll talk to him. Want some vegetable skewers?”

     His face beams, and he nods. “Yes.”

     “All right. Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can have one.”

     I’m about to leave the kitchen for the first aid kit upstairs when Dan, Anna, and Tim spill in chattering. I introduced myself to Anna and Tim last night when I visited them to share ideas about the kind of food to be served at the housewarming. I ended up chatting with them and even got to know when they moved into the neighborhood. I met their six-year-old daughter and the toddler I saw Anna carrying the last time. I like Anna. We easily get along. She’s very chatty, which means I can ask her about Adrienne Styles, and she won’t keep anything from me.

     “There you are,” Dan says, moving toward me with the exuberance of a teenager. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, a pair of blue leather jeans, and black sandals. He looks like he’s enjoying himself. I don’t doubt he knows all the neighbors by name.

     “The neighbors are asking when you’re gonna come out,” he adds and plants a kiss on my lips.

     “Kevin fell. He’s got bruises on his arm. Clean him up while I get to them.”

     “Sure.”

     He walks to Kevin who’s sobering up in the chair and carries him into his brawny arms. “Let’s go, champ.”

     I watch them leave the kitchen, then near Anna and Tim with a tray of vegetable skewers. I stretch it toward Tim. “Could you do me a favor and take this to the neighbors? Anna and I will bring the drinks.”

     “Of course.” He passes me a smile, takes it, and heads out of the kitchen.

     When he isn’t within earshot, I ask, “How’s the party?”

     I’m anxious to know their thoughts about the housewarming. I wonder if everyone is having fun, or if they’re bored already.

     “Excellent. We haven’t had a party in a while, so this is some sort of a neighborhood reunion.” She giggles and eyes the plate of cupcakes I’ve displayed on the counter.

     “These look appealing.”

     “Feel free to try one,” I say smiling.

     She picks one of the cupcakes and takes a bite. She chews, her eyes widening. Then she says with food in her mouth, “This is so good. I have to come for a recipe.”

     I blush. “Thank you.”

     She wears a knee-light dress made from satin. Her dark hair tumbles down her shoulders in an amass of flowing curls. She’s done no makeup that I can see, but she’s looking prettier than the last time I saw her. The only jewellery adorning her slender fingers is a wedding ring.

     Taking my eyes off her, I near the state-of-the-art refrigerator, bring out the Cokes I stashed earlier, and start arranging them in the crate.

     “Let me help with that.” Anna paces toward me and helps me with the Coke.

     Halfway I ask, “Who’s Ms. Gillian?”

     I’ve finally decided this is the appropriate time to ask her about Adrienne Styles. Soon we’ll be with all the neighbors, and I won’t get the opportunity to ask her.

     “She’s a neighbor. I’m not sure she’s going to come to the party.”

     “Why?”

     She lowers her voice. “She doesn’t do parties. She’s old.”

     “I get it.”

     I had come across Ms. Gillian’s name in Adrienne’s diary. At first, I thought she was Adrienne’s neighbor because her diary said so. Then I placed that she was her Grandma because of how she eulogized her in her diary entries. Adrienne trusted the woman. Her diary said she often visited her and even ate with her. If there’s something pertinent anyone would know about Adrienne, then I’m sure Ms. Gillian would.

     “How did you get to know Ms. Gillian?”

     The question takes me by surprise. I fall silent, thinking of a reply. I know Anna is chatty, but I didn’t think she was inquisitive too. Then I reason that perhaps chatty people are inquisitive. I won’t tell her I found Adrienne’s diary in the basement. My only option is to lie. I don’t want to lie to someone I’ve just met. The thought of lying to this nice woman makes my skin crawl. But do I have a choice?

     I sigh and feign a smile. “One of the neighbors mentioned her name. I think that’s where I got to know.”

     She’s looking right into my eyes, and I wonder if she knows I’m lying. I don’t like it when people look directly into my eyes. I become vulnerable and give in easily, so as much as possible, I avoid eye contact when I’m lying. But of course, I don’t do that with Dan. He knows I’m not a good liar. He always sees through my lies.

     My heart hammers. To my relief, she says, “Ms. Gillian is a very nice woman. Everyone here loves her, especially Adrienne. She’s like a—” She trails away suddenly and looks blankly at me.

     “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

     “I know about Adrienne Styles,” I say, cutting her off.

     “You do?”

     I nod.

     “Then you know she killed herself in this house.”

     So that’s what everyone around here thinks. Adrienne killed herself. Am I the only person who thinks otherwise?

     “Yes.”

     She says ruefully, “Adrienne was such a nice lady. She and her husband moved in a year after Tim and I moved into this neighborhood. I was sad when I heard she lost her memory in a car accident.”

     She looks at me intently, then continues, her voice forlorn, “I always admired her. I wondered how she could cope with the world without her memory. Her suicide didn’t come as a surprise to me. I was just sad for the poor lady. Everyone here loved Adrienne Styles.”

     Everyone except the killer of course. I still don’t believe Adrienne killed herself. I know in my gut that she was murdered. A woman holding onto hope wouldn’t just kill herself. Besides, her memories were gradually coming. What reason did she have to kill herself?

     “How did she die?”

     “She jumped over the window sill from her bedroom.”

     I’m about to ask another question when we hear a knock on the door.

     “More people are coming,” Anna says.

     “Continue with the drinks. I’ll get the door.”

     “Sure.”

     I walk out of the kitchen to the front door, thinking about everything Anna has told me concerning Adrienne Styles.