𝑺𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓

     I’m watering the potted plants on the front porch when I glimpse the paper lying under the doormat. I place the watering can on the nearby stool and near the mat. I hope this isn’t another warning note, but from where it has been placed, I’m certain it is.

     Crouching over the mat, I pick it up, realizing it’s an envelope. It’s not sealed. Hastily, I pull out the paper and unfold it. This one is handwritten and it says: I TOLD YOU TO STOP DIGGING. I’M WATCHING YOU.

     I’d have been surprised if I wasn’t expecting another nasty threat. Whoever delivered this sent the first note, and it’s clear they’re very pissed I’m still digging.

     I feel vindicated now that I know someone is watching me. I had thought I was being paranoid at the café, but this is proof that I’m not. At least I know I’m on the right track. Something tells me I should stop investigating for the sake of my family, but Adrienne makes me curious, and I want to find answers. I know the person who sent this isn’t bluffing about me not liking the outcome. I’m thinking of telling Dan about it, and how serious this has become, but I always stop at the eleventh hour.

     When I speak with Sheriff Hunt tomorrow, I’ll show him the evidence of being stalked and threatened. But then it occurs to me that there’s nothing the police can do when I don’t even know the person sending the notes.

     I carry the watering can from the stool. I’m about to enter the house when I hear footsteps down the street. Swiftly, I turn and see a man in dark clothes by the tree. He stares at the house, then at me.

     “Hey,” I say loudly, walking to the street. “Can I help you?”

     It’s a ruse to get to see his face that is covered with a hood, but immediately he sees me coming, he scurries away. I watch him disappear into the darkness.

     Weird. I hear myself mutter.

     A voice I recognize says from behind me, “What?”

     I turn to the house. Dan stands on the porch in his nightclothes, looking haggard.

     “Nothing,” I say as I near him. I don’t want to tell him I saw a strange man looking at the house from across the street. That will cause him to worry unnecessarily, and he’s already looking like he’s having a sleepless night.

     “Why’re you up?”

     “My phone woke me. I didn’t see you in bed, and I was worried.”

     I smile warmly at him. “I came downstairs to water the plants.”

     “At this time of the evening?”

     I giggle. “Weird, isn’t it? I mostly forget to water them, so when the thought occurred to me I didn’t hesitate.”

     “All right. Let’s go to bed. I don’t like it when you’re outside at this time.” He looks at me, but then I realize he isn’t looking at me.

     “What’s that?”

     I grin and raise it. “This? Nothing. It’s just a piece of paper. I found it on the porch. I was even going to discard it.”

     I dip it into my pocket as we simultaneously enter the house.

     “I’ll lock the door,” he says.

     “All right.”

     I return the watering can to the storage room and ponder over the note I found on the porch as I join Dan in the bedroom. The image of the mysterious man in my head won’t leave me. Now more than ever, I won’t stop digging until I find answers, all of them.

*  *  *

     The next morning, I’m looking at Sheriff Hunt’s face in his office. I arrived earlier at the precinct and waited around for him. I’m the first person he’s seen today in his office, and I hope I don’t ruin his day with my questions.

     I didn’t tell him how I got his number or the reason for our meeting. Ivory had warned me about him being a pain in the neck, so the last thing I wanted to do was give him a reason not to see me. As I sit across from him, I wonder what he’s thinking about. I know he has no idea why I’m truly here. My best guess is that he thinks I’m here to file a report, a complaint, or do any other thing that wouldn’t involve Adrienne. He’s got no idea.

     I watch him sip from his coffee cup that has been sitting on his cramped desk, then he replaces it next to a stack of files. Papers ruffle swiftly as a cold wind blows into the office through the window. He mutters at the inconvenience and gets up. He nearly spills his coffee when his hand accidentally hits it, but he catches it just as it’s about to fall.

     We exchange an awkward look while he changes the position of the cup and nears the window. My eyes move across the wall on my left. There are crime scene photos pinned on it, a red strip connecting them and forming a triangle. I don’t pay attention to the details of the picture, but one of them has a bloody scene of a building. I discern mangled bodies and quickly look away.

     Saliva moves down to my throat. I swallow hard, trying my best to hide my uneasiness from what I’ve just seen as Sheriff Hunt rejoins me. He has a lukewarm smile on his face. When he looks at me, he says, “Is everything all right?”

     Nothing is all right. I’m sitting in an office with crime scene photos pinned to the wall. I’m sure it’s still an open investigation, which explains why he hasn’t taken them off. I wonder how he’s able to look at them and sit comfortably in his office.

     “Yes.” I feign a smile. “Thanks for seeing me.”

     He acknowledges that with a nod and, sifting through files, he says, “How can I help you?”

     When I don’t reply, he looks at me while arranging the files in an order known to him. “Here to file a report? Complaint?... or give us a tip.”

     He opens a drawer and places them inside.

     “None of them.”

     “Okay.” After he’s cleared his desk of papers and files, he rests his arms on it. “Then you’re here for?”

     I hear myself murmur, “Adrienne Styles.”

     He stares at me for some seconds, as if trying to remember the name, then he narrows his eyes. “You’re a reporter?” he asks dubiously.

     I shake my head.

     “I guessed so. You don’t look like a reporter. Who are you?”

     “Someone who’s investigating Adrienne Styles’ suicide and needs your professional help. Does the name ring a bell?”

     He says, nodding, “I remember that case. Jeff’s wife. . . Adrienne.”

     From the looks of things, I can tell he knows Jeff very well, and when they met at the crime scene wasn’t their first time.

     “Why are you investigating a suicide? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

     I feel slightly insulted, but I’ll take it lightly with him. I need answers. Displaying anger won’t help me get that. “I don’t believe she killed herself. Adrienne was murdered.”

     “Got any proof?”

     I don’t like the note of nonchalance in his voice. It makes me feel I’m just wasting precious time, or maybe I am.

     “Yes.” I dig into my handbag swiftly, bringing out the threatening notes and the picture. He looks at me as I splay them across his desk.

     “I received these notes when I started looking into Adrienne’s case.”

     He’s reluctant to look at them, but I push them toward him, tapping on them. Finally, he gives the note a stare, glances away, and then says, “Who sent these?”

     I shrug. “I don’t know. What I do know is that someone’s pissed I’m looking into Adrienne’s suicide after six long months.”

     “Why’d you do that?”

     I tell him about the diary I found in the basement, the mysterious man stalking her in her diary, and why I think Adrienne was murdered.

     He looks away from the notes. “Do you have any suspect in mind?”

     I say quickly, “Jeff.”

     He scoffs. “Jeff? Adrienne’s husband?”

     “Yes.”

     “Got proof?”

     “Not yet, but I’ll get proof once I find Adrienne’s stalker.”

     “What’s Jeff’s motive?”

     “He killed her to protect his secret.”

     “Okay. You said you’ve read her diary?”

     I nod, wondering what he’s getting at. Does he believe me?

     “This was the diary of someone with amnesia. How do you know it’s reliable?”

     I’m sent into a revert. I will admit it hasn’t occurred to me that perhaps Adrienne’s diary isn’t reliable. But I don’t think she’ll make up a story of seeing a man she didn’t see. Then it dawns on me that Adrienne never mentioned Jeff and Ella’s affair in her diary. I will assume she didn’t know about it at the time of her diary entries. Perhaps she found out later and when she confronted Jeff, he plotted her murder.

     No one needs to tell me I don’t have hard evidence to prove that Jeff killed his wife. My evidence is based on clever guesses and assumptions. Ivory was right. No prosecutor will even listen to my case. Maybe this is a dead end, and it is time I get on with my life in my new house and forget about Adrienne Styles for good. After all, she’s dead. And not every murdered victim is given justice.

     “I don’t know for sure, but I feel she’s telling the truth.”

     “Feel? That can’t get you anywhere. At worst, it can land you into legal problems. Jeff can charge you with defamation if he finds out you’re accusing him of murdering his wife without proof.” He looks at me, concern plastered on his face. “I hope you haven’t told anyone about your little theory.”

     I must admit I haven’t thought about the legal ramifications of what I’m doing. I haven’t accused Jeff of murdering his wife to his face yet, and I’m glad I haven’t. So far I’ve told Ms. Gillian and Ivory about my theory, and I trust that they’ll keep it to themselves. There’s no need to tell Sheriff Hunt about it.

     “No.”

     “Good. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

     “What about the notes?”

     “If you want to file a report, I can have a team look into it. Other than that, this becomes the part where you say ‘Thanks. I should be on my out.’”

     Okay, I have to admit I hate this Sheriff Hunt and his subtle way of shooing me away. I slide the picture and the notes back into my handbag and get on my feet. I don’t think I’ll file a report. What’s the point when I’m probably not going to continue with the investigation anymore? I feel deep within that the notes will stop showing in my mailbox and on my doorstep when I stop investigating.

     I see myself out of his office, unable to believe that I’m not going to continue digging anymore. Well, I agree with him on one thing. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. But I don’t know if I’m just going to give up on Adrienne Styles. She deserves to get justice, and if I don’t help her get it, no one will.