Kennedy’s bedroom was supposed to be a little larger than her spare bedroom-closet, but with the elaborate furniture, Deven certainly couldn’t tell. The canopy bed was way too big for the space, piled with covers and decorative pillows that made the arrangement too high as well as too wide. Despite the piece dominating the room, she had managed to squeeze in two nightstands punctuating the bed and an armoire, albeit empty, in the corner. A flat screen TV and soundbar was mounted on the wall, swiveled to the precise angle for perfect viewing from the leather headboard. A set of French doors opened to an adjoining bathroom. Deven started in there first.

The air suddenly felt different, colder. Almost haunted, Deven thought with a shudder. She scanned the tile floor, the walk-in shower and jacuzzi with various bath bombs and shower gels, and other smell-goods collected around the lip of the tub. Hanging on the door of the shower were two towels and two washcloths, used but clearly placed there to dry. She wondered if the woman, the Kennedy in question, was in here when she was discovered. It was eerie to think about and Deven’s gaze lowered to the floor as if a body would be lying right at her feet. Of course, there was nothing.

Deven took to the sink next, flipping open the cabinet door to push past toiletries, pads, and shampoo. She leaned up and, noticing the protrusion of the mirror, pulled it open. There were a few empty pill bottles turned on their sides on the shelf. Bottles for medicine she had never heard of. One-by-one, Deven shoved a few of them into the pocket of her jacket. She would have to do some internet searches on these when she returned home later.

Back in the bedroom, Deven went for the nightstands next. One was completely empty, except for some lipstick tubes and a couple pairs of earrings. The other one contained what looked like receipts and credit card statements. Discouragement was beginning to settle as Deven absently pushed past the paperwork. Then, something caught her eye, and she pulled the photos into view. The first was a sonogram. Kennedy’s? And to her trained eye, the baby was about twelve weeks gestation, or roughly three months. Deven fingered the top of the picture, noting that it had been severed where the mother’s name and doctor would be printed. Had Kennedy been pregnant? And she’d hidden it?

Deven’s eyes shifted to the second picture and her confusion only intensified, overshadowing her previous discovery. What the hell was Kennedy doing with a picture of Paul?

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Excerpt from the diary of Kennedy (Age 11)