Текст книги "The Perfect Stranger"

Автор книги: Wendy Corsi Staub

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The Day My Life Changed Forever

It was a Wednesday: August 24, 2005.

Rain was pouring down as I drove to the doctor’s office after dropping the kids with a sitter. I was about to get the results from a routine biopsy that had been done after a routine mammogram showed something that was probably nothing, according to my doctor.

Probably was the key word there, but I wasn’t really worried. Not even when they called me in to get the results in person.

I wasn’t worried, either, when I heard on the car radio that the tropical depression out in the Atlantic had been upgraded to a tropical storm and named Katrina. I remember that the meteorologist reported that it would likely impact the Gulf later in the weekend, and that he had that breathless anticipation of a child discussing the prospects for a white Christmas.

Looking back, I’m struck that I paid so little attention to the forecast; that I failed to interpret the gloomy weather as a harbinger of catastrophe looming out on the water, much less inside the obstetrician’s office.

—Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries

Chapter 3

During the height of her cancer battle, Landry learned that sometimes going through the motions of a normal day can almost convince you that you’re living one.

So she forces herself to embark on her morning ritual: take a shower, get dressed, make the king-sized bed, and transfer the contents of the master bathroom hamper into a wicker basket.

With every task, she thinks about Meredith. What happened to her? How can she be dead?

She was so content with her life. It was obvious from every post she wrote that she loved every minute she had on earth.

So what wasn’t she saying?

After her electronic conversation with A-Okay earlier, Landry had gone back through Meredith’s blog posts for the past several months, trying to read between the lines. This time she thought she detected a bit more wistfulness than usual; perhaps a melancholy undercurrent here and there . . .

Maybe she was just seeing what she needs to see, though, in her retrospective search for rhyme and reason.

A-Okay didn’t have any details, either, and Landry couldn’t get a response from the other two bloggers she’d tried to reach.

Jaycee, who writes PC BC, lives in New York City. Elena, whose blog bears the irreverent title The Boobless Wonder, is somewhere in New England—Rhode Island, maybe, or Massachusetts? Knowing it’s an hour later on the east coast, Landry figures she must not have caught either of them before their workdays began. Elena is an elementary schoolteacher, while Jaycee . . .

What does Jaycee do, anyway?

Some kind of business—maybe finance? She travels a lot, Landry knows. But Jaycee doesn’t spend much time writing about her personal life on her blog, and was the only one of the regulars who didn’t write a post about the day she received her initial diagnosis when they all decided to share their stories a few months back. She doesn’t even post a head shot on her page, just a pink ribbon with a circle around it and a slash across it. As her blog title indicates—PC as in Politically Correct—she’s one of the more politically aware bloggers, concerned with what she calls the Cancer Industry rather than day-to-day, postdiagnosis details. She’s only been around for a year, maybe a year and a half.

Carrying the basket of dirty clothes, Landry makes her way along the upstairs hall, her mind settling on her children.

Just five minutes ago, it seems, they were toddlers: blond, blue-eyed Tucker the picture of his handsome daddy yet with his mama’s laid back demeanor; Addison resembling Landry, with her delicate features, pale green eyes, and silky dark hair, but motivated and energetic as Rob from the moment she could walk and talk.

Now Addison is going to be a high school senior and Tucker a sophomore. Soon he’ll be driving, and she’ll be off to college. Life is careening along, a blessed string of ordinary—and extraordinary—days.

Addison’s door is open. The white plantation shutters are parted so that sunlight splashes in through the windows. The quilt, in patterned shades of Caribbean sea foam, is neatly spread over the white iron bed, pillows plumped just so. A pile of magazines aligns at right angles with the edges of the nightstand, and the toiletries clustered on the bureau are precisely arranged as always. Stacked on an adjacent worktable are half a dozen compartmentalized plastic containers that hold the colored glass and metallic beads Addison uses to make jewelry.

Ambitious and goal oriented, with a lifelong flair for aesthetics, Landry’s daughter is already certain about her future: she’s planning to apply to Savannah College of Art and Design this fall, and intends to build a career in architectural or interior design.

For now, she works a few days a week in the gift shop over at the Grand Hotel. She’s off Wednesdays, but she likes to get up early anyway—unlike her brother, who just started at the hotel as a summer busboy.

Across the hall, Tucker’s door is still closed, but his alarm should be going off any minute. Not that he’ll hear it.

Landry knocks on his door, then opens it a crack. “Tucker? It’s almost time to get up.”

No response. She crosses the shadowy room, stepping over piles of clothes on the floor, and opens the shutters. Daylight falls over the mess—not just clothes, but soda cans and snack wrappers on every surface, CDs and video games lying around without their cases, stray electronics cords and chargers tangled like heaps of black and white spaghetti on the desk and floor.

“Tucker?”

No movement from the lump beneath the covers. Only a few tufts of dark hair are visible between the quilt and the pillow.

“Tucker . . . ”

“Tucker.”

“TUCKER!”

Finally, a muffled sound from her son.

Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, Landry marches over to the bed and pulls the covers away from his face. “Come on. Up.”

He throws a tanned, muscular arm across his eyes, and she notes the fuzz in his armpit and on his upper lip. Her little boy is becoming a man. A man who often acts like a little boy.

“Aw, come on, Mom,” he rumbles. His voice changed months ago, but sometimes the low pitch still catches her off guard. “My alarm didn’t even go off yet.”

“It’s about to. Get busy. This room is a mess. You have a lot to do before you leave. Get it? Got it? Good.”

That’s their thing: Get it-got-it-good. She and Tucker have been saying it to each other, usually to add a hint of lightheartedness to no-nonsense conversations, since he was a little boy. It used to make him laugh. Now he doesn’t crack a smile.

She gives him another nudge and then another, waiting until his gigantic bare feet are squarely planted on the hardwood floor before heading downstairs.

The large living room is her favorite spot in the house. White woodwork contrasts with wide-board hardwoods and walls painted a muted, mossy shade of grayish green. Couches and chairs with cushy upholstery in soothing earth tones are clustered into several seating areas: near the fireplace, facing the flat screen television, and in a cozy nook lined with bookshelves. Paned glass windows and doors line the back wall, opening onto the lower level of the double-decker porch overlooking the landscaped yard and, beyond, the hundred-year-old boardwalk and the bay.

Landry crosses into the dining room, passing the formal table they use only on holidays and the built-in cabinets holding china that’s been in her family for over a century.

On the wall is a gallery of family photos. Some are vintage shots of ancestors who settled around Mobile before the Civil War. Others are more recent: hers and Rob’s wedding day, the kids’ baby pictures, toddler and elementary school shots, a couple of family portraits. The four of them with her parents—one of the last snapshots before her father’s fatal heart attack a few years back. The four of them with Rob’s parents, his brother Will, and his sister Mary Leigh and her husband at their Christmas destination wedding in the Caribbean.

Landry doesn’t like to look at that one. In it, her smile is forced. So is Rob’s, and the kids’, too. Not just because they were all jet-lagged after flight delays, or because no one wanted to spend the holidays away from home, or because they weren’t crazy about Mary Leigh’s new husband, Wade—but because breast cancer had struck just a few months earlier.

At the time, she was miserable and terrified, and so were her husband and children.

She really should take down that picture. Maybe some of the others as well. Make room for new memories. Happier ones.

Landry continues on into the kitchen, with its custom-built cherry cabinetry, sleek stainless steel appliances, and slate floor. They had just finished remodeling it when she was first diagnosed, and one of the first things that popped into her head in the doctor’s office that day was that after all the renovation stress, she wouldn’t be around to enjoy the new space.

We probably shouldn’t have wasted all that extra money on the gourmet six-burner stove and double ovens, she’d thought, since no one else in the family even cooks.

She kept that regret to herself, of course, not wanting the doctor to think she was shallow.

When she later blogged about it—about the crazy thoughts that run through your mind in those first few moments when you assume you’re going to be dying of, and not living with, or after, cancer—she found out that she wasn’t alone.

Her online friends shared similar initial reactions to their diagnoses. One confessed that she was irrationally concerned about having just booked a nonrefundable timeshare; another said she rushed to cancel an expensive salon treatment, saying it felt wrong to waste time and money on hair that was just going to fall out anyway.

Though Landry had long since forgiven herself for fretting about her fancy appliances in the wake of the doctor’s bombshell, it made her feel better to know that she wasn’t alone.

It always does, doesn’t it?

Yes. It helps to know there’s someone out there who can say, “I know exactly what you mean!” or “Wow, you too? I thought I was the only one!”

So often, Meredith was that person, and now . . .

“ ’Morning, Mom.” Landry’s firstborn is sitting on a stool at the granite-topped breakfast bar, eating a container of Greek yogurt in front of her open laptop.

“ ’Morning,” she returns, finding comfort in the sight of her daughter. Addison is just a kid, but there’s always something reassuring about her presence in a room.

“She’s an old soul,” Landry’s friend Everly likes to say. When her marriage ended, she developed a fascination with New Age philosophy. Sometimes—like with her observations about Addison—her groovy insight feels dead on. Other times it’s out there. Waaaay out there.

Addison’s damp hair hangs long and loose, tucked behind her ears to reveal beadwork earrings that match her bracelet—all handmade, of course, by Addie herself. She’s wearing a pair of cutoffs that bare her toned, tanned legs and a tank top that barely covers her taut midriff.

Oh, to be sixteen going on seventeen again. Oh, to look like that . . .

Again?

No. At that age, she might have had the same coloring, hairstyle, and build, but her daughter has a confident poise that she herself lacked. Addison is Rob, through and through.

Addie glances up from the computer screen, then takes a closer look at her mother’s face, and immediately asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Why?”

“You look upset. What happened?”

“I got some bad news this morning.” Setting the laundry basket on the slate floor, she quickly explains about Meredith.

Addison digests the information, then reaches out to touch Landry’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mom. I guess it doesn’t help to hear that her suffering is over and she’s in a better place?”

“No, it does . . . I just . . . I wish I’d known in the first place that she was suffering.”

“Maybe she wasn’t.”

“Maybe not.”

But she doesn’t believe it. She’s seen it happen among her online friends too many times to think that there’s an easy way out.

“Meredith never even mentioned that she was sick again,” she says, more to herself than to Addie.

“Really? Well, then, maybe she wasn’t. Just because she’d had cancer doesn’t mean she died of cancer. Maybe something else happened to her. A car accident, or a heart attack, or—” Addison cuts herself off abruptly. “Sorry. I guess that doesn’t make it any better. But you said it seemed sudden, so . . . I don’t know. I was just looking at it logically and thinking maybe it was sudden.”

“You’re right. I’m so used to assuming . . . you know. Cancer.”

“I know. But so many people survive it, Mom. Look at your grandma. She had it, was cured, and then died of old age.”

“Meredith wasn’t old enough for that. She’d just turned sixty. But her daughter did say . . .” She hesitates, trying to remember the wording of the post. “I think she said she was still in shock.”

Seeing the troubled shadow cross her daughter’s green eyes, Landry remembers that she’s the adult here and Addie’s just a kid, old soul or not.

She abruptly changes the subject. “What are you going to do on your day off?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’ll go shopping. I need a new bathing suit.”

Ordinarily, Landry would offer to go along, but today she’s not in the mood. Instead, she offers her credit card and use of the car, then carries her basket full of clothes toward the laundry room off the kitchen.

A few minutes later, as she’s pouring detergent into the washing machine, Addison calls out urgently from the next room.

“Mom? You need to come in here. Hurry!”

Landry doesn’t bother to start the washer, hurrying back to the kitchen to find her daughter still seated at the breakfast bar. The yogurt container is pushed aside on the counter and she’s leaning over her laptop, delicately arched eyebrows furrowed as stares at the screen.

“You said your friend’s name is Meredith and she lives in Cincinnati, right?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“I plugged that and her age into Google—is her last name Heywood?”

“Heywood. With an e. Yes. Why?” she asks again, already leaning in to look over her daughter’s shoulder.

“This is from a Cincinnati newspaper. It was just posted. I’m . . . I’m really sorry, Mom.”

Addison points at a headline.

Landry stares.

LOCAL WOMAN MURDERED IN APPARENT HOME INVASION

“Is that . . . is that—” She can’t seem to get the words out.

Addison points mutely at name in the lead paragraph.

Meredith Heywood.

“Dad?”

When her father, sprawled in the leather recliner where he spent the night, doesn’t turn around, Rebecca Heywood Drover crosses into the den and reaches out to gently touch his shoulder.

He jumps, and jerks his head to look at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “Beck! You scared the hell out of me.”

Three days’ worth of beard shadows Hank Heywood’s lower face, and his brown hair has gone mostly gray since Beck saw him before all this—before he left to take care of Gram in Cleveland, before Mom . . .

“Sorry,” she tells her father. “It’s just . . . Detective Burns is here, with another detective. They want to talk to you.”

He nods dully. “You can send them in here.”

“You don’t want to . . .” Beck trails off, trying to figure out how to put it delicately.

Pull yourself together isn’t very delicate; nor is make yourself presentable.

If Mom were here, she’d make him shave and change out of the rumpled Miami University Red Hawks T-shirt he’s slept in for the past couple of nights at the hotel—if he’s slept at all.

Mom isn’t here, though.

Mom will never be here again.

Beck still can’t believe that she’s gone.

Years ago, when her mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer, she’d imagined what it would be like to lose her. Even last year, when she had that recurrence, Beck had once again allowed herself to consider that her mother might not be around for years to come. Waiting for test results for days, weeks, she found herself imagining various excruciating scenarios.

But then the tests came back clear, and Mom had beaten the disease again, and the worry faded.

She’d been caught off guard when her father’s cell phone number came up on her caller ID Sunday afternoon. She knew right away something was wrong. He was not the type to call just to chat.

“Beck,” he said, “I’m still in Cleveland and I can’t get ahold of your mother. Do you know where she is?”

“Nope. I talked to her Friday night, and she said she was going to putter around all weekend. She’s probably outside or something.”

“It’s supposed to be pouring there. It has been here, all day.”

“Here, too,” Beck told him, glancing at the rain streaming down the windowpanes.

“I’ve been calling the house and her cell phone since this morning, and texting her, and e-mailing and IMing, too. She hasn’t responded. That’s not like her.”

It wasn’t. Mom may not always answer the house phone, but she’s pretty reliable when it comes to online stuff. Ever since she started her blog, she’s developed quite a reader following and made friends all over the world.

Beck found it ironic that the woman who didn’t know a Web site from a campsite a few years ago now spends many—if not most—of her waking hours on the Internet.

Spends?

Spent.

Mom is gone.

Swallowing hard, she looks at her father and says, “Maybe you should go in there and talk to the detectives. They’re waiting in the living room, and . . .”

And I need to be alone for a second to pull myself together.

“Yeah. Okay.”

She watches him push himself out of the chair and shuffle out into the hall, hunched over as if he’s aged a couple of decades in as many days.

Beck sinks into the seat he vacated and buries her head in her hands, wishing her older brothers were here to help her deal with this.

But they finally returned to their respective homes to sleep last night, after spending both Sunday and Monday nights at the nearby hotel where the family was holed up while the house was off-limits as a crime scene investigation.

The police released it late yesterday.

The last thing any of them wanted to do was walk through the door into the house where Mom had been killed, but they knew they’d have to do it sooner or later. No one could spare the money for more nights in a hotel, and Dad didn’t want to leave town to come stay at one of their houses in the midst of all this.

So they came back here and did their best to clean up the disorder left in the wake of the investigation.

No one had opened the master bedroom door and gone in. A professional cleanup crew had been in there, and the man in charge came to the hotel to assure Dad—delicately—that the room was now “fine.” Dad just looked at him, and shook his head. For all he cared—for all any of them did—that door could stay closed for as long as the house remained in their possession.

Beck and her brothers have privately discussed the situation and agreed that Dad will have to sell it as soon as possible. It’s not what Mom would have wanted, but she had no way of knowing what would happen to her here.

Last night they sat glumly around the kitchen table, trying to make memorial service arrangements while choking down a meal prepared by a well-meaning neighbor. Neal and Teddy took turns taking repeated phone calls from their wives.

“You guys should go home tonight and be with your families,” Beck urged them afterward, as they all did the dishes. “I’ll stay here with Dad.”

She knew it was the right thing to say. Her brothers both have kids, and Teddy’s wife is pregnant. Unemployed, he had a promising job interview lined up for yesterday. Mom would have been so upset that he’d missed it. She worried about all of them, but lately, especially about Teddy, with a baby on the way and no medical benefits.

Beck’s brothers took her up on the offer to go home, promising to be back first thing this morning. Of course, they assumed that her husband, Keith, would remain here with her and Dad.

But he drove back home to Lexington not long after her brothers left, saying he needed to go check on the house, get the mail and papers, and should stop in at the office today to make sure things had been running smoothly in his two-day absence.

He’s on the research faculty at the university. One summer session just ended and the next is about to begin, but things are relatively quiet at this time of year. Beck works on campus herself, as a lab technician.

“You really don’t have go to check in at the office,” she told Keith. “They don’t expect you to do that in the middle of a family crisis. You can call in and check your e-mail from here. And the neighbors can keep grabbing our mail and newspapers and they’ll keep an eye on the house for a few more days.”

“It’s less than a hundred miles away. I’ll be back here tomorrow night.”

“Why leave at all?”

“Because I have to,” Keith said tightly.

“No. Because you want to.”

Dad, still sitting at the table with them, barely seemed aware of the discussion, and hopefully didn’t see the look Beck shot Keith when he pushed back his chair and ended the conversation with a curt, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Fine,” she said. “Go.”

She did get up and walk with him to the door, but only because her father might have noticed if she didn’t. The last thing she wants right now is to let him know that her marriage is in serious trouble and has been for months. Grief-stricken and devastated, facing life as a widower, Dad doesn’t need anything else to worry about.

Anyway, who knows? Maybe, when this is all behind them, she and Keith will manage to work things out.

Maybe he’ll have a change of heart or change his ways; or maybe she’s been wrong about him, about what he’s been up to behind her back . . .

But probably not.

Mom always liked to say, if it looks like a duck and it walks like a duck—

“Ms. Heywood?” Detective Burns, an attractive, middle-aged African-American woman, is standing in the doorway.

Technically, Beck is Mrs. Drover, not Ms. Heywood, but then . . . maybe not for much longer. Without bothering to correct the detective, she says, “Yes?”

“I just wanted to make sure you stick around. And you said your brothers are on their way back here now?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to need to talk to all of you again, too, after we speak to your father. And the rest of the family as well.”

Something in the woman’s tone makes Beck look more closely at her face. When they first met, on Sunday, she seemed much kinder, more sympathetic—although her memory is admittedly fuzzy.

That was such a terrible, terrifying time.

She was the one who’d called the police.

After talking to her father and then also trying unsuccessfully to reach her mother, she got into her car and drove through the rain up to Cincinnati, arriving at the house in the late afternoon. All was quiet. Mom’s car was in the driveway.

As soon as she walked around back, intending to let herself in with her key, she found the cut window screen and knew something was terribly wrong.

She has very little recollection of the two uniformed cops who showed up. It’s all a blur now, like a nightmare after you wake up in the morning, when the specific details have faded but you still remember the horror, and the gist of what happened.

What happened . . .

What happened was—

After she handed over her set of keys, the police officers went into the house, and she stood there waiting beneath the overhang above the back door as the rain poured down, drowning the newly planted seedlings in the vegetable garden in the yard.

Then the police came back out and they told her—

“Ms. Heywood?”

“Yes.” She blinks, looks up at Detective Burns. “Yes, it’s fine. I’ll . . . I’ll be happy to talk to you. No problem.”

“Thank you.”

Beck gets up and starts to follow the detective into the next room, but the woman holds out her hand like a traffic cop.

“Not yet,” she says. “If you can wait right here while we talk to your father, I’d appreciate it.”

“But—”

Wait a minute. Are the detectives here to talk to them, or interrogate them?

When they showed up today, she assumed it was with an update on the case. They’ve been in close contact ever since Sunday, regularly coming and going from the hotel where the family was staying. They promised to keep them apprised of any developments; to find out who had broken into the house sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning and left Mom dead on the floor beside her bed.

Do they have a suspect now?

Or do they think—

The terrible thought fully forms in Beck’s mind. She bites her lip to keep from blurting it out.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Heywood?”

“No. No problem.” She shrinks back. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. I thought you wanted me to– Never mind. I’ll wait here.”

“Thank you.”

The detective steps out of the den, reaches back and pulls the door closed after her.

Feeling like a caged prisoner, Beck wonders if she should call her brothers—or, perhaps, a lawyer.

She’s watched enough television crime shows to know that homicide investigators always look closely at family members—particularly spouses. Why didn’t she realize sooner that this was going to happen?

Because you’re still in shock, and because it’s ridiculous that anyone would even imagine that Dad might be capable of . . .

She pushes away an unwanted memory.

Ridiculous .

Anyway, Dad was 250 miles away this weekend—they must know he was in Cleveland when it happened.

Or maybe they don’t know. Maybe that’s why they’re here now.

They were here on Sunday, but maybe they arrived on the scene after Dad did.

She thinks back, but the timeline is fuzzy. Her father was on his way back from Cleveland, she remembers, before she even left Lexington. When she called him from her car as she was driving up to Cincinnati, he said he was on the road, too, heading home to check on Mom.

She told him not to bother; that she was already going; that she’d let him know if there was any reason to worry—

But of course there was already reason to worry.

Did she begin to suspect then, as she raced north up Interstate 75, that something was going to be terribly wrong at the house?

The drive, like everything that happened afterward, has become a blur in her mind.

She’d just had yet another fight with Keith. That, she remembers.

He wasn’t thrilled that she was leaving so abruptly in the middle of a Sunday afternoon when they had plans that evening to sit down and go over their finances.

That was what he claimed, anyway, calling it “a meeting.” The year was almost half over, he’d said that morning, and he was concerned about his job stability amid funding cuts to the university. He thought it was time that they made some decisions about their future; about whether they should look into selling the house, moving into a smaller place . . .

Or separate places.

He didn’t come right out and say it, but she knew it was going to come up. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it might have been the first time she might be willing to go along with it. She’d already done her homework, talked to a lawyer.

Her feelings were muddled. One moment she was sure she still loved him, and the next, she wanted him out of her life.

Sunday afternoon, as she threw some things into a bag in case she wound up spending the night in Cincinnati, he followed her around the house asking why she couldn’t have someone else check in on her mother—a neighbor, or one of her brothers.

“Because I can get there quicker than my brothers can, and I can’t reach any of their neighbors,” she lied.

The truth was, she wanted to go.

Not—to her shame, in retrospect—just because she was worried about Mom.

Of course she was, but she really didn’t think, at that point, the situation was going to be dire. She was mainly going because she wanted to get away from Keith for a few hours. She thought the drive might bring some clarity.

“But what about our meeting?” he asked as she picked up her keys and, with the bag over her shoulder, opened the door.

“It’ll have to wait till I get back.”

“When will that be?”

She didn’t answer him, just splashed through the driveway puddles to the car and drove away.

The next time they spoke, she was calling him, hysterical, to tell him that her mother had been murdered. To his credit, he made the ninety-minute trip in less than an hour and stayed by her side until last night.

Now he’s home, ostensibly checking on mail and work—but more likely on his mistress.

Meanwhile, the homicide detectives are talking to Dad, and they want to talk to her, and again the unwanted memory is trying to barge in, but she won’t let it; no, she won’t let it, because . . .

Because it means nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Relax.

No one is ever going to know the truth.

And even if they do figure it out—that Meredith’s murder wasn’t some random home invasion gone bad—they’ll never in a million years suspect that you, of all people, had anything to do with it.

At first—in the wee hours of Sunday morning—those self-assurances brought a measure of comfort.

But in the three days since, it’s been increasingly hard to remain convinced that everything is going to be okay.

You dismiss one nagging what if—what if my fingerprints somehow came through the gloves?—only to have another pop up.

And then another.

What if . . . ?

What if . . . ?

Sleep has been all but impossible; interminable nights spent tossing and turning as fresh waves of worry seep in.

And for what? Every detail of Saturday night was well-planned in advance.

Okay—not that far in advance.

The spark of an idea ignited a while back, but opportunity to act on it didn’t present itself until about ten days ago, Memorial Day weekend, when a senile ninety-three-year-old woman happened to take a nasty fall in Cleveland.

It was Meredith herself who set things in motion by blogging about how her husband had gone up to his hometown to take care of his aging mother. The whole world now knew she was alone in the house every night for the foreseeable future.

Maybe not the whole world—but anyone who happened to stumble across her blog online.

You didn’t have to be a seasoned detective to figure out where she lived. Anyone could piece together the personal details she’d posted in her official bio and scattered throughout her blog archives.