Page 37 of Willowbrooke
“I’ll help if I can,” Leo told me, “but Val and Carl will both be here today—I was hoping to talk to them—see if they have any insight about Dad.”
“Good—maybe they know something about Julie too. Don’t worry about the library; I’ve got it under control.”
After coffee, we went our separate ways, and once again, I lost time as I sorted through the never-ending stacks of books waiting for me in the organized chaos of the library.
It wasn’t long after I started sorting through the books that I came upon a small leather-bound journal that had been slipped between the pages of an old encyclopedia from the seventies.
Skimming the first few pages of old paper, imprints still visible from the blue ballpoint pen, it became apparent that the journal had once belonged to Christine West, Leo’smother.
I closed the journal, not feeling right about reading it without him.
Journal in hand, I went out to the kitchen, looking for Leo, calling out for him, but he wasn’t on the main floor.
“He left about twenty minutes ago.” Val poked her head out from the storage room behind the kitchen. “Did you need help with something?”
I’d had minimal interaction with Val since starting the project and, curiously, even less after I’d moved in. I wasn’t sure if she was just intent on keeping to herself, or if she was actively avoiding me. But the few times we had spoken, she’d seemed nice enough; she just didn’t like to waste time talking, preferring to keep herself busy with work.
I looked down at the journal, then back up at Val. “Did he say when he’d be back?” I asked.
Val shook her head. A single strand of silver hair escaped from her tight braid, but she quickly tucked it behind her ear.
“Thanks,” I replied, then made my way back into the library. I thought about texting Leo, but he was probably driving, and if he wasn’t, he’d left to meet someone, still on the hunt for Nurse Julie.
Feeling guilty but hoping Leo wouldn’t be upset, I made the decision to read through the journal. Margot had always been so brief about what had happened to Christine, and nobody else would even say her name—Leo himself became anxious at the mention of his mother. And selfishly, I thinkpart of me knew there was a chance that once I turned the journal over to Leo, I’d never get the opportunity to look through it again.
I felt like a bad person—like a bad friend—but I read the journal anyway.
I was simply too curious.
And it was a good thing, in this case.
The journal seemed to have been written right around the time of Christine’s death. My eyes flew through the pages, desperate to find some insight into what had happened to the woman.
The earlier entries started innocently enough. She was happy with George but felt he spent too much time at work, and she felt his absence keenly. She thought he was missing Leo’s childhood, and it broke her heart.
Most entries mentioned Leo, a toddler at the time, in some capacity. Christine was absolutely in love with her baby. The more I read, the more I felt confused about why she had taken her own life. The way she spoke about Leo and her desire to watch him grow up didn’t read as someone who was suicidal, or depressed—it was the opposite.
I did have to consider that people see their own lives differently than others, and she might not have been telling the whole truth, even in her personal diary. Maybe it had been an exercise from a therapist, or she’d known George was reading it, so she’d written what they’d wanted to hear? But if that wasn’t the case, if this record was simply for Christineand Christine alone, then surely she wouldn’t have ended her life unless something catastrophic had happened.
I didn’t see any underlining or subtextual clues that would lead me to believe that this woman would die at her own hand within months of writing such sweet words about how quickly Leo was growing up and how she couldn’t wait to see the man he would become. She’d had no idea that wouldn’t happen.
But about halfway through the journal, there was a tonal shift. Christine had discovered something, and whatever it was, she wasn’t comfortable spelling it out precisely on the pages…maybe she was worried someone was reading what she wrote.
Throughout the diary, she referred to someone, who seemed to be a close friend, using an odd symbol that looked like four narrow, closely spaced capital “X’s” next to each other: XXXX. Whoever they were, they were a voice of reason, a shoulder to cry on, and very much a confidante.
The first entry I flagged started with ‘XXXX can’t be trusted. If George found out what they did, he’d kill them, and Leo would lose his father.’
A few days later, Christine wrote, ‘Can’t stop thinking about XXXX. Poor Thomas and Mary. They didn’t deserve what happened to them. I’m trying to see if George knows anyone at the police station. If I can turn in XXXX before George finds out and tries to handle it himself, maybe I can make this right.’
But then things took a turn, and the last entry read, ‘Ithink XXXX knows something is wrong. They always know when I’m not telling the truth. They can tell something is bothering me. I’m scared for Leo. I’ve started hiding this diary around the house. If XXXX found it, I’m done for.’
My heart beat loudly in my chest as I closed the journal. Christine’s fear was so palpable. I didn’t think she’d killed herself. I was almost positive someone had pushed her off the seaside cliff.
Whoever XXXX was, it sounded like they not only had played a role in Christine’s murder, but that they had done something to the Thomas and Mary she mentioned. I didn’t know who they were, but clearly they were people who had meant a great deal to George, enough that Christine thought he would risk his own freedom for revenge.
I called Leo, but it went straight to voicemail.
His phone was off.
