Leslie wakes up the next morning at 5:23:32, and not solely because the cops are coming ‘sometime between 6 a.m. and 8 a.m. She had had a nightmare in which John had returned to her, but as a zombie. Now, while the real John would have appreciated that as he was an absolute fiend for zombies, Leslie had freaked the fuck out in her dream as John tried to eat her brains. She had had to dead him again, and it broke her heart to have to empty a bunch of bullets in his brain and then decapitate his head, even though she knew it was a dream. The head remained alive, and she was careful not to put her fingers in its mouth. John’s eyes were trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t decipher the message.
She shuffles off to the bathroom to go about her daily ablutions. She notices that Josephine is not behind her, and one quick glance backwards shows her a sleeping cat who is parked in the exact spot where John’s chest would be—if he were still alive. Tears filled Leslie’s eyes as she realizes she’s not the only one who fiercely misses John—so does Josephine. Leslie wants to comfort the cat and tell her that John will be home before she knows it. However, Leslie tries not to out-and-out lie whenever she can help it, so she remains silent and goes about her morning ritual. She is somber as she thinks about John and all she’s learned about him since he was murdered. She has to admit to herself that’s she’s pissed—at him. She’s not mad because he’s dead—no, she’s mad because he hadn’t trusted her enough to share his past with her. She could hear him protesting in her ear that it had nothing to do with how trustworthy she was, but it’s cold comfort, indeed.
She cringes as she remembers all the things she confessed to John—the molestation, the abusive relationship she endured right after she moved into her own apartment, and her two hospitalizations. In turn, he had told her about the difficulties he encountered growing up in the south. While he was from the south, he was not born of the south, or so he’d been told. He was labeled different by the time he was four years old. He wore it as a badge of honor once he hit his thirties. He was into the Clash before they got popular, and everything about him screamed dork! Leslie has not been able to find any evidence to the contrary, so she accepts provisionally that what he had told her about his childhood was mostly true.
Next, she reads a summary of the events leading up to Amy’s murder. Of course, the newspapers hash out her relationship with John ad nauseam. They go into great details about how she would disappear for days on end and the rumors that she was sleeping around on John—Freddy. It was common knowledge, apparently, that Amy was bipolar and when she was off her meds, there was no predicting what she would do. She may have thought she was being discreet during her dalliances, but she was often spotted around town with this young man or that—and the young man was always young—some even as young as her brother. She would always stop and chat if she ran into someone she knew, but she never introduced her paramour.
“So, John likes broken women,” Leslie says, exhaling loudly at the end of Rose’s recitation. “That’s why he chose me.”
“Amy? Honey? Where are you?” Freddy woke up with a start, finding himself alone in his bed. Amy had been with him when he fell asleep last night, and as she hated sleeping by herself, he couldn’t imagine she had gone home in the middle of the night. Freddy sat up in bed and glanced at his clock. Six in the morning, Saturday. Amy was most definitely not a morning person, so where the hell was she? Freddy got out of bed and slid on his boxers. He usually slept with them on, but after a night of lovemaking, he was more apt to leave them off. Freddy padded from room to room, softly calling Amy’s name. He would pause each time, silently begging her to answer him. Nothing.
“Very interesting. What does it have to do with John’s death?” Leslie has a one-track mind, and she is impatient for Rose to get to the important part. After a pause, Rose continues with her narration.
“Where have you been?” Freddy didn’t bother to look up as he heard Amy stumble through the door. It was after midnight, and she had been gone for a week this time—her longest stretch by far.
“Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted him,” Leslie whispers as she stares at the monitor. Something in her gut twinges, and she straightens her shoulders. “No. He was a good man. He was.” She has to hold on to that thought or she will go completely insane. It is painfully obvious that he had not completely truthful with her, but she knows that he had a good reason for hiding his past—she just has to find it.
“I told them they were crazy,” Siobhan says, her face flushing. “I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, and I knew that if you had known, you would have told me.”
As soon as the detectives leave, Leslie is off like a shot to find Siobhan. Leslie’s mind is whirling with the news she’s been told, and she still doesn’t know what the fuck to think. One thing she does know, however, is that she needs to get to John’s computer before the cops do. If what they are telling her is true, she knows she can find the answers on John’s laptop. He password-protected everything, and two weeks, three days, thirteen hours, twenty-four minutes, and nineteen seconds after he moved in, he had shown her his password list as he placed it in the top drawer of his desk. He wanted her to know that he had faith in her and that he had no secrets from her. Of course, Leslie never bothered using the passwords because she figured John would tell her anything she wanted to know, but she is grateful for them now.