lock on the back door. Go!”
“Right.” Taking a deep breath, I adjust my headphones, get out of my SUV, and remove a bouquet of roses and a clipboard from the back seat. With my head bowed and a baseball cap on my head, I walk briskly toward Ingrid’s house.
The street is quiet and no one appears to be around. I do hear a Sponge Bob’s laugh emanating from inside a house I pass on my way to Ingrid’s.
I pretended to knock at the door and wait.
“Clear,” Ritchie says in my ear.
Ritchie wanted to do the snooping around but I needed to be here, inside her home. She was in mine, so I am determined to get into hers and see who she is, what she is all about.
With a slight nod, I walk around to the back of the house.
Leaving the flowers on the ground, I open the back door that Ritchie had picked moments earlier and enter the house.
The interior of the property takes me by surprise. It’s totally different to the exterior – sparsely furnished with mismatched, well-worn couches, off-white lace curtains that are missing prongs, clean but stained carpets, and the wooden coffee table is a collage of children’s artwork and crayon marks.
A baby’s high-chair that has seen better days, stands in a corner.
The place is shabbily furnished but fairly neat, even though the sink has dirty dishes in it.
After using my iPhone to photograph the place, I navigate my way around a small tricycle, a plastic dump truck, and some Legos, upstairs into the main bedroom where I poke around.
It’s neat but the furniture is mismatched, old and marked.
Her dressing table has not much on it except a hairbrush, some antiperspirant, a spray can of Dove deodorant, and …concealer.
A lot of concealer.
L’Oreal, Revlon, Maybelline, Face of Australia, and Max Factor. All half-finished.
I’m taken aback. That’s how many jars and tubes of concealer I once used except mine were Mac, Estee Lauder, Bobby Brown, Shiseido, Channel, Clarins, Elizabeth Arden… you name it, I had it.
When you need the kind of cover I needed, you get really creative with concealer – learn how to blend and mix, and constantly experiment with different hues because of the smorgasbord of colours on your face – purple, blue, red, brown, yellow.
I used a lot of concealer for dark skins, even though I am white skinned. Then, I mixed like crazy.
Bet I could come up with an awesome range of concealers that would knock Bobby Brown and all her competitors out of the picture, if I wanted to.
But I won’t. I no longer use concealer, no longer own a single bit of it.
It brings back too many bad memories for me. Just the smell alone makes me anxious.
As I stare at offending tubes and jars, my mind races. If she is in a relationship with Tom, this copious amount of concealer, this variety, makes sense.
Let’s say she is; for him to physically abuse her, they would have to be intimate first.
Was she the woman he bragged about winning over?
Does she realize she can be imprisoned if the affair is discovered?
Tearing my eyes from the concealers, I poke around some more, open cupboards and shoe boxes, looking for …anything, really.
I find nothing. She lives simply, it seems.
On the top of her cupboards are two large gift boxes.
Curious, I pull them down and check them out. Bibles. About six of them.
So she’s religious. I mean, we’re talking six , not one in your nightstand like I have but never touch. (I’m happy to know it’s there should I need it.)
“She’s got six bibles,” I say out loud.
“Six?” Ritchie sounds curious.
“Huh, huh.”
“Six…you sure they’re bibles, Arena?”
“What do you mean?”
“Open them. Check for documents. Some people hide it in bibles.”
I open one and gasp.
“It’s hollowed out!”
“Really? Anything in it?”
“A diary!” I whisper and remove the book from inside the bible.
“Still wearing your gloves?”
“Huh, huh.” I open the diary. Maybe this will give me some clues or info to
“Right.” Taking a deep breath, I adjust my headphones, get out of my SUV, and remove a bouquet of roses and a clipboard from the back seat. With my head bowed and a baseball cap on my head, I walk briskly toward Ingrid’s house.
The street is quiet and no one appears to be around. I do hear a Sponge Bob’s laugh emanating from inside a house I pass on my way to Ingrid’s.
I pretended to knock at the door and wait.
“Clear,” Ritchie says in my ear.
Ritchie wanted to do the snooping around but I needed to be here, inside her home. She was in mine, so I am determined to get into hers and see who she is, what she is all about.
With a slight nod, I walk around to the back of the house.
Leaving the flowers on the ground, I open the back door that Ritchie had picked moments earlier and enter the house.
The interior of the property takes me by surprise. It’s totally different to the exterior – sparsely furnished with mismatched, well-worn couches, off-white lace curtains that are missing prongs, clean but stained carpets, and the wooden coffee table is a collage of children’s artwork and crayon marks.
A baby’s high-chair that has seen better days, stands in a corner.
The place is shabbily furnished but fairly neat, even though the sink has dirty dishes in it.
After using my iPhone to photograph the place, I navigate my way around a small tricycle, a plastic dump truck, and some Legos, upstairs into the main bedroom where I poke around.
It’s neat but the furniture is mismatched, old and marked.
Her dressing table has not much on it except a hairbrush, some antiperspirant, a spray can of Dove deodorant, and …concealer.
A lot of concealer.
L’Oreal, Revlon, Maybelline, Face of Australia, and Max Factor. All half-finished.
I’m taken aback. That’s how many jars and tubes of concealer I once used except mine were Mac, Estee Lauder, Bobby Brown, Shiseido, Channel, Clarins, Elizabeth Arden… you name it, I had it.
When you need the kind of cover I needed, you get really creative with concealer – learn how to blend and mix, and constantly experiment with different hues because of the smorgasbord of colours on your face – purple, blue, red, brown, yellow.
I used a lot of concealer for dark skins, even though I am white skinned. Then, I mixed like crazy.
Bet I could come up with an awesome range of concealers that would knock Bobby Brown and all her competitors out of the picture, if I wanted to.
But I won’t. I no longer use concealer, no longer own a single bit of it.
It brings back too many bad memories for me. Just the smell alone makes me anxious.
As I stare at offending tubes and jars, my mind races. If she is in a relationship with Tom, this copious amount of concealer, this variety, makes sense.
Let’s say she is; for him to physically abuse her, they would have to be intimate first.
Was she the woman he bragged about winning over?
Does she realize she can be imprisoned if the affair is discovered?
Tearing my eyes from the concealers, I poke around some more, open cupboards and shoe boxes, looking for …anything, really.
I find nothing. She lives simply, it seems.
On the top of her cupboards are two large gift boxes.
Curious, I pull them down and check them out. Bibles. About six of them.
So she’s religious. I mean, we’re talking six , not one in your nightstand like I have but never touch. (I’m happy to know it’s there should I need it.)
“She’s got six bibles,” I say out loud.
“Six?” Ritchie sounds curious.
“Huh, huh.”
“Six…you sure they’re bibles, Arena?”
“What do you mean?”
“Open them. Check for documents. Some people hide it in bibles.”
I open one and gasp.
“It’s hollowed out!”
“Really? Anything in it?”
“A diary!” I whisper and remove the book from inside the bible.
“Still wearing your gloves?”
“Huh, huh.” I open the diary. Maybe this will give me some clues or info to
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