The Only One Left by Riley Sager

THIRTEEN

The thing I remember most--the thing I still have nightmares about--is when it was all but over.

That’s what Lenora typed first, hours ago, when the sun was still rising over the Atlantic. The full sentence took me by surprise. Until then, she’d only typed fragments, ignoring rules of capitalization and punctuation. It took a few confused seconds from me and a few exasperated taps from her before I realized she wanted me to press the shift key while she typed that first capital T. It took even longer for us to settle into some semblance of a rhythm. We got there eventually, though.

And that’s where we remain, even though the sun has left the sky and the murky light of dusk now settles over the ocean outside. Lenora uses her good hand to brush against mine, a signal she needs me to press the shift key. When the typewriter dings, I hit the return bar, bringing the carriage back to a new line. She types some more and nods, the sign I’m to nudge it again and start a new paragraph.

We keep the door closed so no one will bother us. Lenora insisted, although I don’t know why. Other than Archie, who delivered lunch with a terse rap on the door, I haven’t heard anyone moving about the second floor. And while it feels as if Lenora is an afterthought in her own estate, it might be because I’m now here. Her caregiver. A role I try to continue while doubling as a secretary.

After each page, I massage Lenora’s left hand, make her take a sip of water through a straw, and ask if she wants to continue. The answer is always two eager taps against the typewriter. There’s an unmistakable zeal to her typing. She rarely pauses to think about what she’s going to write. The story simply crashes onto the page, as if Lenora had written it all in her head years ago and is just now setting it free.

What that story is, I still don’t know. Between responding to Lenora’s signals, constantly tapping the return bar, and removing and inserting pages into the typewriter, I haven’t had much opportunity to see what she’s writing.

Lenora brushes my hand, and I press the shift key. Two more presses and two nods later, she finally lays her hand flat against the keys—her signal that another chapter is finished.

I pluck the page from the typewriter and place it facedown atop the sixteen others we’ve typed today. A staggering amount. Yet if Lenora’s tired, she shows no sign of it. She gives me an expectant look, as if waiting for me to insert a fresh page into the carriage.

“We’ve done enough for today,” I say. At least I have. Unlike Lenora, I’m exhausted. Being hunched next to her all day has left me stiff and aching. When I stand up straight, half my joints let out a relieved crackle. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

The rest of the evening proceeds on schedule. Dinner and pills. Dessert. Circulation exercises, then bath, then bed. Lenora spends all of it lost in thought. Presumably composing what she plans to type tomorrow.

I know the feeling well. When that article about me ran in the newspaper, I called the reporter and demanded he hear my side of the story. The reporter listened with disinterest while I told him my mother’s death was suicide, that leaving those pills within her reach was simply an accident, that I would never do anything to hurt her.

“Detective Vick says otherwise,” the reporter said, as if the police’s word was gospel and I was merely a liar trying to cover my tracks.

That was six months ago, and I still sometimes get the pent-up urge to shout my innocence from every rooftop in town. I can only imagine how Lenora feels. It’s been fifty-four years for her. No wonder she doesn’t want to stop typing.

After putting her to bed and placing the call button next to her hand, I say, “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Lenora taps twice on the bedspread.

I nod. “Then I’ll stay.”

She closes her eyes and I gather the typed pages and take them to the divan. As Lenora’s breathing deepens with sleep, I begin to read what she typed. Despite seeing snippets all day, I’m surprised by the quality of her writing. I assumed the prose would be choppy and weak—a string of half sentences not unlike the typed responses she’s given me. Instead, Lenora is a natural storyteller. Her writing is clear and unfussy, while retaining a distinctive voice. From the very first line, I’m hooked.

By the time I’m near the end, though, my surprise has curved into shock.

Now I know what happened to the knife used to kill Winston and Evangeline Hope.

Lenora tossed it into the ocean.

That act—plus the fact that her nightgown was covered in blood—makes her look more guilty than ever.

It doesn’t help that she declares herself both good and evil. Now, some of that could be attributed to her home life, which was anything but happy. An addict mother. A philandering father. A sister she seemed to have nothing in common with. No wonder Lenora longed for escape and the attention of someone of the opposite sex. I know that feeling all too well, even now in my thirties. It’s why I started sleeping with Kenny, after all. But Lenora was so young, so inexperienced. When you’re that age, full of raging emotions and, yes, desire, it’s very possible Lenora saw those natural feelings as wicked—or worse.

Yet that doesn’t explain the bloody nightgown.

Or getting rid of the weapon that killed her parents.

Or why she fetched a rope as her sister’s screams rang through the house.

I can’t stop thinking about all of that as I read the last three sentences Lenora typed today.

But here’s the thing--I wasn’t a good girl.

Not in the least.

You’ll see for yourself very soon.

I lower the pages and look to the bed, where Lenora lies fast asleep. As I watch her, a sense of unease creeps over me.

I’d assumed she wanted to tell her story in an attempt to finally clear her name. And that she chose me to help because she saw us as kindred spirits. One falsely accused woman telling her story to another, working together to declare her innocence.

Now I fear it’s the opposite.

Lenora didn’t pick me because she thinks I’m innocent.

She did it because she thinks I’m guilty.

And what we’ve been typing today isn’t an attempt to clear her name.

It’s a confession.