Chapter 4 - THE WATER JUG
Forensic photographs from the shed were worse than memory.
The blue water jug sat beside the wall.
Two gallons originally.
About one pint remaining.
A plastic bucket.
A folded blanket.
Three electrolyte packets.
No food.
No prenatal vitamins.
A small battery lantern with low charge.
I had not found it until the second night because it was behind the mower.
Fenella had placed it there.
The detective asked:
“Did you think someone else stored those items normally?”
“No.”
“The blanket?”
Hall closet.
“Jug?”
Garage.
“Bucket?”
New.
“Lantern?”
Auberon’s camping gear in basement.
That established preparation.
Then the notebook.
Police did not show all of it immediately.
One photographed page entered the preliminary detention hearing.
Fenella’s handwriting.
MON — no calls.
TUE — water only.
WED — ask again.
THU — no arguing.
FRI — resolve before A home.
My stomach turned.
“A home.”
Auberon.
Then another line:
Keep car off property.
There.
Not spontaneous.
Then:
Phone battery.
Maris.
That word alone changed the room.
Fenella knew the cover story.
Then her lawyer argued:
The notes could be household reminders unrelated to confinement.
Maybe individually.
Together?
Hard.
Still, the judge would decide later.
Then the rain.
Auberon’s unexpected early arrival happened at 3:17 p.m.
Fenella’s notebook contained:
FRI 5:30 — unlock / shower / eat.
Then:
6:30 — A home.
There.
She had planned to release me ninety minutes before she expected him.
What happened at 5:30?
What was I supposed to say?
The next line was partly obscured.
Police enhanced the photograph enough to read:
If she refuses story, tell A she is unstable.
That did not prove what story.
Not yet.
Then:
Doctor if needed after.
I stared.
She knew I might require medical care.
May you like
After five days.
And still planned to wait.
