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June 21, 1989
Matt lied to Cherry about his name two days ago. It was alarming and it certainly made me more suspicious of him. Who goes around casually going by an alias when asked what their name is? And the strangest part is that it was natural to Matt, introducing himself as "Dale." He could've picked a better name—there's not a single man who will willingly tell strangers their name is Dale. It's ridiculous. He had every opportunity to present himself as Spencer or something and it would've suited him more.
If he was able to lie so easily about his name, what else is he capable of doing? It gnaws at me harshly. So much so that it keeps me up at night. It's not technically easy to just knock on their front door and start a conversation with: "Hey, there's something off about you. Who really are you?" I'll only be called a lunatic or have a door slammed in my face.
I would pay to be a wallflower in his room to know what kind of person he truly is. Surely, he isn't just a quiet, cigarette addict, timid boy. Right?
Adelaide scribbles interminable words in her journal that is resting on the arm of the sofa. It's a quiet Wednesday morning in the Westwood household. Adelaide is in one corner of the couch, writing away. Ramona is painting her nails with precision on the floor, her hand resting on the coffee table. Roman is sipping coffee whilst flickering through the channels with the remote on the other end of the couch. Marisol is knitting quietly in one of the accent chairs adjacent to the couch, most likely another sweater that she loves to create for her granddaughters.
"What are you writing about, poppet? You've been scribbling so fast for ten minutes."
Adelaide lifts her head, looking over at her father as she pauses. Flashing him with a small smile, she waves him off. "Just writing a story, nothing to worry about." Roman hums in response, not prying any further. Sipping his freshly brewed coffee, he resumes finding a suitable channel with content worth watching.
