And When I Die, page 14
Dr. White left and Ava sat in bed for a few moments before slowly pulling on her snug black tee and wrestling with her jeans. As her father would say, she felt as tired as a mosquito after a picnic. Before a final sweep to make sure she had everything she came in with, Ava sent a voice text to Kyle to come and pick her up. She trudged out to the admit desk for her discharge, ready to crawl into bed and put this miserable day behind her.
The couple who had brought in the girl earlier flashed across her mind and she scanned the waiting room for them, wondering if they were still there. She spotted them in a corner, the wife’s head resting against the wall behind her, her eyes closed, the garish slash of blood still streaked across her sweater. The husband stared at the floor, his legs crossed at the ankles, the salt and pepper curls slicked back from his pale face, which was pinched in thought. Ava bit her lip and contemplated sidling up next to them and chatting them up to glean the details of what had happened.
Just as she started to edge toward them, the metal doors swung open with a whoosh to spit out the doctor who’d run past her earlier, now removing her latex gloves, eyes skimming the room for the couple. They looked up, hope smeared across their faces as the cops headed the doctor off, no doubt to let her know the couple wasn’t next of kin. Not far behind, another nurse emerged from the doors to hand over what looked to be a bloody wristlet purse to the police as the doctor sighed and shook her head, her shoulders slumped, the message clear.
The girl was dead.
31
CARLY
She ran.
Her feet splashed into craters overflowing with rain as she dashed toward her car. Her socks, white and fresh from the dryer this morning, now waterlogged, squished insistently inside her sneakers, themselves gray with water, as she bolted for the safety of her car. The rain had stopped momentarily, leaving the air fresh and clean, her skin slimy and raw, the itch for a hot shower and the toasty warmth of her favorite plaid green pajama pants, slouchy blue socks, and oversized Northwestern hoodie propelling her forward.
Carly dove into the car and slammed the door shut, the silence and sudden stillness engulfing her, ringing in her ears, prickling across her skin. She gripped the steering wheel, her breath coming in heavy, gasping spurts, the dots of rain on her windshield splashing shadows of oversized circles against the interior. She squeezed the hard plastic tighter, unable to start the car, fear keeping her hands glued in position.
Fucking Jordan. This was all her fault. Why did she have to come to Whitney’s party last week and ruin everything? If she’d just stayed home and minded her own damn business, there never would have been a fight and Whitney never would have gotten mad at Carly for not jumping in the middle of everything to defend her. Carly hadn’t proved to be the good little soldier after all and Whitney had let it be known she was a total failure and she was icing her out.
Which had left Carly no choice.
She closed her eyes, whispering commands to herself while simultaneously trying the deep breathing her meditation app was always preaching, but that Carly could never quite seem to master. She squeezed her face in even harder concentration, willing her finger to put the fob in the ignition, press start, and drive herself home.
A flash of lightening followed by rapid pops of thunder, like fireworks detonating all at once, jerked her eyes open. It was time to go home. Carly sniffed back the line of mucous threatening to crawl out of her nose and started the car, flipping on the wipers, hitting the lights, scrunching up her toes inside her wet socks as she put the car in gear and pressed the accelerator.
A fresh wave of rain spit against her windows, before a wallop of water pounded the glass. Her wipers squealed in protest as she turned them up two settings to wash away the rain.
Her phone trilled beside her, the screen lighting up with her dad’s face. Carly ignored it. Whatever he wanted, it could wait.
Carly inched across the rain-swollen streets of Lake Forest, desperate to get home. Finally, she turned down her street, her anxiety swelling like a balloon the closer she got to what she was sure was her empty house. It was times like these that she missed her brother, Jimmy, away at Berkley for his freshman year of college. On a lonely, rainy Saturday night when their parents were out and neither of them had plans with friends, they’d watch movies, or play cards or video games, though Jimmy was way better than her at both. Between their crazy busy jobs and hobbies that stretched from book clubs to poker nights, her parents weren’t really homebodies, so there was every chance they wouldn’t be home on Saturday night. Probably what her dad was calling to tell her. Like it mattered.
As expected, Carly’s driveway was empty as she pulled up. Saying a silent prayer, she came to a frantic, haphazard stop, the car jutting out at a crazy angle. Thinking better of it, Carly repositioned it before she ran into her dark, empty house—it not occurring to her until later that Alexa was supposed to have turned on some of the lights an hour ago—then she flew up the stairs to her room, slamming the door behind her. She collapsed against the floor, bells ringing in the muffled hollows of her ears, her heart pounding fast and furious against her ribcage. Outside, the rain beat against the windowpanes.
The rain.
She glanced down at her hands, distressed to see the rain hadn’t washed away the blood.
32
LAUREN
“I agree, we need to ground her. At least a week.”
“Two weeks,” Lauren said. “No phone, no car.” She looked down at her own phone again, her rage rising like mercury, dangerously close to the boiling point. “I’m now officially beyond pissed.”
Steve pulled into the driveway and Lauren frowned. Whitney’s car was still there, just like it had been when she’d come home earlier to pick up Parker for his sleepover. The electricity appeared to be restored from the storm and the timers for the outside lights and living room were on, the windows upstairs dark.
“What the hell?” Lauren said, more to herself than Steve at the sight of Whitney’s car. If she’d been home, why wasn’t she answering any of Lauren’s texts or calls? They glanced at each other and she knew he was just as confused as she was.
“Maybe she was out earlier and came home and fell asleep,” Steve said. “And Parker didn’t think to look in her room.”
“Steve, she hasn’t answered her phone all day,” Lauren said, her heart pounding, her spine now tingling with the heat of fear, the mother’s intuition that something was wrong. “And Parker said he did look in her room and she wasn’t there.”
He exhaled. “Come on. Let’s go inside, find out what’s going on.”
They entered the house, shadows receding from the gray and silver wallpaper, the glass coffee tables and slate gray couch and matching chairs as they flipped on more lights. As Steve checked the alarm, Lauren called out for Whitney as she poked her head into each room. She tried to tamp down her growing panic as she went upstairs to Whitney’s room, turning on the light to find what she suspected.
An empty bed.
Lauren ran downstairs. She’d call Peyton’s mother, Regina. Maybe her phone had died. Maybe it was broken or lost. Maybe Peyton had come to pick her up—because as a new driver, Whitney was nervous about driving in the rain—and the girls were huddled up at her house, watching Netflix and taking selfies. She had no choice but to wrap herself in these increasingly improbable scenarios, anything to avoid confronting the painfully glaring obvious.
Something was wrong.
She grabbed her phone from her purse, ignoring the trembling of her fingers as she located the number, how hard her heart was beating.
“Lauren, hi, how are—”
“Regina, I need to talk to Whitney.”
“Whitney? She’s not here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Lauren—I—I wouldn’t say she wasn’t here if she was.”
She rubbed her forehead as she paced across her living room. “Can you put Peyton on the phone?”
“What’s going on?”
“Just put her on the phone. Please.”
“All right,” Regina said, sounding flummoxed before she called out to Peyton, who came to the phone after a few seconds.
“Hi, Mrs. Dean.”
“Where’s Whitney?” she asked, hoping the hysteria didn’t creep into her words.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since this afternoon.”
“What time was that?”
“Um … maybe around one-fifteen, one-thirty? Hold on, let me check. No, yeah, it was one-thirty.”
“What did she say? What did you talk about?”
“We were going to meet up at the mall, but then she texted me back and said she had something else to do instead and would call me later.”
Steve stood in the threshold between the living room and foyer, concern crinkling his face. She shook her head to indicate she still didn’t have any answers.
“Did she say what she had to do?”
The girl hesitated and Lauren could picture her twirling her hair as she tried to avoid looking at her mother, who was no doubt standing over her, a mixture of concern and confusion clouding her face.
“Peyton?” Lauren repeated.
“No.”
“Honey, you’re not in trouble, but I need you to tell me, right now, where Whitney is.”
Lauren could hear Regina in the background asking what was wrong, and finally the girl sighed. “She just said she had something to take care of and she’d call me back. I swear that was all, Mrs. Dean.”
“Take care of what?”
“I don’t know, I—”
Lauren knocked her fist against her forehead. “Did she tell you where she was going? Was she meeting someone?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Dean, I swear to you.” The girl sounded on the verge of tears and it was obvious to Lauren she really didn’t know where Whitney was.
“Okay.” She sighed. “If you hear from Whitney, you tell her to call me right away.”
“Sure, Mrs. De—”
Lauren didn’t give the girl a chance to finish, ending the call, shaking her head.
“What happened?” Steve asked.
Lauren paused, her finger already on the nine. “She said they were going to meet up at the mall, then Whit texted that she had something to take care of instead and would call her later.”
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
“Do you … do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Do I—what? Are you joking? Our daughter could have been kidnapped or in an accident or, who knows what—”
“I just meant maybe there’s a really simple explanation.”
“Don’t you dare tell me I’m overreacting.” The 911 operator came on the line and Lauren held up her finger to indicate her husband should stop talking. “Yes, my daughter is missing.”
“Okay, ma’am, you say your daughter is missing?”
“Yes, I—” The doorbell rang and Lauren’s heart lurched. Whitney. She must have forgotten her keys or lost them somewhere. She was fine. Her baby was fine.
“Ma’am?”
“My doorbell, I think—”
Her face fell as Steve opened the door to two uniformed police officers and the glare of red and blue lights flashing from her driveway. She shook her head, knowing they were there to tell her something horrible about her daughter, some awful thing about her daughter.
Sorrow and shock closed around her as she heard one of the officers ask if he was Steve Dean and if his daughter’s name was Whitney.
Which was when Lauren knew her daughter was dead.
33
AVA
Still numb with disbelief, Ava stared at the morning paper splayed out on the table, Whitney Dean’s smiling face staring up at her.
When the news about Whitney Dean being stabbed to death flashed across her phone shortly before one this morning, waking her out of a fitful sleep, it had rocked Ava to realize she’d practically been standing next to the girl as she lay dying on a hospital gurney. It made the pain of her fractured wrist seem less than trivial. Her first thought was to call Lauren. The next snowball of emotions was shock, then horror, then relief, then guilt because her own daughter was slumbering down the hall, safe and sound. Then came the cavalcade of text messages from friends, everyone stupefied that pretty, popular, charmed Whitney Dean had been murdered in their safe, quiet little suburb, the kind of place where the police would do a vacation home watch for you if you left town for more than five days. It was so unbearably trite, but things like that didn’t happen here. Nothing bad happened here. Unlike Chicago, the police department of this affluent community was exceedingly underworked, so much so, Ava didn’t have a lot of faith they’d even solve this—not without some outside help. She’d read a newspaper article last year that the chances of being the victim of a violent crime in Lake Forest was one in one hundred and fifty.
Because nothing bad ever happened here.
And yet, something bad had happened.
She glanced up at the ceiling in the direction of Carly’s room. Ava wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d snuck into the girl’s room and swiped her phone from the nightstand, not wanting to risk her waking up in the middle of the night to the news. Carly’s back had been to her, muffled snores fluttering from her mouth as Ava stared down at her, tears pricking her eyes with equal parts guilt and gratitude.
Kyle shuffled into the kitchen, the crust of a good night’s sleep clinging to his eyes, his plaid boxers and beat-up navy blue t-shirt still clinging to his lanky runner’s body. “How’s the nub, then, Mate?” he asked as he ran his hand across his tight black waves and beelined for the coffee.
“Like shit.”
“Right,” Kyle said as he took his first sip. “Still can’t believe someone pinched my suits.”
Ava smacked her good hand against the table, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? This again?”
“I guess I have to take PTO tomorrow and go buy some more,” he mused more to himself than Ava.
“Oh, cry me a fucking river,” she said as she picked up her coffee mug, grimacing at the iciness of the liquid inside. “Look, we need to talk to Carly.”
“Huh? What? Right now? Should we go and roust her?”
“Yes. No. Hell, I don’t know.” Ava exhaled as she pushed back from the table. “Where’s the handbook for this one?”
“I still can’t believe it,” Kyle said, grabbing a banana out of the bowl of fruit on the counter. “Whitney Dean. Of all people. Here, of all places.”
“You aren’t safe anywhere,” Ava murmured as she dumped her coffee and poured herself a fresh one. “Even here.”
“I guess not. That’s bonkers that you actually saw Whitney last night in the ER.” He shook his head. “Bloody insane.”
“I didn’t know it was her. Trust me, I still can’t believe it myself. I wonder if I should call Lauren or wait a few days,” Ava murmured as she stirred cream and sugar into her mug.
“I’d give it a few days. I’m sure things are crazy over there.”
“Yeah. Probably. Anyway, back to Carly. We should be the ones to tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
Ava and Kyle whipped around to see a pale, withdrawn Carly, sunken dark circles pulling at her eyes. She stood at the threshold of the kitchen, a mixture of curiosity and fear clouding her face. They glanced at each other, the pleading look of who could come up with a game plan faster passing between them.
“Hey, honey. How’d you sleep?” Ava asked as a way of stalling.
“Did you take my phone?” Carly asked as she headed in the direction of the kitchen table, and more specifically, the morning paper, Whitney’s picture splashed across the front.
“Carly—” Ava dashed over to snatch up the newspaper, but Carly beat her to it. First, she frowned, then her face collapsed as she realized what her mother hadn’t wanted her to see.
“Is this—is this true? About Whitney?” she asked, her voice trembling. “She’s dead?”
“Honey—” Ava said.
“Come on, Lamb, why don’t you sit down?” Kyle interjected, attempting to guide her to a kitchen chair.
“That can’t—that can’t be true.” Carly shuddered as though she were standing outside in the pouring rain of yesterday. “She can’t be, she can’t be, I—I didn’t think that would happen—that’s not what was supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to die—”
Carly’s eyes rolled into the back of her head right as her knees buckled, and Ava thanked God Kyle was there to catch her.
34
RON
Ron took a tentative sip of his coffee, hoping his trembling hands wouldn’t betray him and send all that black liquid running down his worn white work shirt as he watched Mrs. Perkins, one of the geometry teachers, gab furiously with American history teacher Mr. Staub about Whitney Dean’s brutal murder, the talk of the teacher’s lounge.
In truth, it was the talk of Lake Forest. The lead story on every newscast, her smiling pom squad picture splattered across all the local papers. The disbelief had rumbled across Coffee City during the hour he spent there yesterday morning. His trip to the grocery store last night revealed clerks and customers chattering nonstop, in a tailspin that someone would murder such a lovely girl in their wealthy, sheltered community where bad things didn’t happen. All night, his phone pinged with text messages from friends and family asking if he knew Whitney. He’d only responded with a terse, “yes” each time and that he was too in shock to talk about it.
Driving into school this morning, TV cameras, photographers, and eagle-eyed, anxious-looking reporters rimmed the edges of campus, shouting questions at students and teachers alike as they fought their way past the crowds. The superintendent had instructed all staff and faculty via a concise email late last night to say nothing, to give no interviews and to refer any and all direct inquiries to the district’s PR director. Students had no such compunction about talking to the media, as he’d seen several standing on the sidewalk across from school being interviewed as he made his way inside.
