And When I Die, page 16
Ava snapped her watch around her good wrist, groaning as the skin trapped beneath her cast exploded in fire. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the bathroom, carefully inserting the metal blades into the opening between the cast and her hand, moaning as she was able to scratch the itch. As she returned the scissors to the drawer, she looked down the hallway again. Carly should have been up for school by now and she hadn’t heard a peep out of her all morning. Maybe she thought she could call in sick, something Kyle would let her get away with but that Ava wouldn’t tolerate. She bit her lip and made the march down the hallway to plant her ear against the door. No sounds. No crying. No vomiting. No nothing. Ava raised her hand and knocked firmly against the door, calling out Carly’s name. She waited a few seconds before repeating.
“What?” came the barely perceptible reply from the other side.
Ava took that as an invitation to open the door. Carly was dressed for school, slowly filling her book bag, her back turned to Ava.
“You okay?” Ava asked.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t hear you get up this morning.”
Carly turned slowly, a ‘duh’ look on her face. “I’m up.”
“Right.” She inhaled slowly. “Did you eat breakfast?”
“I had a yogurt.”
“Oh. Okay.” Ava chewed on her bottom lip. This may not have been the perfect time to ask Carly what she meant on Sunday, but she was seized with a sudden need to because she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Carly—”
“I told Lexi and Peyton I’d meet them this morning,” Carly said, brushing past her. “I’m going to be late.”
“Do you have pom practice after school?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I was thinking maybe we could go to Sweet’s today. Just the two of us.”
“You won’t be home that early.”
She winced inwardly at the truth of that statement. “Well, maybe you and I could grab dinner and go to Sweet’s afterward for some ice cream.”
Carly’s phone sounded with a text and she looked down at the screen, deftly responding to the message with one hand. “I really have to go, Mom,” she said as she rushed out, leaving Ava standing in her room.
Ava wrinkled her nose as she navigated around a mound of clothes on the floor. “Carly—”
The girl was out the door, slamming it behind her, shaking the whole house.
“Damn it.” Ava kneaded her forehead. When the hell had she lost control? If she was being honest, that had probably happened years ago and obviously, when she wasn’t looking. She sighed as she looked at her watch, tripping over another pile of clothes as she did so.
“For the love of—” She sighed and bent down to move the mound, most of which crawled under the bed. Ava wrinkled her nose as she gathered up the pile so she could throw it down the laundry chute next door to Carly’s room. With so little of her dirty clothes making it down the chute on a regular basis, one would think she actually had to carry them downstairs.
A pair of pants and two shirts broke free and Ava bent down to scoop them back up, causing a few items from the top to tumble to the ground in solidarity. She groaned and snatched everything back up into a big ball.
And that’s when she saw it.
Ava dropped the jumble as she picked up the sweatshirt she remembered seeing Carly in last Saturday.
Blood.
Caked and red and unmistakable.
She gasped, momentarily paralyzed. Whose blood was this?
Carly’s?
Or Whitney’s?
Ava’s knees buckled and her head floated to the ceiling. She sank to the bed, staring at this blood, running her fingers over it hypnotically, memorizing the pattern, the stiffness.
The front door slammed shut and Kyle called upstairs. She’d forgotten he was working from home today and had made a coffee run. Without thinking, she kicked all the other clothes back under the bed, balled the shirt up in her good hand and hid it behind her back. She raced out of the room just as Kyle reached the top of the stairs.
“Morning, Mate,” he said kissing her lightly on the lips.
“Hey.”
“Right, what’s all that huffing and puffing, then?” he asked.
“Oh—um,” she sputtered as she searched for something plausible to say. “I was just—”
Kyle’s phone rang and she exhaled as he went digging in his pocket for it, quickly becoming preoccupied with whoever was on the other end. Ava turned and ran to their room, not wanting him to see her with the bloody shirt in her hand. She slammed the door and fell against it, her heart pounding as she closed her eyes.
Kyle would be coming in soon.
She needed to hide this until she figured out what to do.
Beads of sweat popped up across her forehead as she stood in the middle of the room, turning and turning in search of a good hiding place.
Ava licked her lips and ran into her closet in search of the wide shoe box for the pumps she’d bought two weeks ago and just hadn’t gotten around to tossing yet. She grunted and the fingers of her good hand trembled as she pulled the box down from the top shelf and removed the lid, shoving the shirt inside. Just as she slammed the lid back down, Kyle opened the bedroom door. She hurriedly threw the box back on the top shelf as he poked his head around the closet door.
“What are you doing? Why’d you slam the door?”
“Did I?” she asked.
“Yeah, Mate.” He laughed. “You don’t remember, then?”
“You know what? I’m late,” she said before she kissed his cheek, hoping he wouldn’t feel her quivering or notice how warm she was. She quickly gathered up her purse and briefcase and raced downstairs, trying not to think about the shoe box and what was inside.
37
JORDAN
Jordan pulled at the collar of her sweater, the fabric itchy and blistering against her neck. It was one of those weird days when it was too hot for a sweater but not cold enough for a coat or jacket. Getting comfortable was impossible.
Not that she’d worried about her clothes this morning when she got dressed.
A pall continued to hang dark and heavy over the student body, even now, five days after the murder. During the all-school assembly on Monday, Principal Bain prattled on about Whitney and how much she meant to the East Lake Forest community, rattling off her résumé of bests and firsts and mosts like a proud grandmother at a family reunion. The principal had repeatedly gestured to all of the school guidance counselors sitting behind her with the appropriate looks of concern and distress that they were all ready, willing, and able to provide counsel to any student who wanted to talk about how they felt. Students were discouraged from granting media interviews, but from what Jordan had seen all week, it didn’t stop anyone. That bigmouth Dionne Cruise was the worst of all, spouting fake tears and hysterics for the cameras any chance she got, totally exaggerating her connection to the most popular girl in school.
Like she knew Whitney. Like any of them did.
School itself had been like swimming through a lightning storm with her eyes closed. Torture. Not just because the hallways and classrooms buzzed incessantly with the disbelief over Whitney’s murder, but also, due to the slyly pointed fingers, laser beam gazes burning holes into her, barely concealed whispers containing her own name.
Jordan Mitchell, suspect number one.
The late afternoon sun pelted her face as she made her way off campus. Since her mother took her car, she was stuck with the school bus, which she’d missed because she got busy in the library last period. She now had to walk the mile plus to the Pace bus stop and wait for another forty-five minutes to an hour or call her mother. She’d rather deal with the long walk. Despite apologizing to Mrs. Dean about Whitney’s party, Jordan remained grounded. It felt weird to think this way but to Jordan, it didn’t seem to matter anymore, apologizing. Whitney was gone.
As she started to make her way in the direction of the stop, a police car slow-rolled beyond the perimeter of campus. She’d seen two this morning when her mom dropped her off. An increased police presence around the school wasn’t the only security measure, as the district had also hired additional safety and security guards, urging students to buddy up with each other outside of school hours, to never walk around campus alone.
Music blasted from the direction of the practice field where she knew the pom squad was rehearsing. Jordan stopped and turned, lulled by the beat of the music and her memories. She walked toward the field, ducking beneath the dark, cool bleachers, where she knew no one would see her peeking through the open spaces between the metal steps, rays of sun shooting through the slats. As she watched the girls twist, twirl, and smile, she felt a tug of remorse. She was so mad at Whitney for the bullshit she’d pulled on her over the summer, she just wanted to get as far away from her as she could. So, she quit, stunning pretty much everyone, herself included.
She’d never tell her mother—she’d never tell anyone—but, if she was being honest, she missed it.
Jordan watched Coach K on the sidelines, the strands of her blond Dutch boy haircut blowing in the breeze, her compact gymnast’s body swathed in an oversized multicolored track suit. She slowly stalked the field, her clipboard affixed to her hand, looking up every few seconds to observe the girls’ moves as she scribbled notes. Her Wrong Notes, as she and Whitney used to call them. Coach K would always have everyone do the routine through once while she took notes about what each girl needed to do to improve, before making them practice it over and over until their arms were limp as spaghetti, their legs jelly, their faces crimson, bodies soaked in salty sweat.
Jordan and Whitney never got Wrong Notes. Well, almost never. It’d be stupid stuff like hold a turn a little longer or kick a little higher. She always thought Coach K just did that so the other girls wouldn’t think she favored them or something. Even though she did. Everyone knew she did. Jordan and Whitney were the stars of the team. A spectacular pair. They would have ruled the team this year, no question about it. They would have been co-captains and there would have been no animosity about having to share, either. They made each other better. Stronger. There would have been no stopping the team with Jordan and Whitney at the helm.
They were both nearly letter perfect each and every time.
The song they were practicing to ended and Coach K clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. She ran through her notes, calling out Madison for, as usual, not straightening out her arms enough and Peyton for forgetting to smile when she came out of her turns. Every time.
“All right, girls, a change of plans. I know we’ve been working on the Cake routine, but after a lot of careful thought, I’ve decided to pull it in favor of Hotline.”
They all looked at each other, and it was clear that unease and confusion were pressing against them. Jordan knew why.
Lexi raised her hand. “Coach K?”
“Yeah, Lexi?”
Lexi chewed on her lip and looked around at all the girls. “Like, totally not to step on your toes or anything, but shouldn’t we keep practicing the Cake routine? I mean, we’ve been working on it for a while now.”
“I think under the circumstances, it’s best if we pick back up with the Hotline routine.”
Lexi raised her hand again. “Okay, but I think it would be a really cool tribute to Whitney if we kept on with her routine. I totally think she would want us to.”
A murmur of approval tittered through the crowd and Jordan fought to keep the sting of tears behind her eyes from bursting forth.
This was harder than she thought.
“Girls—”
“Well, let’s ask Whitney’s best friend,” Peyton said.
Jordan’s heart skipped a beat. Could they see her under the bleachers? She braced for all eyes to turn to her.
Instead, they swiveled to Carly Ewing.
“Don’t you think we should do the routine as a tribute to Whitney?” Madison asked, looking at Carly.
Carly looked from girl to girl, before she nodded. “I think Whitney would totally love that.”
Coach K sighed and nodded. Jordan couldn’t tell if she was smiling or frowning. “All right, let’s just keep practicing the routine then.” She looked at all the girls. “For Whitney.”
Jordan wiped away a tear. This was too much. She had to get out of here.
She gripped the handle of her book bag on her shoulder as she inched her way out from beneath the bleachers. Jordan gasped as she ran smack into Dionne.
“What are you doing here?” Dionne asked in her usual snotty tone, snapping her gum, before she flung her hair over her shoulder. “I thought you quit.”
Jordan put her hand on her hip, her eyes flicking up and down the length of Dionne’s body. “Here for pom practice, Dionne? Oh, wait, you never made the team. How many times did you tryout again?”
Red humiliation bloomed across Dionne’s cheeks. Jordan had watched the girl audition for pom since eighth grade and no matter how many private dance lessons her mother shelled out money for, she would never make the squad. No rhythm, no flair, no coordination. The girl was one long Wrong Note.
“Whatever,” was the best Dionne could come back with. She cracked her gum again. “Maybe you’re looking for your next victim?”
Jordan’s heart fluttered. “Excuse me?”
“Where were you that day, Jordan? Huh?” Dionne hissed. “Where were you on Saturday?”
“What?”
“Where were you when Whitney was being stabbed to death?”
Jordan scoffed and went to step around Dionne, who blocked her. “Leave me alone, you freak show.”
“I’ll bet the police are coming for you right now.”
Jordan’s mouth went dry. “Get out of my way, Dionne.”
“When they question me, I’m going to make sure they know they should talk to you. That you totally betrayed your best friend. That you probably killed her.”
“I didn’t do it,” Jordan said, her voice pitching upward.
“Look at how you acted at her party. Totally ruined everything. Whitney said you couldn’t be trusted. You totally killed her, because you’re nothing but a jealous ho bag who nobody likes.”
She backed away, Dionne’s words slicing into her like a million, pointed little blades. “I didn’t do it,” she repeated.
Dionne rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Because she couldn’t think of what else to do, Jordan turned and ran, hoping Dionne hadn’t noticed how badly her fingers trembled.
38
ERICA
Erica ripped back the foil cover of her fresh pack of contacts, carefully extracting the tiny oval and fitting it onto her cornea, repeating the process with her other eye, blinking them into place. She swept the empty foil and plastic packets into the wastebasket next to her before knotting up the garbage bag to carry downstairs and take outside.
She checked the timer on the potato gratin she’d made for Lauren, an attempt at busy work, since the pursuit of her actual work had been an exercise in futility. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Whitney.
Or Jordan.
She hated to admit there was another uncomfortable thought biting into her, which was Jordan’s whereabouts on Saturday night. The notion had wrestled with her since the girl came blowing through the door, a complete mess, and shifty-looking to boot. Despite pushing down her unease, she needed to know if her daughter was telling the truth, hence why she’d called Ted Zindel, hoping he could allay her growing unease.
Her phone rang from the pocket of her pants. She grimaced when she saw Ted Zindel’s name flashing urgently across her screen, alternately scared and hopeful at what he might tell her.
“Ted, hi, how are you?” she asked brightly as she stepped outside to drop the trash bag into one of the bins out back.
“Fine, thank you. Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away. I’m just getting home from several back-to-back business trips.”
She closed the kitchen door behind her and slowly paced the length of the island in the middle of the cavernous room. “Quite all right. I appreciate you getting back to me.”
“Tell Jay I’m looking forward to our next golf game.”
Erica rolled her eyes, scoffing to herself. “I definitely will.”
“What can I do for you? You mentioned something in your voicemail about Jordan?”
She paused. “Yes. About her babysitting for you the other night—”
“Baby—did you say babysitting?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Erica, Jordan didn’t babysit for us, not the other night, not for a year, at least.”
The twin lumps of fear and fury clamped her throat shut. “You’re sure?” she croaked. “Absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Trini has asked, a few times in fact, but Jordan has always been busy, so we’ve used someone else.”
She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Kick something. This girl had deliberately lied to her about where she was on Saturday.
“Why do you ask?” Ted asked, interrupting her ruminations.
“What?”
“Why are you asking about—”
“I apologize, Ted, I must have misunderstood. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Sure. Tell Jay—”
“Yes. Golf. I’ll tell him. Goodbye, Ted.”
She hung up on his sputtering, red rage dancing in front of her eyes, unable to focus on anything else except Saturday.
The front door slammed open. Jordan. Home from school. Erica smoothed her hair down, her mission sliding into focus. Jordan huffed into the kitchen and beelined for the refrigerator for her customary after-school snack of blueberry Greek yogurt, mumbling a monotone greeting.
Erica folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the kitchen island, watching her daughter rifle through the silverware drawer for a spoon.
