And When I Die, page 18
Erica’s smile faltered. “Of course.” She held the foil-covered dish out in front of her. “Please. It’s just a little something for your family.”
“My family.” The tears stabbed her eyes like pricks from a needle. Her family would never be the same.
“Oh, Lauren. You’ll … you’ll get through this. You will.”
Lauren swiped at her face, her hands now slippery and salty with tears. “That’s very sweet, Erica,” she said, her voice stoic.
“You can put it in the fridge, heat it up for later. You don’t have to eat it now.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay.” Erica pressed her lips together and nodded. “I don’t want to keep you—”
“I should have been home that night,” Lauren whispered, more to herself than to the woman standing in front of her offering commiserations in a glass dish. “I knew something was wrong. I just knew it. Why didn’t I come home—?”
“Lauren. Oh, Lauren,” Erica said, her own tears glistening against her cheeks.
“And now, she’s gone.” Lauren choked back a sob. “Gone forever.”
“It’s—it’s too horrible to even think about, I know. But please, if there is anything I can do, anything you need—”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Erica, but I’m really tired and I think I need to lie down.”
“Of course. Of course.” She looked down at the foil-covered whatever before thrusting it toward her. “Please. Please accept this.”
Lauren’s jaw cranked as she looked down at the dish in Erica’s hands. She took it, the casserole heavy as a barbell in her hands.
“Thank you,” Lauren repeated.
“Remember, please don’t hesitate to call me for anything, anything at all. Any calls you need made. Anything.”
Lauren could only nod as Erica turned and headed toward her car. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds before slowly closing the door and plodding into her kitchen, the warm glass bottom of the casserole dish stinging her palm. She sat at the kitchen table and placed the casserole dish in front of her, staring for several minutes at the shiny foil top. Without thinking, Lauren pressed the tip of her index finger against the side of the glass dish and slowly pushed until it sailed over the edge of the table and slammed onto the floor.
40
AVA
Ava looked at the clock on her nightstand. Seven. Kyle would be getting up for his Saturday morning run soon and she’d lain in bed for the past two hours watching dawn slink into the room, waiting. He stirred beside her and she slammed her eyes shut and went statue-still. Sometimes, he liked a quickie before a run, and normally, she was all about it.
Today, though, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Carly.
The faint ping from Kyle’s phone woke him up and Ava continued to play possum, barely even breathing as he stretched, sniffed, and coughed for a few minutes before finally rousting himself out of bed and heading toward the bathroom to throw on his running clothes. Ava released her breath, but stayed in her same position.
She still needed to decide what to do about Carly’s sweatshirt.
Part of her wanted to slip it back into the pile of clothes it sprung from and pretend as though she’d never seen it.
Part of her wanted to ask Carly whose blood was on the shirt.
The bathroom door opened and Kyle came out, the soles of his running shoes thudding lightly against the Indian print area rug. The bedroom door squealed as he opened and closed it, eliciting another sigh of relief from Ava.
She looked toward her closet, the image of the bloodied shirt floating through her mind as she finally got up and went in search of the box. She stood on tiptoe, brushing her fingers against the slick cardboard before tipping the box toward her. Her fingers shook as she held the box, the sweaty palm print from her good hand visible on the glossy black top. She ripped the lid off, almost hoping there was no shirt, no blood.
Both were still there, undisturbed.
She only had one option: confront her daughter. She’d tell Kyle and the two of them would sit Carly down together to get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, she’d ask Carly to spend the day with her. Pedicures, lunch, maybe a movie. Keep things light and breezy while keeping an eye on her.
She only had to fake it for a day.
Feeling better that she had a plan, Ava quickly brushed her teeth, showered, and washed her face before sticking her letter opener down into the space between her cast and skin, groaning at the relief the scratching brought her. Sated, she grabbed her phone and headed for the door, gasping when she found a pale, anxious-looking Carly on the other side, about to knock.
“Honey, you scared me,” Ava said, clutching her chest. “What’s going on?”
“Have you seen my Northwestern sweatshirt?” Carly asked, her eyes darting around like loose marbles as she fidgeted with her fingers. “The gray one?”
She licked her lips, trying to stall. Carly knew she had the shirt. She had to.
Confront Carly now or wait?
Wait. Wait and lie about it tomorrow. Lying for the greater good was her parental prerogative.
“Have you checked the laundry?” Ava asked as she ran her tongue across her bottom lip, watching to see what her daughter’s response would be.
“You’re sure you haven’t seen it?” Carly asked again. “Like when you were in my room the other day before school?”
Ava shook her head slowly, her heart booming, afraid to breathe. “No, Carly. I haven’t seen it.” She cocked her head. “Why?”
Carly’s face fell as she shook her head rapidly. “Nothing, no reason, I just—I can’t find it and I wanted to make sure you haven’t seen it. I mean, you really haven’t seen it?”
“Sorry, honey,” she said, her voice cracking a little with the lie.
“Never mind,” Carly muttered to herself as she swiped her hands through her hair and turned toward her room.
“Hey, honey, I was thinking, why don’t we spend the day together? Like a girl’s day.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I said I don’t feel like it!” Carly screamed and darted back into her bedroom, slamming the door.
“Shit.” Ava shook her head and marched down the hall, knocking on Carly’s door before opening it, finding the girl sobbing face down on the bed. She sighed and went to sit on the corner, hugging the girl’s back, drawn tight as a drum.
“Mom, just leave me alone, please.”
“Carly, what’s—?”
The girl curled further away from her. “Mom, I said I want to be alone.”
Ava closed her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “But you have to leave the door open.”
Shuddering sigh. “Fine. Whatever.”
Her phone pinged in her hand as she left the room and Ava groaned inwardly. An email from her boss, Psycho Kitty, needing her to do a quick overnight to Atlanta, leaving first thing in the morning, back Monday afternoon.
“Damn it,” she whispered as she shook her head and replied that she’d email her when she landed.
Confronting Carly would have to wait.
41
CARLY
Where was that sweatshirt?
She tuned out Mr. Byrne’s droning on about Hester Prynne as she replayed for the hundredth time the scene from that Saturday night. She’d come home, run upstairs and taken it off, certain she’d wedged it under her bed for safekeeping until she could wash it without her mom knowing what she was up to.
Instead, it was nowhere.
How did a sweatshirt just vanish? Admittedly, she’d gotten distracted, with Whitney and everything and now, it was gone. She was sure her mom must have found it, but she would have said something about it, because if there was one thing Carly knew, Ava Ewing wasn’t someone who would let a bloody sweatshirt go unanswered. But she’d denied having or even seeing it and now, Carly didn’t know what to do.
A knock on the classroom door interrupted Mr. Byrne’s praise of Trish Sellers for her analysis of Hester Prynne’s needlepoint. It was Principal Bain, who motioned for Mr. Byrne to step out into the hall. Moments later, he came back in, distress wrinkling his face.
“Carly Ewing? You need to go with Principal Bain to the office.”
Everyone turned to look at her, mouths hanging open. Her bowels cranked inside her as heat flushed across her face. She cleared her throat and gathered up her books, pulling the sleeve of her turtleneck over her wrist as she tried to ignore the stares as she made the slow, agonizing walk across the classroom.
“What’s going on?” she asked as Principal Bain turned in the direction of the office.
“The police would like to ask you some questions about Whitney,” Principal Bain said as she rushed down the hall, her sensible beige pumps striking hard and fast against the shiny tiles, Carly’s timid flats hissing silently as they fought to keep pace.
The flat statement sunk like an anchor inside of Carly. The police wanted to talk to her? Why not Jordan? She should have been the one to get hauled out of class for questioning, not her.
“Why?”
“They’re talking to everyone who was friends with Whitney,” Principal Bain said as she opened the door of the main office and allowed Carly to go ahead of her. She hesitated at the edge of the principal’s office, gaping at the sight of the two women she assumed were the police. One was tall and husky, the other short and thin. Both looked tired and maybe slightly poor, given the cheap-looking khakis and boxy, ill-fitting blazers they wore. It would surprise her if they lived in Lake Forest.
“Carly, this is Detective Diehl and Detective Prentiss,” Principal Bain said as she smoothed back a stray silver hair of her tight bun. “As I mentioned, they want to ask you some questions about Whitney.”
Carly yanked her sleeve over her wrist again as she took a seat and looked around the office. She’d never been called into the principal for anything. Ever. She was one of those good girls who never got into trouble.
The short thin one took the seat next to Carly and smiled. “How are you today, Carly?”
“Fine.”
“So, I understand you and Whitney were good friends.”
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Carly squirmed in her seat. “The Monday before…” She cleared her throat, embarrassed.
“Monday before what?”
“Before she was … we have English class together, but then I was sick all week and stayed home.”
“Where were you Saturday, Carly?” Diehl wanted to know.
“Volunteering.”
Prentiss nodded and jotted this down in a tiny spiral notebook. “Where? What time?”
“The Forest Animal Shelter from about ten until seven thirty.”
“So, Carly, is there anyone who you could think of that would want to hurt Whitney?” Diehl asked.
She squirmed in her chair again. “Like kill her, you mean?”
The detective cocked her head, still staring at her. “Anyone at all?”
This was her chance. She might not get another one. She had to take it. She cleared her throat. “I guess Jordan Mitchell.”
The two detectives glanced at each other. “Jordan Mitchell. She’s also on the cheerleading squad with you and Whitney?”
“Pom-pom. Cheer is totally different. We dance. They do tumbling and cartwheels and stuff. And Jordan’s not on the team anymore. She quit.”
“Sorry. Pom-pom,” Diehl said. “So why do you think Jordan would want to hurt Whitney?”
“They used to be best friends and then they weren’t.”
“Any idea why?”
“No.”
“So then why do you think she would want to hurt Whitney?” Prentiss asked.
Carly took a deep breath. “Probably because of all the stuff on Twitter. And the party.”
“What stuff on Twitter?”
“A few weeks ago. Everyone on Twitter was calling Jordan names and Jordan blamed Whitney for it.”
Diehl tilted her head. “What kind of names?”
Carly gulped and glanced nervously at Principal Bain. “Um, you know. Not nice names.”
“Like what?” the detective pressed.
“Oh, uh … like slut. Stuff like that.” The words rushed out of her mouth and she wondered how red her face was.
“Okay.” Prentiss nodded and scribbled in her notebook. “So, you’re saying Jordan believed Whitney started this social media campaign against her and it made her mad enough to kill her?”
“I mean, I don’t know if she killed her, I’m just saying Jordan hated Whitney. She ruined her birthday party and was saying all kinds of stuff about her.”
“Right. The videos. You were there that night, the night of the party?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Whitney wanted Jordan to leave and she wouldn’t and they got into it. Then Jordan said she was going to tell everyone what Whitney did.”
“What did she mean by that?”
Carly shrugged. “I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “I heard Jordan say something like that before. To Whitney.”
“When was this?”
“The Friday before the party. We were outside of American lit and they got into it and Jordan said, she would fuck Whitney up.” Carly covered her mouth, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said, looking again at Principal Bain. “I’m just saying what Jordan said.”
“Did anyone else hear this?”
“A lot of people. A whole bunch of people.”
The detectives nodded and Prentiss flipped her notebook closed. “Thank you, Carly, for your time today. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Do I have to go back to class?” Carly asked.
“Since the period’s almost over, I’ll give you a pass to the library,” Principal Bain said, pulling a small green notepad from her desk drawer and scribbling across it, before tearing off the square of paper and handing it to Carly.
She slid out of the chair, her heart racing as she opened the door, clutching the pass on her way to the library. She didn’t feel bad about what she’d said about Jordan. She’d get arrested and they’d throw her in jail.
Better her than Carly.
42
RON
Had his fear been obvious? Had anyone seen the way he twitched when the principal knocked on the door, asking to speak with Carly Ewing?
Could they smell his terror?
As had been the chatter of the teacher’s lounge, it was a matter of time before the police got around to questioning Whitney’s teachers. What was she like in class? How did she get along with her fellow classmates?
How did you get along with her?
His brain oscillated between his choices like an unmanned water hose, dancing wildly across the terrain of his mind. Stay and let the police question him, hoping—hoping—the questions would stay mundane, that he wouldn’t raise their suspicions.
That they wouldn’t want to know where he was that night.
Who he was with.
What he was doing.
Or he could leave town. Disappear into the ether where they wouldn’t be able to poke at him with their questions.
That wouldn’t work either. He had few places to go. His brother’s in Ann Arbor, the small house heaving with a wife who didn’t much care for her pseudo-intellectual brother-in-law, a barking dog, and a squawking, red-faced toddler. His parents had moved to Ireland last year. There were a handful of couches he could crash on. A hotel for a night or two.
There was no such thing as a vacation in the middle of the school year. Calling in sick was frowned upon. You pretty much had to be dying. Or dead.
He was stuck here. Stuck with the ever-increasing dread that they were coming for him.
Poke, poke, poke.
Worst of all was how suspicious it would look if he fled.
But that may be the only choice he had.
43
JORDAN
Jordan swiped the hairbrush through her hair one last time before binding the slippery strands into a ponytail. From downstairs, the doorbell rang. She frowned and looked at the clock on her nightstand. Who would be ringing the doorbell this early?
She shoved her feet into her flats and grabbed her book bag before she bounded down the stairs, stopping in her tracks at the two women in really bad suits talking to her mother. She wondered if this had anything to do with Carly getting pulled out of class yesterday. Or worse, Dionne threatening to point the cops in her direction. There wasn’t anyone she could ask about what had happened, so she’d had to rely on creeping around online. There wasn’t anything on any of the local news sites except the usual that police were investigating. Trish Sellers had posted on Twitter about Carly, trying to make it sound all sinister and conspiratorial, when fifteen other people chimed in that they’d been questioned too, so it all died down pretty quickly.
And now they were here for her.
“Mom?” she asked as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Her mother whirled around, a startled expression on her face. “Oh, honey, these two detectives would like to ask you some questions about Whitney. And they promise to make it quick, since you have school. Right, detectives?”
“Um,” Jordan said, wondering if they heard the tremor in her voice. “You talked to Carly Ewing yesterday, right? And you’re just talking to everybody, like on Law and Order?”
The tall one smiled. “Something like that.”
“This isn’t going to take long, right?” her mother repeated.
“No, Mrs. Mitchell, this shouldn’t take long,” the short thin one—Detective Diehl—said.
Her mother motioned for her to sit and she lowered herself onto the ottoman for her father’s favorite wingback chair while the two detectives perched on the couch. Her mother remained standing, arms folded across her chest.
