And When I Die, page 25
Truthfully, he knew he was lucky, managing to sustain only a broken ankle and a broken finger. It could have been so much worse.
Still, he wondered how many years it would take not to wince at the roar of an engine, or not feel the impact of a car slamming into his body.
Years, likely.
And frankly, the fading bruises had played well during the follow-up TV interview that had run last night. Finally being able to unburden himself and explain it all had been like sawing a shackle from his ankle. Confession had been so very good for his soul, because for the first time in years, freedom tickled at his ears. No more hiding. No more lying. If social media was any indication, the whole thing had gone exceedingly well. So many came out expressing sympathy for his being falsely accused and mowed down for his trouble, expressing remorse for flinging the manure of ‘child molester’ and ‘pedophile’ in his face. There were, of course, still some who were convinced the police had bungled the case, letting Whitney Dean’s murderer get off, free to roam the streets to defile and brutalize yet another pretty teenager. For the most part though, despite his initial reluctance, he was glad he’d done the interview. At least he’d gotten his side out there. He knew until Whitney’s actual murderer was caught, he’d have to live with the stigma of accusation.
He hoped whoever had really killed that girl was rotting in hell.
They deserved nothing less.
Ron threw a pile of his sweaters into his suitcase before zipping it shut. He looked around the room. His lawyer was springing for movers to pack up his meager Ikea bookshelves and Target couch and coffee table and put them into a storage unit she owned for a few months. The apartment manager would let his lawyer’s assistant in tomorrow and they would supervise what was likely to be a quick transaction. For now, he was getting the hell out of dodge, his brother, Brandon, albeit reluctantly, letting him crash in his spare room in Ann Arbor. He’d tried to impress upon his brother that his lawyer was banking on him getting a hefty times two settlement from the Knowles family, which meant he could be set for life. They wouldn’t have to put up with each other for long.
His teaching career was toast. The district provided him with a meager severance and wished him well. The death of his career saddened him. He loved teaching and was good at it. There’d be plenty of time in that small, pleasant guest room in Ann Arbor to mourn it. Maybe he’d tap out that novel English teachers always said they wanted to write, but could never find the time for.
God knows he had plenty of it now.
He hoisted his suitcase off the bed and limped over to turn off the light before hobbling through the living room, past the few boxes of odds and ends he’d packed up for when the movers came tomorrow. He grunted as he bent down to pick up the shopping bag of books he was taking with him, his essentials, as he thought of them: Madame Bovary, Dante’s Inferno, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, The Scarlet Letter.
Crime and Punishment.
Ron sighed, wondering how long the relatively short drive to Ann Arbor would take with his hobbled ankle. He’d just have to do the best he could.
He opened the front door, squinting at the blinding winter sun, shining white and intense in the periwinkle blue sky. A beautiful, sunny day. A bright new beginning.
He rolled his suitcase outside and locked the door behind him.
63
CARLY
Carly puckered in the mirror glued to her locker door as she blended a glob of Gold Glow with the Pink Pow already on her lips.
Whitney’s favorites.
Just as she threw the lip gloss back into her purse, Lexi and Madison waved to her from a few lockers away as they made their way toward her. She smiled and waved back as she grabbed her copy of The Crucible along with her English notebook.
“What up, girly,” Lexi said as she and Carly locked pinkies and winked at each other.
“What up?” Carly responded.
“That dress is super fierce,” Madison said.
“Thanks, girl.” Carly beamed. “It’s new.”
“So sick,” Lexi agreed. “Here, let’s post it.”
All three girls immediately went to their phones and took individual selfies then a group one, each posting to Instagram, dotting them with emojis and smearing them with filters before falling into chatter about homework, pom, TV shows, music, and boys.
This had become the new morning routine, meeting at Carly’s locker before first period. It made her woozy, how fast she zoomed up the social ladder. Even her spewing in class had been forgotten. Now, girls clamored to sit next to her at lunch. Coach K was letting her choreograph not one but two routines for pom and there were even rumblings that captain was hers next year. Lexi and Madison sought her advice on clothes and shoes and lip gloss. They both loved Lifetime movies just as much as she did and they spent hours goofing on how awesome they were. When she walked through the halls, boys called out her name. Girls looked at her with longing, wishing they were her. Carly strutted down the hallways like she owned them, no longer worried about saying the wrong thing or stressing out if her clothes were good enough.
For Carly Ewing was the new queen bee of East Lake Forest High.
And Whitney’s death made it all possible.
She was so confident in her new status, she’d stopped worrying about the sweatshirt. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes, late at night when she couldn’t sleep, she would think about it. She’d searched her house up and down, even sneaking into her mom’s home office when she was out of town one time and it wasn’t there. Eventually, Carly convinced herself that she must have thrown it out and just couldn’t remember.
That had to be it.
Didn’t it?
From the corner of her eye, Carly saw Jordan duck into the girls’ room down the hall. She smiled to herself.
“I’ve got to make a run to the bathroom. Who’s coming with me?” she asked.
Lexi and Madison both eagerly agreed as Carly slammed her locker shut and sauntered down the hall. She could see Jordan’s boots still pointing from beneath the stall. She flipped her hair back and set her books down on the ledge of the radiator.
“Has anyone talked to Peyton lately?” Carly asked.
“We texted last night,” Lexi said. “She’s pretty sure she’ll be back to school next week. We totally have to stand with her, let everyone know she’s still cool.”
“I still can’t believe her mom tried to kill Mr. Byrne,” Carly said. “I mean, if she wanted to go after the person who killed Whitney, she should have been trying to run Jordan over.”
“So embarrassing,” Madison said. “I would literally die if my mom tried to kill somebody.”
“How long do you think it will take for the police to do something about Jordan?” Carly pressed, taking a quick glance toward the stall. “I mean it’s been months. Obviously, Mr. Byrne didn’t do it. Who else could have killed Whitney?”
The door to the stall swung open, clanging against the wall as a seething Jordan stepped out and rushed over to Carly.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” she said, face pinched, teeth clenched.
“Make me,” Carly said, hand resting on one hip.
“Weren’t you a neek like six months ago? What, now you think you’re somebody?” Jordan narrowed her eyes. “You’re that same pathetic baby you’ve always been.”
Carly flinched at the arrow, which hit her right between the eyes.
“Oh, my God, ignore her.” Madison jumped to Carly’s defense. “After all, she’s still the same skank she’s always been. And now, she’s a murderer.”
“What, are you going to kill me too?” Carly asked, her confidence back at knowing Madison was her ride or die. “Like you did Whitney?”
Jordan drew up. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Oh, please, we all know you did,” Madison said, rolling her eyes. “When are you going to confess?”
“Shut up.”
“Whitney knew what a loser you were,” Carly said. “I’ll bet that’s why you did it, huh? I’ll bet that’s why you killed her.”
“We already know you’re trash,” Lexi said.
“Yeah,” Madison chimed in. “Total trash.”
“God, I hope when they arrest you, you get your fucking brains bashed in, you nasty, trashy bitch—”
Carly didn’t see the shove coming until she was flying across the bathroom. Lexi and Madison screamed and rushed to push Jordan back from delivering another blow. Madison bent down to help Carly to her feet.
“You fucking bitch!” Carly screamed.
Tears spilled from Jordan’s eyes. “Don’t come for me, Carly—”
“Did you hear that?” Carly laughed. “Oh, my God, if I wind up stabbed to death in the woods somewhere, you know who had the knife.”
The warning bell sounded for first period. Jordan ran out of the bathroom, sobbing, while Lexi and Madison rubbed Carly’s back and offered soothing words about how awful Jordan was.
“You should totally report her to Principal Bain,” Lexi said. “She’s like, completely out of control.”
Carly smoothed down her hair and reapplied her lip gloss, her hands shaking. “I’m not worried about her.”
“Come on, we should get to class,” Madison said as the girls gathered their books.
Lexi and Madison ran down the opposite hall from Carly, who floated into first period American lit as though nothing had happened. She couldn’t help but be a little relieved when she saw Jordan was nowhere to be found.
64
LAUREN
Whitney’s bedroom door stared back at Lauren as she stood in the hallway. She hadn’t been in there since she’d gone in to choose a dress for her daughter to be buried in. Pink. Of course.
The door was adorned with the paraphernalia of teenage girls. Sparkly holographic letters spelling out ‘Whitney’ across the top. The fluttering first place ribbons announcing her as the best in dance competitions, the champion of champions. A stark black and white, ‘Keep Calm and Beyonce’ sign. A pink and white metal parking sign nailed to the door, embossed with ‘My World, My Rules.’ Her varsity pom letter.
Her interview was scheduled for tomorrow and Wendy Sheridan had suggested it might be nice to have something of Whitney’s to show on camera. A memento, a favorite photo—something to make Whitney real to the millions of people who would be gawking over her grief.
Lauren took a deep breath, heat washing over her skin, her underarms tingling. All she had to do was open the door, something she’d done a million times.
But never like this.
She reached her hand toward the knob, her fingers quaking as they brushed the metal. Her hand sprang back as though she’d been burned. Lauren pursed her lips and closed her eyes, giving herself one last pep talk to just do it.
The door creaked as she slowly opened it. She was startled not to see Whitney sprawled across the bed, watching Black Mirror, an obsession Lauren didn’t quite understand, or seated at her desk, her Spotify playlist droning on in the background, snapping selfies or texting, or reading the countless women-in-jeopardy mystery novels she tore through like fire burning into wood.
Instead, the room was quiet. Still. The red and white striped Styrofoam cup from a stop at Portillo’s sitting on the desk, likely holding the watery, moldy remnants of Dr Pepper, the bent red straw stamped with her teeth marks, sticking up out of the lid. The king-sized bed draped in the hot pink polka dot duvet, the hot pink sheets still wrinkled from her last sleep. The hot pink and white striped walls adorned with glossy photo collages, posters of Beyonce and Lady Gaga. The lacquered white bookshelf crammed with her crumbling ancient paperbacks she’d easily had since elementary school. She didn’t like reading on her phone like Lauren did. She always said she liked the feel of a book in her hand. The pile of shoes that hadn’t made it into the closet. Her pom gear, the shimmering pom-poms tossed in a corner like forgotten rag dolls, spiral-bound notebooks filled with what Lauren knew were choreography notes and song ideas. Her uniform wrapped around a puffy satin hanger, the handle on a hook over the top of the bedroom door.
Exactly as she’d left it.
Lauren crept over to the bed, running her hand across the soft, cool cotton of the duvet and the wrinkled form of her daughter. She picked up one of the pillows and buried her face in it, tears pricking her eyes at the lingering ribbon of peach shampoo woven into the fabric.
Her beautiful daughter.
Lauren laid down on the bed, snuggling into the coolness of the sheets and the memories, coming at her like fastballs now: discovering she was pregnant, bringing her home, the first lost tooth, twirling around the house in a tutu and nothing else. A little clutch purse fastened in one hand, a book in the other. Always. The tears that would ensue if she didn’t have her little purse and a book. Rushing through the front door, bursting with excitement over having made pom squad.
Tears soaked the pillow and for a moment, Lauren panicked. Having to wash anything would be devastating. She didn’t want to lose her girl’s scent.
Sniffing, woefully trying to hold the tears and snot in, Lauren ambled over to the box of Kleenex sheathed beneath a pink Plexiglass container on Whitney’s desk. As she pulled a clump of tissues from the box, her eye fell on Whitney’s diary. Lauren lowered the tissues as she stared at the book, her heart pounding. She’d never wanted to violate her kids’ privacy, disdainful of being one of those snooping moms like she suspected Erica probably was.
Still, Whitney was gone and this was a last link to what her daughter thought, felt, wanted, needed.
Lauren bit her bottom lip as she impulsively picked up the book, surprised it didn’t have any type of lock or impediment. She couldn’t help but smile. That was how much trust they had between them. Whitney knew she’d never go tiptoeing through those pages, so a lock hadn’t been necessary.
She lowered herself down onto the bed, flipping through the lined pages as she scanned the looped, girlish script. There didn’t seem to be anything earth-shattering. Complaints about teachers, petty squabbles with girlfriends, ruminations on the hopelessly entangled politics of pom squad. Some boys she liked. Lauren continued to turn the pages, skimming the words, hesitant to read them deeply now, determining she would soak them up later.
Jordan’s name jumped out from one of the pages toward the end. She frowned as she opened the book wider and held it closer to her face, squinting a little. The twenty-third. About a week before the party.
That bitch Jordan keeps threatening me, that I better watch my back and I better be careful—
Lauren slammed the book shut, rage bubbling inside her like hot lava.
Jordan.
Did Whitney say Jordan was threatening her?
Threatening her little girl? Her baby? Was Jordan the one who took that knife and—?
“Oh, God,” Lauren whispered as she bolted down the hallway to her own room. She grabbed her purse and keys, the diary wedged beneath her arm as she shoved her bare feet into her Uggs and haphazardly stuffed her arms into her coat, before she flew down the stairs and out of the house, one thought pounding against her brain the whole time.
That bitch Jordan.
65
JORDAN
There had been nowhere to run to after Carly’s assault in the bathroom. Going to class was out. So was sitting in her car all day.
Instead, she left. Jordan got in her car and escaped, sobbing uncontrollably as she drove aimlessly out of campus wondering where she should go. In the end, she decided on the mall, sitting in the food court picking at a stale, cold pretzel from the pretzel place and nursing a mammoth Diet Coke. Occasionally, tears ran down her face as she remembered Carly’s accusatory finger and Lexi and Madison, who she’d never had a problem with—ever—chiming in.
It was humiliating.
And it hurt.
Jordan hit her blinker to turn down her street, dreading the confrontation with her mother about why she’d missed school today. The automated texts notifying parents of an unexcused school absence usually went out by late afternoon.
She pulled into the driveway and glumly slung her book bag over her shoulder as she trudged toward the house, opening the door to quiet, which didn’t mean anything. Her mother was probably in her office, working as always. Jordan tiptoed over to the stairs, ready to throw herself into bed and forget this day ever happened.
“Jordan.”
She rolled her eyes at the sound of her mother’s voice at her back. She slowly turned around to find her mother standing at the base of the stairs, her arms crossed, frowning.
“Yeah?”
“I know you didn’t go to school today.”
A surge of tears welled up inside of her, which she bit back. “I just wasn’t feeling well, that’s all.”
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“Mom, I’m just … can I just go and lie down? Please?” she asked, her voice jittery, her insides crumbling.
Her mother opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but nodded instead. “Okay. I’ll come to check on you later.”
Relief ran through her at being let off the hook and not subjected to a round of a hundred questions. Jordan plodded upstairs to her room and dropped her book bag to the ground as she kicked off her shoes, just wanting to snuggle into the cool comfort of her bed and wipe out Carly, Lexi, Madison—Whitney.
All of them.
As her head hit the pillow, a series of wallops against the front door sent her bolting upright, certain it was the police.
66
ERICA
No sooner than Erica had heard the soft click of Jordan’s bedroom door did the front door explode in a manic series of short, angry slaps, rattling the vase on a glass table in the foyer and echoing throughout the house.
