And When I Die, page 30
Mostly, she was especially proud of herself for not even flinching when Ava mentioned her brother’s upcoming wedding to Melody. She thought it was a nice touch of making a point of asking for Melody’s name as though she’d forgotten it and showing zero emotion when Ava mentioned April. Even throwing in that mild dig about how could anyone ever live in Houston’s oppressive heat was inspired. If Melody had said anything to Ava about Ruthie, she would have heard something by now, she was sure of it. And what were the chances of Melody and April talking about her at a wedding? They were going to be more than a little preoccupied that day. It’s not like Ava or Melody had a picture of her that they could show to April to see if she bore even a little resemblance to Ruthie. Even if she did, she barely looked the way she used to, so it was all for nothing.
“Nobody knows you’re Ruthie,” she said out loud.
Ask, believe, receive.
Erica pulled into the driveway and grabbed the greasy brown paper bags, humming to herself, even looking forward to the sad little salad she’d make for her own dinner.
“Hello,” she called out when she opened the door, delighting as always at the scent of lemons and lavender, with the faintest hint of bergamot, the mystery exotic scent it had taken her years to uncover.
Just like Shannon’s house.
She called out again and shrugged when no one answered, heading to the kitchen to deposit the bags onto the counter where she found Jordan bent over the oven, poking at something inside. Probably her salmon.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said coming over to kiss her daughter’s warm, damp cheek. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“And how was school?”
“Fine.”
“Where’s Dad? Where’s your sister?”
Jordan slammed the oven door shut and picked up a box of rice from the counter, skimming the back. “Dad’s in his office.”
“And your sister?”
“Who cares?”
Erica sighed. “Jordan.”
“What?”
“Will you track her down, please, then tell her to wash up for dinner.”
Jordan didn’t respond, instead screaming up the back stairs for Kennedy, who screamed back that she was in the bathroom. Erica scoffed and went down the hall in search of Jay. She knocked on the door, then waited for his muffled voice to invite her in.
“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding distracted as he frowned, his gaze focused on the huge computer monitor in front of him.
“Well, hello, darling.” Erica slid her arms around his beefy neck and kissed him on the cheek. “How are you?”
He leaned back, letting out a heavy breath. “I just got an alert and apparently, Steve and Lauren did an interview with Wendy Sheridan. It’s going to air tomorrow morning.”
Erica shrank back, her arms loosening. “What?”
“I’m not worried about Steve, but Lauren…” Jay clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head. “She’s not thinking straight.”
“Well, what should we do?”
“We’ll just have to wait, see what she says.” He kissed Erica’s palm. “If she even whispers Jordan’s name, I’ll sue her for every penny she has and even the ones she hasn’t made.”
74
AVA
Erica Dane didn’t exist.
At least, that’s what the Internet told Ava. She’d stayed up late after happy hour scouring the Internet for something—anything—about an Erica Dane from Ohio. She searched for news stories about this mythical house fire that had killed her parents.
Nothing.
She’d searched every yearbook or alumni site she could plug Erica Dane’s name into.
Nothing.
She’d Googled and Binged and Yahooed long into the wee hours.
Nothing.
Ava made a face as she Googled Jay’s name, quickly scanning the mountain of articles for a sliver of information about Erica in the profiles about him. Over and over, the most she turned up was that Jay Mitchell and his wife lived in Lake Forest with their two daughters. Unlike her contemporaries, the other wives of software titans, there were no lavish spreads featuring Erica’s palatial home, no articles lauding the woman’s philanthropic efforts for curing pediatric cancer or building water irrigation systems in Africa. No beaming photos from society galas.
A blank.
The tug of sleep finally pushed her to shuffle off to bed, though the frustration of continually coming up empty—and why—scratched at her brain through a fitful sleep as Kyle snored softly beside her.
There had to be another way.
Ava sighed and looked at her phone on the nightstand. Four a.m. Sleep was a farce at this point.
She pushed the duvet back and quietly shut the door behind her as she padded downstairs to make coffee, yawning as she scrolled through her emails, rolling her eyes at the missives from her boss, fired off at one-thirty, two-fifteen, and three-ten.
Ava dumped cream and sugar into her mug when it hit her.
Ruthie’s family.
Look for Ruthie’s family.
Renewed vigor tore through her as she grabbed her phone and coffee and raced back into her office. She set her mug down on a metal coaster on the desk and opened her laptop, her eyes skimming across the room at the Ruthie piles as she’d started to call them, trying to remember which ones contained articles mentioning her parents and siblings.
Her phone pinged and she picked it up, frowning at the alert that popped up on her screen.
A news interview happening this morning with Steve and Lauren discussing Whitney’s murder, the headlines promising bombshells.
Ava’s hand flew to her mouth as she watched some of the snippets of video featuring Lauren talking about Whitney, her eyes sinking shut at the grieving mother’s salvos.
“This person is well aware of what they’ve done.”
She was pointing the finger at Jordan.
Ava ran a shaky hand through her curls, visions of Mr. Byrne being arrested and mowed down by Regina Knowles playing on a loop in her head. The police had gotten it wrong. Now Lauren was hurling accusations at Jordan. What pound of flesh would misguided, outraged zealots try to extract from this teenage girl based on the veiled insinuations of a grieving mother?
It could be any of them with the finger pointed at her.
And her daughter could be next.
Ava dropped the phone, feeling clear in her mission, her heart pounding as she frantically pawed through stacks of paper, skimming the tiny newsprint from ancient articles for any mention of the names of the Stowers family. A trickle of sweat crawled down her spine as she ignored her bladder filling from the coffee. After forty-five minutes and two massive paper cuts, she extracted an article featuring a granular photo of the parents surrounded by three of their four children coming out of the courthouse after Ruthie’s sentencing.
A cry of triumph escaped her lips as she slapped the page onto the desk and hunched over it, taking note of the names.
Ruthie’s mother, Grace.
Her father, Edgar.
Her brother, Edwin.
Her sister, Alice.
Her sister, Patricia.
She scooted closer to her laptop, her fingers shaking as she typed ‘Edwin Stowers’ into her search engine, deciding to skip her parents and go right to the siblings. The thought of reaching out to elderly people with sketchy questions about their daughter the convicted murderer felt like a line Ava couldn’t cross.
A LinkedIn page popped up indicating an Edwin Stowers who worked for a cable company in Dallas. Another one who worked in pharmaceutical sales in Iowa. Another who appeared to be retired law enforcement from Wyoming. No Facebook pages, no other social media presence.
Ava bit her bottom lip and searched for the names of Ruthie’s sisters, Patricia and Alice. Patricia Stowers returned nothing, while Alice Stowers spit out a Facebook page filled with inspirational quotes and pictures of flowers, the most recent update from two years ago.
Ava drummed her fingers across the desk, flummoxed about what to do next.
Roll the dice.
She hunted down emails for all three of the Edwin Stowers, mentally composing and rejecting messages in her head that she hoped didn’t make her sound like too much of a lunatic.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard of her laptop as she continued turning words over in her head about what to say, starting and deleting numerous versions, unsure of what would provoke a response. In the end, she decided to keep it simple:
Dear Mr. Stowers,
I’m working on a project about Ruthie Stowers and wondered if you might have fifteen or twenty minutes to talk with me via phone. Thank you for your time.
Ava Ewing.
She frowned and hit the backspace key against her last name, replacing it with her maiden name instead. Just in case.
She debated about sending a Facebook DM to Alice Stowers, but decided to see if her emails got a response. Ava refreshed her email a few times, which she knew was silly. It was barely five in the morning. She was the only nutjob sending emails at the crack of dawn. Well, her and Psycho Kitty.
Ava jumped when her email dinged from her phone. She held her breath as she pulled up the message.
I don’t wish to talk about Ruthie. Please don’t contact me again.
Her heart sank as she read and reread the message from Edwin Stowers, who worked for a cable company in Dallas. She sighed, disheartened. It had been a long shot, of course, but she’d held out hope that not only would it be the right Edwin Stowers, he’d be eager to spill what he knew about Ruthie. She sighed and closed her eyes.
Back to the drawing board.
75
JORDAN
“This person is well aware of what they’ve done.”
Jordan had watched the clip of Mrs. Dean’s interview from this morning on her phone about a dozen times. Her mother had the TV on in the background during breakfast before shutting it off when the first promo came on. Even though Mrs. Dean hadn’t said her name, Jordan knew she was talking about her. Everyone would know she was talking about her.
Her dad had gone completely berserk, screaming about how they would sue Mr. and Mrs. Dean for every fucking penny they had. Her mom, surprisingly, stayed chill. Unbothered, almost, and said they’d do whatever they had to do. Her own stomach churned and boiled and she begged to stay home from school. Her mother said yes, but her father overruled her, saying Jordan had to put on her big girl pants, hold her head high.
Easy for him to say. He’d clearly forgotten what a cesspool high school could be.
Mrs. Dean was so angry that day she came to the house with Whitney’s diary, Jordan was sure the cops would be banging on the door before too long, despite telling Detective Diehl the actual truth about where she was that Saturday, which she said she would check out thoroughly.
Lots of innocent people were in jail.
Jordan’s heart flip-flopped as her phone flashed eight-ten. Why was she even here? Especially after the way Carly, Lexi, and Madison had come after her the other day. What was stopping her from skipping, driving to the city and taking the day off like that kid in that movie her dad made them watch every year on his birthday?
She took a deep breath and opened her car door, reluctantly exiting the warmth from the blasts of heat coming out of the vents. She pulled her coat close around her and gathered her book bag and purse while taking glances over her shoulder. She’d parked in a far corner of the student lot and the school building loomed large and sinister in front of her as she made the long walk.
No one made eye contact with her on that long walk. They glanced at her briefly before huddling back together in furtive whispers and averted stares. She wouldn’t have the cover of her hoodie and sunglasses once inside the building, as they weren’t allowed. Her own eyes darted across the steps where kids usually gathered in the morning before class, watching as the whispers continued. They parted when they saw her coming, nobody wanting to get even a little close to her.
Jordan pushed open the heavy door of the front of the building, grudgingly removing her sunglasses and lowering her hoodie. The reception inside was just as chilly outside. She shoved her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt and looked down, concentrating on her boots walking quickly across the glossy tiles toward her locker. As she got closer, she sped up, feeling the daggers puncture her back, the whispers stab her ears.
Relief flooded through her at the sight of her locker. She fingered the strap of her book bag, her other hand reaching for the lock when a hand slammed against the metal, causing her to jump back.
“Why are you here?”
Carly stood in front of her, snarling, her hand still affixed to her locker, stopping her from opening it. Lexi, Madison, and Dionne surrounded her, all sneers and angry gum-chewing, like a pack of wild, salivating dogs, all backing up Carly in Operation Get Jordan. It was unbelievable that Carly of all fucking people had the nerve to stand in front of her like she was queen of the court. Quiet, simpering little Carly. Just last year, you could have passed right by her in the hall and never looked at her once, much less twice. And now, with Whitney being gone, she decided she ruled the universe.
“Excuse me,” Jordan squeaked, upset at the unnatural sound. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Move.”
“I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face around here,” Carly said. “I mean, shouldn’t you be in a cell or something?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. We all know it was you. Whitney’s mom said so,” Madison said, even more emboldened than she’d been the other day.
Jordan’s heart exploded in fear and heat prickled across her skin. “The last time I checked, Whitney’s mom wasn’t the police. And neither are you.”
“I’ll bet the police will be coming to arrest you today,” Carly sneered. “Better get ready.”
“Yeah, how do you like the color orange?” Dionne laughed.
“God, you’re all even more pathetic than I realized,” Jordan said, squaring her shoulders. She looked at Carly. “And you’re Queen Pathetic.”
Carly laughed. “When she gets arrested, we’ll be in court every day. Front. Row.”
Jordan slammed her locker shut. “Leave me the hell alone you busted ass bitch.”
“You’re going to pay for what you did to Whitney.” Carly held up her hands, balled up in fists and clinked her wrists together twice. “Clank, clank.”
Madison and Dionne dissolved into laughter as Jordan opened her mouth, ready to annihilate Carly when Lexi hissed, “Murderer.” She swiveled her head around, ready to yank the girl’s two-dollar extensions clean out of her head.
Except everyone joined in with a buzz of, “Murderer,” the chant growing louder. Tears hovered on the edge of Jordan’s eyes as she scanned the crowd of snarled, furious faces, spitting out that word in her direction.
Murderer.
Jordan blinked back the tears, determined they wouldn’t see her cry, determined she would do what her father said and hold her head high.
“What’s going on here?” a teacher—she didn’t know who—boomed, breaking the circle, her face falling a bit when she spotted Jordan.
Wow. Even the teachers.
“All right, break it up, break it up, get to class,” the teacher said, clapping her hands. The crowd scattered.
Carly leaned down to Jordan, getting close to her ear. “You’re going to get what’s coming to you. Murderer.”
A single tear managed to escape, sliding down her cheek. She turned and wiped it away with the sleeve of her hoodie. The teacher looked at Jordan and she realized it was Mrs. Finch, Mr. Byrne’s no-nonsense replacement. The woman’s usual concrete line etched into her pale face looked like it might have been twitching in sympathy. Or disgust.
“Miss Mitchell,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better go to the principal’s office.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything,” Jordan said in disbelief. She was being blamed for this too?
“What I meant was perhaps Principal Bain could excuse you for the day. It seems your presence is … distracting.”
Jordan’s head spun and her knees oozed jelly. Now, she was distracting. Carly picks a fight with her—the second one in a week—and she was the distracting one.
She drew up, gripping the strap of her book bag even tighter. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”
The final bell rang and Mrs. Finch gave her a tight, quick nod, before she click-clacked down the hallway to the same classroom where Jordan was supposed to be learning about The Crucible and what it felt like to be an outcast.
Instead, she turned on her heel and went to the principal’s office.
76
AVA
“Mate.”
She flicked her eyes toward Kyle, who sat across the table staring at her, an exasperated look on his face.
“What?”
He sighed and put his fork down and looked at the creamy swirls of truffle pasta on the plate in front of him.
“Bloody hell. You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
She tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear. “I heard you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What’d I say?”
Ava licked her lips, scouring her brain for the last sliver of what he had said, relieved when she locked onto it. “You said you’re signing a contract tomorrow for a new project in Philly, that things are moving full steam ahead.”
He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “Lucky guess.”
“English, really, I’m listening. Now, tell me what your next steps are to get started?”
He cleared his throat and took two silent mouthfuls of pasta before resuming a cautious recitation of the deal he was working on as she slowly retreated into her own thoughts, yet making sure to tune back in for bits and pieces and uttering appropriate attentive murmurs.
