And When I Die, page 42
But the most astonishing face of all to see was Dr. Kendall, an apparition conjured up from the thin air of the past. Her heart had stopped as he marched toward the lectern to condemn her. She hadn’t even heard what he said, she was so stunned by the déjà vu of the moment. Equally stunning had been the glimpse she’d gotten of Sharla and Lyz sitting next to what Erica assumed was Dr. Kendall’s new wife, an Amazonian blond clearly decades younger, a stoic look on her face verging on boredom. Nothing at all like Julia Kendall. She would have known Sharla and Lyz anywhere. Lyz looked exactly as she would have expected, the shiny varnish of money and power radiating from her like the sun. It was the bitterest of ironies to her that were it not for this situation, she and Lyz would have run in the same social circles. No, scratch that—Lyz would have clawed and groveled for the chance to run in Erica Mitchell’s social circle. Sharla’s hippy dippy graying ringlets, pale, makeup-free face, filmy, swirling caftan, and fanny pack were a slap of cold water. No one ever would have guessed this was the future awaiting one of the pretty, prissy princesses who used to glide through the halls of Willow Branch High like she was the High Priestess of Cool.
She lay there in the darkness, her breath slow and steady, as she stared up at the concrete ceiling, listening to the sounds beyond the heavy metal door of her cell. In prison, lights out meant nothing, for the prisoners trapped within these cages could whine and howl until the fluorescents repeated their clank, clank, clank at six a.m., demanding they rise and shine. If that didn’t do it, the guards barreling down the hallway, barking more pronounced commands shortly thereafter got you moving fast enough.
It was hours and hours until then. And roughly four hours until the guards came to do the first of their two nightly cell rounds to check on the prisoners.
Which meant she had time.
Erica sat up slowly, still holding her stomach, her ear cocked toward the door, almost as if she expected a guard to burst into her cell in some surprise attack to toss the room. It hadn’t yet happened to her in the short time she’d been here.
That didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen tonight of all nights.
Which meant she needed to get on with it.
She bent down to the concrete, cold to her leg beneath the threadbare cotton of her jumpsuit. She ran her hands underneath the metal grate of the bed, a stray wire poking her index finger, drawing a tiny pinprick of blood. She stopped to suck her finger, before resuming her search.
Finally, her hand closed around the object of her desire and she wrestled it from its prison between the mattress and grate, the metal scraping against her fingers, almost ripping two of them open. She stood, wiping the dust and cobwebs on the front of her pants, before edging across the room toward the door. She stood on tiptoe to peer out of the little block window. It was too small to see much past what was immediately in front of the door, but she did it anyway. Habit, she supposed. You always wanted to look out of a window to see what was coming.
She went back to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, which protested at the slight dip of weight with an agonizing squeal. She picked up the item she’d liberated from beneath the bed, turning it over in her hands several times, shoving the hard point into her palm.
It was time.
102
CARLY
Carly tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear as she dug into her purse for her keys, wondering why she was always dropping the fob into the black hole of her bag instead of shoving it in the pocket of her jeans to make it easier to find. Just as her hand made contact with the hard plastic, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone juggling a box from Coffee City as they hurried across the lot. The sharp inhale of breath was involuntary.
Jordan.
Their eyes met and the two girls stared at each other, like animals in the wild, sizing each other up, the duel imminent.
Carly was the first to look away, casting her eyes downward as she unlocked her car before glancing up again, her gaze tentative. Jordan stood still, her head cocked to the side, also unable, it seemed, to tear her eyes away. Finally, she jerked upward and began to walk toward her.
“Hey,” Carly said uncertainly as Jordan came closer.
“Hi.”
She bit her bottom lip. “How are you?”
Jordan shrugged. “Okay.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Carly’s cheeks flamed red. “I know, I just meant—”
“I’m home for a couple of days. I’m going back to Connecticut tomorrow.”
“Do you like it? Connecticut, I mean. The school—”
“It’s fine.”
Carly looked down again. “Listen, I—”
“So, look—”
The girls stopped and stared at each other, seemingly unsure of who should be the first to give ground. Carly cleared her throat.
“Go ahead,” she said.
Jordan sighed, twisting her lips around a little. “Look, you and I, we’re never going to be friends.”
“I know that,” Carly said, her voice both shakier and harsher than she intended. She sniffed. “Of course we’re not.”
“What I’m trying to say is, I’m not holding anything against you, even though you started all of this by opening your big fat mouth to Dionne like a moron. I should. And I could, I really could, but I’m not. I mean, you didn’t make my mom …” Jordan looked away.
Shame flooded through Carly. It wasn’t lost on her that it was her actions that sent Mrs. Mitchell after Whitney. That it could have easily been her body in a rainy field of black-eyed Susans, eight stab wounds littering her body.
She nodded. “I know and I’m—I’m sorry. I never—I never should have said anything to Dionne about anything going on with you and Whitney. I was just trying to …” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just … with Whitney I was, I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but I was afraid if you came to the party, you and Whitney would make up and then she wouldn’t be my friend anymore. That you’d take my place. Or your place, I guess. You know what I mean.”
Jordan clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “You’re right. That is the dumbest fucking thing I think I’ve heard in my life.”
Carly looked down at her shoes. “I know. Anyway, I’m sorry. For everything.”
“If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Probably.”
“You think so?”
Jordan scoffed. “I mean, it’s always something, isn’t it?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Okay, here’s the thing. We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends. Ever. But we don’t have to run away from each other if we see each other. Wave to each other from across the room, say hey or whatever. We don’t have to act all weird around each other.” She cleared her throat. “Like, let’s just be cool and leave it at that.”
“I’m okay with that,” Carly said.
“Good.” Jordan nodded. “Fine.”
“So … what are you up to this summer?”
“Spending most of it with my grandparents in Naperville. I mean my dad’s parents. My mom’s sister … my aunt, Patricia, has invited me to Texas for a few weeks this summer so I can meet that side of my family. I think I’ll go.”
“Are you coming back to school next year?”
A short bitter laugh escaped Jordan’s lips. “Oh, God no. I’m never coming back to East Lake Forest.” She looked around. “This is probably the last time I’ll ever be here.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not even a little bit. I’m glad to be gone.” She stared at Carly for a few moments. “You doing pom again next year?”
“I don’t know. A lot happened this year. I have to think about it.”
“Well, do you.”
In spite of herself, Carly giggled. “Yeah. I will.”
The silence settled around them as the girls stood awkwardly staring at each other for a few moments, Carly wondering how long this being cool thing was supposed to last.
“Well, I gotta bounce. My dad’s making lasagna tonight.” She held up the box in her hand. “I picked up dessert.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“It’s totally weird. Turns out he really likes cooking. He’s been doing it a lot since my mom…” Jordan licked her bottom lip and shook her head again. “Anyway, I’m out.” She jingled her keys in her hands and adjusted her sunglasses. “Have a good senior year.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Jordan turned on her heel toward her car. Carly did the same, never once looking back.
She doubted Jordan did either.
103
AVA
Ava stared at the explosion of pinks, golds, and whites unfurling across the early morning sky outside her bedroom window. Her cell phone lay dark and silent beside her, having been turned off last night before she crawled into bed. She gripped a steaming hot cup of coffee in one hand, the other hand nonchalantly threading its way through her curls. Downstairs, Kyle, back from his run, slammed the front door. He’d grab a quick coffee and shower while she finished her last-minute packing and then they’d be on their way.
Ten minutes later, the bedroom door edged open and she turned, offering him a tired smile.
“Hey.”
“Morning, Mate,” he said coming over and kissing her, the warm, sweet coffee still lingering on his lips.
“How was your run?”
“Fine.”
“Anything in the paper?”
Kyle pulled his drenched gray Lycra tank over his head and threw it on top of the hamper. “All over the front page.”
Ava’s head dipped back and she sighed. All the more reason to get the hell out of town.
The tenth anniversary of Whitney Dean’s murder.
This being the tenth year, the frenzy had started much earlier than it had the other nine years. It would always begin quietly, a good two months before the actual date. For the ten-year anniversary, the sniffing had started nearly a year ago. The tactics were still the same: eager reporters accosting anyone who lived in Lake Forest who knew the Deans personally or were connected to the Dean family by the slenderest of threads—friends, neighbors, relatives, teachers, clergy. The pitch was always the same. “Hi, I’m from fill-in-the-blank news organization and I’m doing a story on the fill-in-the-blank anniversary of Whitney Dean’s murder and how it continues to impact the community.”
Then there were the reporters salivating to talk to anyone who knew Jordan or Erica. Same pitch, slightly different wording: “Hi, I’m so-and-so from fill-in-the-blank news organization and I’m doing a story on the fill-in-the-blank anniversary of Whitney Dean’s murder, specifically your reaction to Erica Mitchell aka Ruthie Stowers, being the culprit. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Initially, Ava had shied away from talking about her role in the case. At first, it was to shield Carly from unnecessary attention. Then, it was to shield herself. For the first few months, her phone pinged with emails day and night. Messages clogged her work voicemail, and a few crafty reporters had even unearthed her cell number. It had been worse for Carly—tweets, Instagram posts, camping out in front of the high school, following her. Phone numbers and email addresses were changed, social media accounts went private or were deleted altogether. The bloggers and podcasters went year-round, though they seemed less intrusive and more respectful. There were even rumors one of the more popular podcasts would be turned into a movie or TV series. Eventually, Ava relented to a lengthy Vanity Fair article and a two-part episode of Dateline. That had been enough.
The second year and every anniversary since, Ava and Kyle turned off the phones, packed up the house and went away for two weeks until the storm died down. With Carly living in D.C., ensconced in her teaching career, married with a new last name, going by Caroline to boot, she’d been somewhat isolated from the swirl of the past few years, though Ava still planned to check in with her every hour on the hour.
Eight years ago, after getting his quickie divorce from Erica and selling his house, Jay Mitchell had remarried, pledging his troth to a meek little mouse of a woman named Iris that he’d met through his sister. Ava suspected—it least initially—it had less to do with love than it did with Jay being a man and men replaced their wives. The last she heard he and his new wife lived in Florida, but there was no word if Jordan ever came to visit.
Actually, no one heard anything from Jordan. She’d evaporated into the ether. She got her diploma at the Connecticut boarding school before matriculating to King’s College in London. The only sliver of information Ava could find was a small bio on a website for a financial services firm in London stating she was a junior advisor, had an MBA from Cambridge, and had grown up outside of Chicago. No mention of a husband or children. No social media, no online profile whatsoever. Much like her mother, Jordan had perfected the art of vanishing.
The Deans vanished themselves, taking only their clothes, one car, and a smattering of personal effects. They simply left town in the middle of the night without a whisper to anyone, selling their house lock, stock, and barrel through one of Lauren’s colleagues. They first moved to a gated community in Arizona, finally settling in New Mexico to be near Janine and her family. For the first few years, there’d been the occasional text in response to Ava’s queries about how she was doing. Lauren dutifully responded every time with a breezy rundown on the life and times of the Deans, formerly of Lake Forest, Illinois. Nothing overtly personal, nothing revealing, nothing deeply held. A rote report that everyone was doing fine, she and Steve were enjoying retirement, that his golf game had improved considerably, Janine was expecting her first, then her second, then her third, and Parker was thriving in school. Light, bright, and airy. As though she were updating a casual neighbor she’d run into in line at the coffee shop as opposed to a good girlfriend she’d known for decades, had vacationed with, had laughed and cried with. Over time, Lauren stopped answering, likely because she didn’t want even this fragile, faint reminder of a life she no longer cared to remember. Ava missed her, but understood the need to cut ties. She couldn’t say she wouldn’t have felt the same inclination.
One person who seemed to revel in remembrance was Mr. Ron Byrne. The bottom having fallen out of his teaching career, Regina Knowles’s settlement money for mowing him down sustained him while he penned a roman à clef about the case. The book was a smash hit and he became the darling of cable crime shows, blogs, and podcasts, recounting his experience of being falsely accused, offering his insights into the sliver of time he’d been acquainted with Whitney Dean, as though he’d known her since she was yea high. To Ava’s surprise and mild disgust, he’d parlayed his fifteen minutes into a successful career as a bestselling novelist, churning out seven books over the last ten years. No doubt, he was splashed across the coverage this year, reluctant to relinquish his grasp on the tragic scandal that had catapulted him out of the classroom and onto the world’s stage.
Not much had changed for the Ewings. There was talk of retirement in the next ten years, selling the house and possibly splitting their time between Virginia to be near Carly and her husband and Jimmy and his family in California. She and Patricia Stowers maintained what she referred to as a social media friendship, commenting occasionally on photos and statuses, exchanging the odd text and Christmas newsletter. Same with Lyz and Sharla. Sometimes, Jordan appeared in photos with her aunts and grandmother around the holidays, but it was extremely rare. Though they never spoke of Jordan or Ruthie-cum-Erica in their infrequent communiqués, Ava imagined Patricia was bombarded every year with interview requests and she no doubt granted them. Shannon Kendall had become as much of a cottage industry as Whitney Dean. Patricia didn’t seem to hold the pain of Ruthie/Erica’s actions. Rather, it seemed she’d resigned herself to forever being intertwined with her sister’s troubled soul.
Sometimes, the haunts of her final conversation with Erica hovered over her, the sneering derision in the woman’s voice as palpable over these past ten years as it had been that night. She’d often wondered if she was the last person to talk to Erica. Sometimes, she could hear the woman in her dreams, her whispers fluttering against her ear. Other times, her heart would race and sweat would blister across her body when she imagined seeing her somewhere, that rail-thin body, the haughty, condescending smile. It was a mirage of her imagination, of course, these delusional sightings, these waking nightmares. It would sometimes take a few hours to talk herself down from the ledge and remind herself that she didn’t have to worry about the woman anymore.
Erica was gone. She wasn’t coming back.
Kyle took both their bags down to the car as she finished the last-minute minutiae inherent in a long trip—check the locks, unplug the appliances, set the alarm, text their next-door neighbor a reminder to collect the mail. She’d never been to Bora Bora before. Lying on a beach, submerged beneath innumerable glow-in-the-dark cocktails, a scorching sun, luxuriating against silky white sand, no mention of Whitney Dean or Erica Mitchell … she might not want to come back.
Ava emerged from the house just as Kyle slammed the trunk shut. The inimitable sound of teenage voices cracking the early morning quiet pulled her gaze up. Coming down the street, linked arm in arm, forming their own miniscule version of a human chain, was her neighbor, Priscilla and three of her girlfriends—giggly, loud, erupting every thirty seconds with, “Oh, my God,” and sentences and syllables crashing into each other at warp speed. Ava stood on her front step watching, alternately fascinated, alternately nonplussed. When had she blinked? She could have sworn that just yesterday, Priscilla was the stereotypical awkward pre-teen—scrawny and wild, all braces and hair and pimples.
She was sixteen now, a junior. So were her friends.
Priscilla spotted her staring, before she smiled and waved.
“Hi, Mrs. Ewing,” she said, all bubbles and effervescence.
