I crunched over brittle grass and came face-to-face with the door. The doorbell looked like it had been installed during the Gold Rush, so I knocked before I could lose my nerve.
The door opened a crack and Mrs. Sayer’s brown eye appeared. “Emma! All right? Wonderful to see you.” She sounded like she meant it. I heard the same warmth in her voice that she’d always saved for me when I came over to do homework, or to catch a ride with Lizzy to speech and debate. I almost burst into tears right there. I thought she would be angry with me for abandoning them. I’d always wondered if they blamed me, somehow, for the things that happened to Lizzy. “What can I do for you?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed to lie without choking. “I’m in a group project with Gwen. I just need to drop off some things.”
I wasn’t worried that she’d suspect me. Adults never do. I have so much practice lying to Dad, and for Dad. I’ve aced the innocent little white-girl act.
Mrs. Sayer opened the door and let me in. “You thirsty? You want a Coke?”
“No thanks.” I still don’t trust Dad not to find out when I drink soft drinks. Even the Gatorade we get at cheer practice is almost too much for him.
Mrs. Sayer shut the door behind me and locked it before moving toward the kitchen, a tiny space with a sink, a dish rack, one cupboard, and about three inches of counter space. Everything was linoleum and faded but clean. “Cup of tea?” she said.
I was on a timeline. Dad expected me home from yearbook between 4:45 and 4:52, depending on traffic. All the same—“Tea would be great.” I had enough time to sit with Mrs. Sayer for five minutes. Besides, she always makes this comforting tea, thick with milk and sugar.
“You know, it’s lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Sayer said as she turned on the kettle. “Tell me, what’s up at school?”
Mr. and Mrs. Sayer are such good people it makes me want to cry. Always being so kind to me, even though I’m competing with their daughter for a life-changing scholarship. I ran my finger along the duct-taped edge of the tartan-patterned couch. “It’s good. School’s good. Our cheer team is really good this year. I think we’re going to make it to regionals.”
“I wish Gwen had joined a team this year. I was captain of the football team in my day.” She still doesn’t say soccer, even though she’s been here for years. “But she prefers running. That girl will take on the whole world alone if she can. I hope she’s good in your group project.” Mrs. Sayer shook her head, smiling.
“She’s good at everything.” I was proud how I managed to stifle the bitterness that always rises like bile when I think of Gwen. Still, I wasn’t here for a nice chat. “I’m just going to set my notes on her desk.”
Mrs. Sayer nodded and pointed out the door to Gwen’s room.
When she opened the fridge, I slipped into Lizzy’s room instead.
I froze inside the door. The room was so . . . stifling. A mausoleum. Lizzy’s bed still had the Disney coverlet on, the one her mom had sewn from flannel and she’d painted with fabric paints. She wanted to work for Disney when she got out of college. Her desk still had her AP Psych book and a battered copy of Macbeth. In one corner of the desk the dust had been disturbed, and Lizzy’s senior picture leaned against the laminated chipboard edge, right next to a picture of her smiling next to a decorated horse skull attached to a sheet, some kind of Welsh tradition. Two tea lights sat in front of the photo, and a little bowl with crumbs at the bottom. She looked so happy. What happened to you, Lizzy?
I swallowed my sorrow and bent down to check under her bed. Her parents must have cleaned up, but how much would they have snooped? Would they be afraid to touch her things, or obsessed with finding out how she had descended into . . . whatever it was? I slid underneath the bed to check between the mattress and the frame, I rummaged in her desk drawers and dresser. But I didn’t find any false bottoms or hidden compartments.
I tried to breathe evenly, but I could feel my pulse rising. If Mrs. Sayer wanted to ask me something, if Gwen came home early . . . I started to pull books off Lizzy’s shelf, heedless of the way I disturbed the dust. This was such a bad idea. Maybe I should’ve just texted Gwen about it, asked her to see if she could find Lizzy’s diary. But that would’ve meant talking to Gwen, and trying to explain myself, and that’s never ever gone well.
Then I saw the Bible, and I knew. The top of the book bulged, like something small was caught inside. I slid it down from the top shelf and let it fall open. The tiny black notebook was the perfect size. I flipped it open, just to be sure.
Saw my lacrosse star today. He promised he’d see me later, but it looks like later is later this week. It’s so frustrating, but it’s only a little while. A year. I can think of a year like a group of a few months. And a few months isn’t much time, right?
Secret boyfriend. Could that be the source of the boot prints?
I stuck the diary in the front pocket of my backpack and slid the Bible back into place, then rubbed at the book spines and the shelf to erase the rest of the dust. Maybe no one will notice. Then I waited until I heard Mrs. Sayer clanking a pan and slipped out of Lizzy’s room.
I feel bad for deceiving them. But I’m also determined to find the truth. I need facts before I bring this up. Before I wipe that kindly smile off Mrs. Sayer’s face. She lost her kid—the least I can do is give her a reason to go back to that night.
8
The Jock
CLINE: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is twelve oh five. Interviewing James Schill. Thank you for coming in. We just have a few questions for you. You were with Claude Vanderly last night, correct?
JAMIE: Okay. This is going to sound—this is going to sound ridiculous. But I have to ask you a favor. Don’t tell my mom about this? Like, I’m happy to say that you interviewed me, but I don’t want Mom knowing it was about Claude. These are confidential, right?
CLINE: Absolutely.
JAMIE: Cool. Yes, Claude was with me last night. We, um, study together and stuff. We’d made plans for her to come over after lights-out so that Mom wouldn’t catch on.
I don’t normally sneak around. It’s just—Claude. Her mom and my mom hate each other for some reason, and Mom thinks that Claude invites the devil in. And Claude, um. Likes staying over. Which Mom doesn’t think is appropriate.
CLINE: What time did Miss Vanderly come over?
JAMIE: It was way late. She was supposed to come around eleven so we could do math homework. Don’t tell her I know this, but she waits to do it until I can help her. So I always finish it in advance so that I can be clear on the explanations before we do it together.
She didn’t show, though, and I sort of fell asleep on my homework with the window open. She climbed through at three something, I don’t remember exactly. She told me she’d been held up doing something, but it was nothing important.
CLINE: Did she seem upset? Unhappy? Acting unusual?
JAMIE: She seemed fine. She seemed like Claude. Energetic, full of life, ready for anything. . . . Um, could you take that last bit off the record?
CLINE: She didn’t give a hint as to where she’d been?
JAMIE: I don’t remember. We were kind of busy—busy doing math. But it was probably a party. Claude always goes to parties. Her mom doesn’t care as long as she drives safe. Anywhere else she might have been—well, it was probably a misunderstanding. That’s what I’m hoping, you know? This is a big misunderstanding.