And who knows how her dad reacted when he found out what she’d done. I know my parents would flip, and her dad is super strict.
CLINE: Would this strictness have affected Emma’s relationship with anybody?
AVERY: It affected her relationship with everybody. She went straight home after school or extras, and at home she wasn’t allowed online. Ever. Like, her dad’s convinced that every girl on the internet wants to bully Emma to death, and every boy on the internet wants to send a . . . you know. A dick pic. It annoyed me, because I put our routine videos on YouTube and I expect my girls to practice. But I started to feel sad for her. I don’t even know what she did when her dad was on shift and she was home. But she never wanted to make him mad. He knew everything she ate, he knew where everything was in her room . . .
CLINE: Could Emma have sneaked out of the house to meet someone last night?
AVERY: Like, the guy who pushed her over the edge? I guess. I don’t know who it would be, though. And she wouldn’t have any record of it, in case her dad found it.
No, wait. She had a journal. I think she only wrote in it when she was here, but she wrote in it daily for sure.
CLINE: You’ve seen this journal? Do you know where she kept it?
AVERY: Um, her locker maybe? I never saw her take it out or put it away, now that you mention it.
CLINE: This has been very helpful, Miss Cross. Really. Thank you for your time.
AVERY: It’s nothing. I want to help, and I want justice for Emma. Really, I’ll do anything. Just let me know.
Okay?
4
Those Left Behind
The Sayer house is quiet this morning, as it always is now. Even the neighbor’s dogs don’t bark when they get too close to the dividing fence. The windows are covered in spots, and shingles hang loose from the roof. The rosebushes in the garden have gone to seed and their dry brown stems spill over the postage-stamp yard, filling the drain and coiling around the fence posts. Brown on brown in the crisp, cold December day.
A delivery kid tosses the morning paper on the stoop, then pedals quickly past. Senator Hunterton’s face, full of righteous rage, crunches on dead foliage. The headline reads: HUNTERTON: I DON’T TOUCH LITTLE GIRLS.
Inside the house the air is stuffy, like a window hasn’t been cracked since Lizzy Sayer died. The round table still has four cheap folding chairs covered in pleather. They split at the seams, pushing out plastic foam. Only one is currently occupied—Gwen sits with a cup of coffee and a square of toast. Her food is forgotten as her fingers fly over a battered iPhone she got from Heather Halifax at school. She doesn’t even look up as her father comes in, though when he kisses the top of her head, she mutters, “Morning,” and tilts her screen toward the table.
“All right? You’re dressed for work today,” says Mrs. Sayer. Her voice lilts in the Welsh Valleys tones she moved here with twenty-one years ago. She pours a thin stream of batter into a pan in their prefabricated corner kitchen, all white laminate turned beige after years of stains and burns and general use. She still doesn’t know how to make fluffy pancakes. Next to the pan the electric kettle boils; two cups sit ready with second-round teabags inside.
“I thought I’d take a half day. You know how Mecklin is.”
They do know. Mr. Mecklin was the first to offer any help he could give when Lizzy died. The last to pass judgment on her blood alcohol content and what that meant for Mr. and Mrs. Sayer as parents. The only to offer to pay for family counseling.
But it’s easier to pretend that Gwen’s father has a hard-ass boss, and ignore the truth—that Mr. Sayer hates this house as much as they do, and he’s running away from it.
“I’m making pancakes,” Mrs. Sayer says softly.
Her husband kisses her on the cheek. “I’m jealous. I’ll bet they’re delicious. Gwen, take it easy today, okay?”
Gwen’s still glued to her phone. “Why?” She never takes it easy. It’s a point of pride.
Her parents hesitate in the kitchen, glancing between her and each other. Their looks are full of things they don’t know how to say. Finally, her mother pours steaming water into the teacups, adding a dollop of UHT milk to each. “We think you ought to stay home from school.”
The phone falls to the table with a thud. “I definitely don’t.” Gwen’s voice is iron and thunder.
“You . . . With everything happening, you might need some . . . time to process.”
“No.” Gwen’s hands turn to fists on the table. Her mother’s eyes fly to them immediately. Gwen forces her fingers open, laying them flat on the plastic rose-print tablecloth. “I don’t need time. The Devino Scholarship is being announced today. I can’t be truant. What if that affects my chances?”
“It won’t. The decision’s probably been made for weeks. We’ve already called the school and told them that you can’t make it in.”
“I can’t just skip school. I can’t go the whole day without knowing.” Gwen glares from parent to parent. Her hands tremble.
Her father’s lips thin. “This isn’t an option, Gwen. I spoke to Principal Mendoza early this morning, and the school’s a powder keg—half the students are staying home, no one’s letting their kid take the bus, limited activities after dark. You’ll be able to focus better if you study at home.”
Gwen’s breathing like she’s ready to charge. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’ll ground you if we have to,” Mrs. Sayer says.
“For going to school? Jeez, Mum, I’m not Lizzy.”
Everything in the room stills for one terrible moment. Mrs. Sayer’s face drains of blood. Her hand clenches around the spatula. The electric kettle pops.
Gwen tries to salvage the situation. “I’m not hiding booze and pills under my bed. I just want to go to school. Like it’s a normal day.”
Mrs. Sayer folds her arms. “It’s not a normal day. You’re not going.”
Diary Entry
Emma Baines—Friday, June 16, 2017
I’ve been dying to get home and put this into words. Uneasiness has been balling in my stomach and dragging me down. I couldn’t eat lunch. Dad drove me home ’cause he thought I was sick. And now that he’s back at the office, I can finally try to untangle this strange, queasy feeling that’s making my hands shake.
The summer internship’s been boring up to this point. I thought I’d watch the police fight drunken hobos or take statements from rich ski wives about how some vandal keyed their husband’s Audi. I sort of hoped Dad would take me out on patrol. Instead I’ve been in the filing room the past two weeks, sneezing dust. I’ll probably be the only girl in Colorado who comes back from summer break paler than I was before.
I’ve been reorganizing recent cases by number. The guys at the JLPD don’t understand correct filing. I’m not supposed to read the files, and I’m normally not interested—does it really matter that Claude Vanderly was caught out past curfew at Anna’s Run, again? Does it really matter that Mrs. Cross made sixteen noise complaints this year?
But then I saw her file. Lizzy’s file.
It felt like someone had socked me in the stomach. I sat—more like collapsed—on the crappy rolling chair. Her file was heavy in my hands, thick with statements, photographs, reports . . . a whole ream of paper and months of investigation, all of which came down to a simple statement: Lizzy Sayer committed suicide.