Текст книги "Where They Found Her"

Автор книги: Kimberly McCreight

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“I’m only trying to do what’s best for my son,” Barbara said. She wasn’t about to admit to saying anything specific, not if Rhea was going to be vague. “I’m sure you understand.”

“My shirts are too tight?” Rhea said, crossing her arms over her—precisely the point—very clingy top. “Oh, and I wear too much makeup. That’s right, it’s all coming back to me. Enlighten me, how is either of those related to my teaching ability?”

“Well, that’s taking what I said quite out of—”

Rhea held up a hand. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.” She walked over to a short stack of papers on a nearby table, brought them back, and slid them into her bag. “Now, what is it? I’m on my way home.”

“We had Cole evaluated by that doctor you suggested,” Barbara offered. It was something of an olive branch.

“Really?” Rhea looked genuinely taken aback. Because Rhea was judging Barbara, too: stubborn, inflexible know-it-all. She’d heard it all before. “What did he say?”

“That Cole’s behavior is the result of a trauma.” A small lie with a noble purpose.

Rhea’s eyes were wide. “My goodness, what trauma?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. We were hoping you could help.”

Rhea’s face tightened. “Nothing happened to Cole here, Barbara. If that’s what you’re suggesting again. I thought we already discussed this.”

But Barbara needed to push. She needed to be absolutely sure before she went to Steve. Otherwise, he’d never listen. “Well, I’m sure that you didn’t mean for it to. But there are nineteen children, Rhea. Surely you can’t have your eye on every single one of them all the time.”

Rhea hung her head and let her shoulders drop. She took a deep breath before she looked up. “Listen, Barbara, I understand how difficult this must be for you and your family,” she began, as though she had mustered the very last of her patience. “It’s so painful for a parent to watch a child suffer. I know what you’re feeling and—”

“Wait, I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Rage flashed in Barbara’s gut. “You know what I’m feeling? Excuse me, Rhea, but you don’t even have children. How dare you say you know what I’m feeling?”

Rhea looked like she’d been slapped. But that wasn’t a judgment, it was a fact. Rhea didn’t have children. It wasn’t Barbara’s fault if Rhea was the kind of person who could be unaware of the gaping hole that created in the center of her life.

“To each his own, of course,” Barbara went on, just to clarify. Because she wasn’t suggesting that everyone needed to have children. Only those people who wanted to claim they knew what it was like to be a parent. “Not everyone was meant to have a family.”

Rhea nodded, frowning with exaggerated thoughtfulness. But now there was hate in her eyes. “You know, Barbara, all these years, I’ve been wondering: Why me? Why did I have to have a hysterectomy when I was only twenty-six?” Her voice quaked. “And here you had the answer all along: I just wasn’t meant to have a family.”

Barbara’s eyes went down to Rhea’s perfectly flat midsection. Well, how was she supposed to know? “I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

But there was no point. They both knew exactly what she’d meant. And Rhea was already reaching for her coat.

“I am genuinely sorry that Cole is hurting. I care about him very much.” Rhea was all business as she crossed the room and opened the classroom door. “But if something happened to him, it didn’t happen here.” She waved a hand toward the hall, ushering Barbara out the door. “And now, Barbara, you really do need to go.”

RIDGEDALE READER

Print Edition

March 18, 2015

Essex Bridge: An Area Marked by Tragedy

BY MOLLY SANDERSON

The woods behind Essex Bridge were long known to be a place where Ridgedale High School students congregated on warm weekend evenings. When the parties got too raucous, neighbors would inevitably summon the Ridgedale Police. Students would be sent on their way, the intoxicated occasionally having their keys confiscated or being driven home in the back of a police car.

There were never any arrests. The general view among residents and local law enforcement was that these were good kids, out to have a good time.

In the spring of 1994, Simon Barton was enjoying the end of his senior year at Ridgedale High School. An accomplished athlete as well as an honor student, Simon’s biggest concern was whether he should enroll in Duke University or play basketball for the University of Virginia, where he had been offered an athletic scholarship.

The only child of Sheila and Scott Barton, Simon was born at Ridgedale University Hospital and had lived in town his entire life. He died after slipping in the woods and suffering a traumatic head injury.

Despite evidence of heavy underage drinking that night, there were never any arrests in connection with his death. In place of accusation or prosecution, there was a collective outpouring of grief. Simon Barton’s funeral was attended by more than 900 of Ridgedale High School’s 1,000 students. Within weeks, there had been more than half a dozen fund-raisers to establish a scholarship in Simon’s name.

Twenty years later, there has been another death in those same woods. As of today, there have been more than 200 posts on a social media site called Frat Chat. Intended for use by university students, Frat Chat has in Ridgedale—as in many other towns—been overtaken by high school students. The vast majority of these posts accuse various students of being responsible for the baby’s death.

Despite the proximity, the police believe the two incidents are unrelated. Police have yet to identify the baby’s mother or father and continue to ask for the public’s help. If you have any information, please contact the police at 888-526-1899.

Molly Sanderson, Session 13, May 28, 2013

(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

Patient Knowledge and Consent)

M.S.: Why don’t we ever talk about the baby? We talk about everything else—my job, Ella, Justin. My mother, who’s been dead for almost twenty years.

Q:    You don’t think she’s relevant?

M.S.: No, I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll turn into her, of course. But other than that, no, I don’t think she’s relevant.

Q:    Turn into her how?

M.S.: She was destroyed because my father left her. And because she was destroyed, she was a terrible mother.

Q:    Do you think you’re destroyed? That you’ll end up a terrible mother?

M.S.: End up? It’s already happened. I’ve been a terrible mother for months. I have to get over this. I have to get better. Or, yes, I’ll end up just like my mother. I can live with almost anything but that. So how am I going to get over it?

Q:    I think we need to address your guilt.

M.S.: The baby was inside me. Of course I feel guilty.

Q:    What was happening in the days before you found out the baby’s heart had stopped?

M.S.: The days before? I don’t know. I don’t remember much. What difference does it make?

Q:    The fact that you can’t remember suggests to me that it might matter very much.

M.S.: The usual things. I was finishing a draft of a piece of proposed legislation before maternity leave. And we were trying to potty-train Ella, and she kept peeing on the carpet, which sounds funny now. But it wasn’t funny then. All I kept thinking was that we were going to have to get the carpets cleaned before Justin’s family came to see the baby.

Q:    And what about Justin? Was he busy, too?

M.S.: So busy. He’d taken over a class for a colleague, and he was presenting two different papers at two different conferences in the three weeks before the baby was due. We were both really busy. That’s life, right? Everybody’s busy.

Q:    I’ve never heard you be frustrated by that.

M.S.: That Justin was busy? After how much he’s given up to take care of us since? How could I possibly be irritated by that? Besides, I was the one carrying the baby.

Q:    And so he bears no responsibility?

M.S.: He has responsibilities, yes. He helped with Ella afterward. And before, too. But he was working all hours. That wasn’t his fault. He had a job to do.

Q:    You seem very frustrated now, though.

M.S.: I am frustrated. With you. Listen, our problem wasn’t who folded more laundry or unloaded the dishwasher or who last took out the garbage. Our baby is dead, that’s our problem.

JENNA

MAY 28, 1994

It finally happened!!! The Captain and I had sex! I’d call it making love, if that wasn’t so gross. But that’s what it felt like: love. Everything about it was so perfect. His parents were away, so we had the house to ourselves and I lied and told my parents that I was staying at Tiff’s house.

And it worked like a charm. For once, they didn’t even call Tiff’s mom to check. Otherwise, they would have found out that her family was away at a wedding in Philadelphia.

The Captain actually COOKED dinner for me first. Like he was my husband or something. It was some kind of spaghetti that was kind of gross, but I never tasted anything better in my whole entire life.

And it was amazing. Didn’t hurt at all like Tiffany said it would. The Captain was so sweet and gentle. And he didn’t even know it was my first time. (I didn’t want him to be freaked out, and anyway it’s not like it’s that big of a deal. I’ve done A LOT of other stuff with A LOT of other guys.) He didn’t tell me he loved me afterward—I wouldn’t have wanted him to.

It was so much better when he just held me like he did.

Sandy

At least there weren’t any cars in the driveway when Sandy got to Hannah’s house. Her heart was still beating hard, though, as she jumped off her bike.

Sandy never would have gone to Hannah’s if she’d had any choice. After making it out of the chief of police’s office, the last place she wanted to go was his house. But it was the way Hannah had sounded on the phone when she’d given up on texting and started to call Sandy—like she was sliding down to the bottom of a well. Sandy had thought: This is it. This is the end. The whole time Hannah had been a house of cards. And finally, those motherfuckers had started to slide. Maybe right into the hands of the chief of police.

He’d been nice enough to Sandy, had said he would look for Jenna and all that. But there was something about the way he acted after Sandy said Jenna’s name. Like it had changed everything for him. For sure Hannah’s dad at least knew of Jenna, had heard her name before. Maybe that could be a good thing, but Sandy sure as hell wanted to get in and out of his house before it turned into a bad one.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Hannah said when she opened the door. She gave Sandy a teary, worried smile, then pulled her into a tight hug as she dragged her inside. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been really worried.”

“But you really don’t have to worry,” Sandy said. Even though she already knew there was no point. Nothing she said was going to get them out of this wack-ass country they’d gotten lost in. “I’m all right, I promise.”

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Hannah asked, leading Sandy toward the kitchen. “God, you look tired. Did you ever end up seeing a doctor?”

Barely in the door and there Hannah went. Sandy had been hoping Hannah wasn’t going to do this—make them have this conversation face-to-face. Seemed stupid now, but Sandy had actually thought she and Hannah would never talk to each other again after that night. That Sandy would never have to talk to anyone about what happened. And after a while—a long time even—it would be like it hadn’t. Looking now at Hannah’s worried face, Sandy could see just how wrong she’d been.

“I’m all good,” Sandy said. “Like I said a bunch of times. Totally fine.”

The truth was she felt like crap. She hadn’t slept in two days, and she didn’t think she’d ever be hungry again.

“Sorry to drag you over here,” Hannah said. “But I have to watch my brother. He hasn’t been . . . he’s not feeling well. He’s okay right now, but my mom had to go out and, well, I didn’t know when I was going to get the chance to get out again.”

“Listen, can we go upstairs? Just in case your parents come home, I don’t want to be sitting here, right near the front door.”

Really it was that Sandy could hear the TV in the other room, where Hannah’s little brother must have been. And it was giving her bad flashbacks.

“Sure, come on,” Hannah said, smiling as they headed for the steps like she was eight and Sandy was there for a sleepover. “We’ll go to my room.”

It wasn’t the first time Sandy had felt like a little girl around Hannah. It was part of why Sandy had liked hanging out with her. She felt like a regular kid when they were together, gossiping about stupid, regular shit.

“You’ve never had a boyfriend, ever?” Sandy had asked during one of their last tutoring sessions. She’d been telling Hannah about Aidan, which felt dumb. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend. “How’s that possible? You’re, what, seventeen? And look at you. I don’t believe you.”

It wasn’t like she and Hannah had known each other long, but lately they had been talking about all sorts of stuff that had nothing to do with Sandy’s coursework. Hannah had suggested it the first time. You know, if Sandy wanted to hang out after. And it was nice, Hannah wanting to do that, because it wasn’t like she was hard up for friends or something. Unless what Hannah wanted was a friend as messed up as Sandy, to feel good about herself by comparison. But Sandy could live with that. Everybody needed something.

“What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” Hannah had laughed a little. “I’m serious, no boyfriend ever. It’s true.”

“Fine, whatever, but for the record, I don’t believe you.” Sandy had waved a pencil in Hannah’s face. “You’re too pretty and nice and smart– Wait, are you gay?” That felt like it might explain a lot. “I mean, I don’t give a shit. But in this particular situation, I think that would count as lying. Girlfriend, boyfriend, same thing.”

“I like boys,” Hannah had said with a shrug. “But it’s complicated. They’re not worth the trouble right now.”

“Maybe you’ve been with the wrong guys. Usually, it’s the ladies who overcomplicate shit.”

But maybe Sandy was the one getting things wrong. When guys really wanted you—all of you—it probably was a shitload messier. Maybe Sandy’s relationships with boys had always been simple because they weren’t relationships at all. Guys wanted one thing from Sandy: sex. And she knew after a lifetime of watching Jenna that it was stupid to give it up to them as easily as she did. But for some reason, it had always felt more stupid to snap on a chastity belt. Only an idiot would think doing that would change the way things were going to turn out for her.

“I’m not saying the guys are complicated.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “It’s a bunch of other things. My mom, for one. If you think she’s uptight about glitter shoes, imagine what she’d be like about boys. Anyway, it’s not just her. I think maybe I want to save myself until marriage. And don’t bother making fun of me. I already know you’ll probably think that’s ‘fucked up’ or whatever.”

Hannah always sounded so weird, swearing. Like she didn’t know what the words meant.

Sandy shrugged. “Is that what you want? To wait until you’re married? And I mean you, not your mom.”

Hannah looked up then. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It is what I want. When I’m with someone finally, I want it to be someone who likes me for me, you know. All the boys I know, usually, it feels like all they care about is themselves.”

What the hell did Sandy know? That was probably exactly what Hannah should do: wait for someone more mature. It was probably exactly what Sandy should have done.

“If that’s what you want,” Sandy said, “then there’s nothing fucked up about it.”

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see that you’re okay,” Hannah said again once they were upstairs. She motioned for Sandy to sit on the bed while she pulled out the desk chair and turned it around. Hannah did look relieved now, happy almost. “I mean, you look tired, like I said. But I was picturing—I don’t know, worse.”

Sandy needed to pull the trigger—end this in a way that hopefully wouldn’t make Hannah freak. Then Sandy needed to back the fuck out of this mess, slow and steady. No big movements.

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “So listen, I’m glad I came, too. Because I needed to tell you that I’m going out of town. I might be pretty hard to reach for a while.”

Not moving out of Ridgedale, though, that would be too much. Just a trip, an excuse for Sandy to be out of touch. People like Hannah went out of town all the time—long weekends, summer vacation—it was a regular thing they did.

“Oh?” Hannah looked worried as she rocked her hips back and forth, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. “Where are you going?”

Crap. Sandy hadn’t worked that out. That was another thing people like Hannah did: They planned an actual place to go instead of driving around randomly, like the last time she and Jenna had gone on “vacation” and ended up at a Courtyard Marriott in Camden.

“Washington, D.C.,” Sandy said. First place that jumped to mind. And it was somewhere regular people went. “For a few weeks. Maybe a month.”

“A month?” Hannah blinked at her. “That’s such a long time.”

Shit, it was. Sandy shouldn’t have said a month. She should have started small, hoped for the best. But what did any of this matter? A week, a month. At the end of the day, Sandy wouldn’t be able to control what Hannah said or who she said it to once she was gone. All the more reason for Sandy to go for real. To go far. And to go forever. But for that, she’d need Jenna.

“Yeah, it is kind of a long time,” Sandy said. “But my mom wants to stay for a while, so . . .”

“Won’t you have your phone?”

Shit. Why hadn’t she thought of that either? “Uh, my mom won’t let me bring it. She wants to, you know, unplug.”

“Oh, okay,” Hannah said. She seemed satisfied. Only she, with that mother of hers, would believe that bullshit. “Well, thanks for coming over. I just, I couldn’t– I needed to actually see you to know that you were okay. It was– I couldn’t sleep, thinking about it. Also, I wanted to make sure that you don’t blame yourself. Because it was an accident, the whole thing.”

Sandy nodded, afraid of saying the wrong thing when she was so close to getting out the door. “Yeah—I mean, no. Definitely don’t blame myself. Thanks for checking. But I do kind of have to go now. My mom will be waiting for me. Can I just use your bathroom before I take off?” She wanted to splash water on her face, wash her hands. She’d been on her bike for hours.

“Yeah, sure, of course. It’s right down the hall on the left.”

Sandy stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hannah was right. She did look like shit. But it wasn’t like she was going to start looking better anytime soon. When she made it home to their empty apartment, she’d never be able to sleep.

The medicine cabinet caught Sandy’s eye then. Maybe there was a chance she could feel better for a while. Or maybe she could just forget a little bit. At this point, she’d settle for that. For temporary. Seemed about fucking time Sandy cut herself a break. And yeah, it would be better if it wasn’t the chief of police’s medicine cabinet she was about to swipe some bottles from. But it wasn’t like he’d know she’d been there. Besides, maybe Aidan had the right idea all along. Maybe what she needed was a bigger fuck-it bucket.

Sandy opened the medicine cabinet; there were more than half a dozen little amber bottles with all sorts of different names. There had to be something in there that would work. That would wipe out the world. She grabbed a couple of the older bottles from the way back (one of Barbara’s, one of Steve’s—faded, nearly expired, less likely to be missed) that had the telltale Danger, Controlled Substance. Illegal to Dispense Without Prescription. Tranquilizers, painkillers, what difference did it make? One of them was bound to do the trick. Sandy shook the bottles, and something rattled inside. Not now, though, not yet. Only if she really couldn’t fucking take it anymore—the looking for Jenna, the remembering. Sandy shoved the bottles in her pockets. She was pulling her shirt down over the lump in her jeans when there was a soft knock on the door.

“You should go now, Sandy. Out the back door,” Hannah whispered from the other side. “My brother just woke up and he’s really upset. My mom’s on her way home.”

Sandy saw the notice—bright yellow and taped across her apartment door—as she was coming up the steps of Ridgedale Commons. Even from that distance, she could see the padlock, too. The guy had said twenty-four hours. He’d probably even given her an extra few.

“Shit.” Sandy stopped and leaned against the wrought-iron railing, feeling her throat squeeze tight. She just couldn’t keep it all in anymore. Couldn’t take one more goddamn thing. “Shit!”

She yelled it so loud that her throat vibrated as she slid down the wall. She curled up on the ground, arms wrapped tight around her knees, mouth pressed against them. And then she started to bawl. Once she’d started, it was like she was never going to stop. Her body shook and she couldn’t catch her breath. Her face was a snotty mess. She jammed her lips harder against her knees until she felt like her mouth might tear. She wanted it to.

Sandy was still crying when she heard Mrs. Wilson’s door open. A second later, she heard the old lady come out, felt her staring down. Fuck.

“Good Lord,” her neighbor said. “What in heaven are you doing?”

Perfect. Exactly what Sandy needed: to have Mrs. Wilson rip in to her. Sandy shouldn’t have yelled. Not right outside Mrs. Wilson’s door. She knew better. Sandy tried wiping her eyes, hoping it would help her stop crying. But that only made it worse. She felt like she was melting beneath her fingertips, like her tears were washing away her skin.

“Such a goddamn mess, all of this, all the time,” Mrs. Wilson muttered, coming closer. Sandy could see the old woman’s wiry bare feet, her toes painted a bright orange. She wondered for a second what it would feel like when Mrs. Wilson kicked her. She braced herself for it.

When the pain didn’t come, Sandy looked up. Mrs. Wilson was standing there in a teenager’s pink sweatsuit, her eyes shiny brown marbles in her bony old-lady face. She had a hand on her hip and a look of disgust on her face. “You hurt or something?” she shouted, like the problem was Sandy’s hearing. “One of these bastards do something to you?”

Sandy shook her head, but Mrs. Wilson looked up and down the walkway as if trying to find someone to blame. Then her eyes set on Sandy’s front door. She turned her orange-polished toes in the direction of the door, then padded down for closer inspection. She lifted her pointy chin to squint at the ugly yellow sticker, then poked her nose in close to the padlock that was bolting shut the door.

Mrs. Wilson marched back toward her own apartment, muttering more angrily as she disappeared inside. Sandy waited for her to slam the door. Instead, Mrs. Wilson reappeared, a crowbar gripped in her hand.

Hoisting it against her hip, Ms. Wilson headed to the apartment on the far side of hers. Every step looked like it might topple her skinny body. She rested the crowbar on the ground before pounding on her far neighbor’s door.

Two young guys lived there. Shady for sure, but not dealers, as far as Sandy knew. Otherwise, Jenna would have found her way over there a long time ago. Stolen electronics, maybe, or counterfeit something or other. From the constant stream of people in and out of their door, they were definitely selling something.

“Hey, I know you’re in there!” Mrs. Wilson shouted when they didn’t answer right away. She banged harder, this time with her whole forearm. “I just heard your TV through my wall! Open up the damn door!”

A second later, the one with the scruff of hair on his chin filled the entryway. He was wearing a 76ers jersey and a baseball cap backward over a tangled brown ponytail. There was a gold chain on his right wrist. The guy didn’t say anything, just stared at Mrs. Wilson like a startled elephant, not angry, only confused.

“Here.” She shoved the crowbar at him. He blinked down at it but didn’t take it. “Go on,” she scolded. “What are you waiting for?”

Finally, he reached forward. In his big fingers, the crowbar became a weightless matchstick. He stared down at it, surprised and even more confused.

“Now,” Mrs. Wilson said, “you take that and go open that door.”

“What?” His voice was nicer, more polite, than Sandy would have expected.

“You heard me. Go open that door for this girl.” Mrs. Wilson hooked a thumb toward Sandy’s apartment. “It’s locked.”

“What?” Now he sounded like a whiny teenager. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You boys are lucky someone hasn’t called the police on you. And someone still could.”

The guy heaved a loud sigh and lugged himself out of his apartment. As he headed for Sandy’s door, he tossed the crowbar higher in his huge hand. He paused at Sandy’s door to read the notice, turning back to look at Mrs. Wilson.

“Oh, please, don’t act like you care about the law.” She flapped a hand at him. “Just do it.”

He looked over his shoulder once more to see if anyone was watching—something he’d definitely done a hundred times before when breaking in elsewhere—then snapped the lock off in one easy movement. It fell to the ground with a thud. He walked back toward them, eyes on the ground. He rested the crowbar against the wall next to Mrs. Wilson and disappeared inside his apartment without saying another word.

Sandy pushed herself to her feet, heart pounding. She had to get in and out of that apartment now. Who knew what would happen when you broke open a lock like that? They arrested you, probably, and Sandy seriously did not fucking need that.

“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Wilson, her voice still hoarse from crying.

Mrs. Wilson shook her head and stepped closer to Sandy, looking her hard in the eye. “You get in there and take what you need,” she said. “But then you go. Because you are the only person in this world who’s going to take care of you. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

Inside the apartment, Sandy moved fast. She grabbed a couple of the boxes they’d used to move in months earlier, then went around scooping up their personal crap that mattered: Jenna’s jewelry box, Sandy’s grandparents’ pictures, her school records. She opened and closed cabinets, eyes darting around for anything important. There wasn’t much. Their stuff that mattered barely filled a single box.

Sandy filled a second box with some basic kitchen crap: couple plates, some bowls, and a handful of silverware. She also grabbed the stuff Hannah had given her that night for safekeeping. She couldn’t imagine ever seeing Hannah again—she hoped to God not—but it felt wrong to leave it behind. Sandy couldn’t take much else. They’d just have to replace the rest of their cheap shit with new cheap shit. As it was, she didn’t know where the hell she was going to put these two boxes; it wasn’t like she could ride away with them on her bike.

They’d need some clothes, too, an outfit for each, and she’d have to go with spring because there wasn’t time to cover winter. It wasn’t until then that Sandy noticed Jenna’s coat hanging on the back of the door. It had been cold the night before last, frost on the grass in the morning. What if Jenna was outside somewhere? What if she’d frozen to death?

Sandy tried to shake off the thought as she went back to Jenna’s room for one last pass. Though she was trying not to hope that she’d find her money somewhere, she was still disappointed when she didn’t.

There was one last place Sandy could look, the place girls like Jenna always hid their secret stash. Sandy grabbed the mattress with two hands and pushed. She was almost glad when it pitched to the left and crashed against Jenna’s bureau, taking everything on top—cheap bottles of perfume and small glass tchotchkes—down with it.

When Sandy looked back, she couldn’t believe it, but there was something fucking there on the box spring. Not her money. She’d never be that lucky. It was a small black book. Sandy picked it up, bracing herself when she flipped it open. Sure enough, there were her mom’s bubbly girlie letters and a date on the first page: February 15, 1994. Shit.

Sandy tucked the two boxes under the building’s stairs in a dusty cobwebbed corner she was pretty sure no one would check. In her backpack, she’d shoved what was left of her cash—eighteen dollars now—Jenna’s journal, a couple clean pairs of underwear, two T-shirts, and her toothbrush. She didn’t know where the hell she was going to stay, but it wasn’t here, that was for sure.

The last thing Sandy was about to drop in the bag were the pills she’d stolen from Hannah’s house. She would take them only if she got desperate, and then she’d take one pill. Maybe two. Except at this point, with the way she was feeling, Sandy wasn’t sure she could trust herself. Just in case, she should keep only a few and get rid of the rest. She cracked open the bottles and dumped the contents of both together into her palm.

When Sandy looked, there were a few different-shaped pills and a silver chain—broken at the clasp—with a silver moon charm, an aquamarine stone set inside.

It was Jenna’s necklace. The one she always had on. The one that meant so much to her, though even Sandy didn’t know why. Because for all the many secrets that Jenna wouldn’t keep from her daughter—about the drugs she took and the men she slept with—who gave her that necklace was the one thing she refused to tell.

It was dark by the time Sandy got on her bike. Her hands were trembling against the handlebars and her heart was pounding. There was no good reason for Jenna’s necklace to be in one of those bottles. There was only one bad reason for Jenna and her necklace to be separated in the first place: Jenna was dead. How the necklace had ended up in Hannah’s house in a goddamn old pill bottle, Sandy didn’t have a clue. Had Steve taken the pills off Jenna? No, they had his (or his wife’s) name on them. None of it made any sense. Not good sense, anyway.