by Minka Kent
When I’m finished shoving my clothes and shoes and bags together, I head to my bathroom and walk away with an armful of shampoo and a couple of travel tote’s worth of skin and makeup products.
Everything fits. My entire life in a zippered bag with wheels.
I slide my computer into my purse last, wrapping the charging cord around my palm before tucking it into a side pocket.
“What are you doing?” Lauren stands in my doorway, leaning, yawning. Her hair is a mess, face puffy. She’s been sleeping.
“I’m moving out.” I stand tall.
Her arms fold. “Why?”
“I don’t feel comfortable being here anymore.”
“Okay, now you’re overreacting,” she says. “Thayer would never hurt anyone.”
“This isn’t just about Thayer.”
Lauren’s mouth presses flat. “So you don’t feel comfortable living here because of me?”
“That too.” I drag my suitcase off the bed and wheel it toward the doorway, but she doesn’t budge.
“Should we talk about this or something?” she asks.
“My mind is made up.” I motion for her to step aside. “I don’t know what happened to Bristowe, but I know what my gut tells me. And it’s that one of you has something to hide, and I want nothing to do with this.”
“You realize how insane you sound right now, don’t you?” The bitch laughs at me. She’s only trying to provoke me into an argument so she can convince me to stay, so she can get her way. I’ve seen her do it dozens of times with Thayer, only I never realized what she was doing all those times. Not until now. She’s a manipulative, cunning, slippery little whore.
I say nothing. All those things I practiced in the car on the way here? I keep them to myself. She’s smarter than I’ve given her credit for, and I’m not ready to play my hand yet.
So I leave.
I leave the pretty house and the pretty roommate and the pretty life I’d come to love.
I know now that none of it was real.
I know now that this is real—life and death and heartache and pregnant widows.
And I want to live in the real world again.
Thirty-Four
Classes resumed yesterday and as of today, Reed Bristowe’s murder was officially confirmed in a campus-wide email. It’s an ongoing investigation. Rumor is he was shot in the back—which I already knew because Elisabeth told me one quiet night by the fireplace.
Other rumors are that he was poisoned, that his throat was slit, or that he overdosed on heroin. I keep the truth to myself. I don’t want to accidentally thwart the police’s ongoing efforts.
I find a spot in the back row at World Lit, watching the door to see if Lauren walks in. There’s a TA in the front, messing with the projector. She’s baby-faced and clearly has no idea what she’s doing. The poor thing is shaking like a leaf and I wonder if it’s because she’s scared or if she’s shaken by the death of her beloved colleague.
A folded Meyer State Herald lies abandoned on the seat beside me, the headline reading CAMPUS MURDER – WHAT YOU HAVEN’T HEARD. Since when did the Herald become The National Enquirer? Grabbing the paper, I scan the article. It’s all hearsay mixed with speculation in a way that makes it seem legit. Some of the facts, I can confirm—he was discovered by a night guard who was making his rounds. He was wearing a t-shirt and a ball cap. He was shot in the back. There were no witnesses as far as I know, but the article is begging anyone who knows something to come forward immediately. At the bottom of the article, in italicized print, are the words: For tips and corrections, please email Editor-in-Chief Emily Waterford at [email protected].
I almost choke on my spit.
Emily Waterford.
The clock above the projection screen says class should’ve started five minutes ago, but the TA doesn’t seem any closer to being ready than she was before. I shove my pen and notebook into my bag and make the decision to cut class. Outside, I sprint across campus, heading straight for the Herald Headquarters on the south side.
The directory at the entrance shows Emily’s office on the fourth floor. 41A.
I blink and I’m there and I don’t remember if I took the elevator or the stairs, all I know is I have to talk to her immediately and her door is closed.
Lifting my fist to knock, the door swings open before I get a chance to begin. A petite girl with shiny auburn hair, a polka dot shirt, and a pencil skirt jumps back.
“Oh. Hello,” she says, one hand over her chest and another gripping an empty coffee mug. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Emily Waterford?”
Her eyes go from side to side. I probably look like a crazy-eyed, breathless psychopath, but I don’t care.
“I am,” she says slowly, carefully. The tiniest crow’s feet flank her pretty green eyes and she speaks with one of those young, baby-doll voices.
“What do you know about 47 Magpie Drive?” I ask.
I’d searched for her in the campus student directory once, coming up empty-handed. But it makes sense now. She’s staff. Not a student. And she’s been here all along, hiding in plain sight. I just didn’t look hard enough.
“I used to live there,” she says. “Only for a few months. I was waiting to close on a house. Why?”
“So you know Lauren Wiedenfeld.”
Her mouth twists at the side. “No. Don’t think that I do? Why?”
“She lives there,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “You were her roommate.”
Emily releases a nervous titter. “Is this some kind of practical joke? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did Kevin set me up?”
She glances down the hall, half expecting to see someone.
“Lauren’s parents own that house,” I say. “Her brother lived there before. And she’s lived there for the last four years. She said she’s never had a roommate, but I found some mail with your name on it under one of the beds.”
Emily frowns. “I think you’re confused.”
She doesn’t think I’m confused—she thinks I’m crazy. I see it in her eyes, in the way she’s been taking tiny steps away from me like I wouldn’t notice.
“I moved out in early December,” she says. “And Silver Hill Properties owns that house. Maybe you’ve heard of them? They own three-fourths of the rentals in Monarch Falls? Billboards everywhere you look?”
“Silver Hill?”
“Check the assessor’s site,” she says. “Silver Hill is the property management company, and they’re owned by Janet Silver-Hill and Robert Hill. Trust me, I used to be a fact-checker. I know these things. And now that I think about it, I remember they said they had someone lined up for January. That’s the only reason they let me out of my lease early. Someone was moving in on the seventh, a week before classes started. Don’t ask me why I remember that.”
“It’s just … I moved in there … and the girl said she’d lived there for years and never had a roommate,” I say.
“She lied.” Emily shrugs. “People lie all the time about stupid stuff for no reason. Anyway, is that all you wanted to ask me?”
I nod. “Yeah. Sorry for all the freaking out. I’m just … trying to piece some things together.”
“Check the assessor’s site,” she says as she steps out of her office. I move out of the way and she closes the door. “That’s what I’d do. And then call the property management company. They won’t be able to give you names, but if you ask the right questions, you might find what you’re looking for. I speak as a veteran journalist.”
She gifts me with a wink before strutting down the hall, her chunky heels clunking on the tile.
Taking a seat on a nearby bench, I slide my phone out of my bag and search 47 Magpie Drive on the Monarch Falls Assessor’s page. Sure enough, Emily was right. Silver Hill Properties is the listed owner. Jay and Suzette Wiedenfeld are nowhere to be found.
I call the front office of Silver Hill next.
“Silver Hill Pr
operties, this is Samantha. How can I help you?” a pleasant voice answers.
“Hi, I’m interested in one of your properties,” I say as cordially as I possibly can. Heat flashes through my body and I’m trembling again. Little earthquakes that won’t stop. “47 Magpie Drive is the address.”
“Sure. Two seconds.” The click of keys in the background are followed with, “Okay, found it. All right, 47 Magpie Drive is currently in contract through July thirty-first of this year. I’d be happy to arrange a tour for you if you’re interested? Or I can have someone call you with some similar options. Is there something specific you’re looking for? Or what did you like about it? The neighborhood? Forest Hills is one of our more popular locations. It’s great for families too. Very quiet. Safe.”
“Can I let you know?” I ask.
“Of course …” she starts to say something else, but I hang up before she can coerce my contact information. Besides, I don’t think I could speak if I tried. With my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I breathe in and breathe out, trying to understand what this means.
Lauren subleased the apartment through July.
Her parents never owned it.
All of this was a lie.
But … why?
Thirty-Five
I’m elbow deep in oven mitts, attempting to drain the pasta I’ve boiled for Elisabeth’s dinner tonight, when my phone skids across the counter, a local number flashing across the screen.
Leaving the steaming pasta in the colander, I yank off a mitt and answer by the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Meadow Cupples, this is Lee Caldwell, Monarch Falls police,” he says. “Was wondering if you had some time tonight to come in and talk?”
Finally.
They’re taking me seriously.
“Of course,” I say, pacing the Bristowe kitchen. Elisabeth is upstairs in bed, where she’s been spending most of her time this week. I ran to the library yesterday, checking out dozens of books for her because all she does anymore is watch TV. Though I’m not entirely sure she’s actually watching it—I think she likes the sound. Makes her feel like she’s not alone. “Give me a half hour?”
Caldwell isn’t at all what I expected. He’s younger, maybe mid to late twenties? Full head of blond hair that he wears long enough that he can tuck it behind his ears and it curls on the ends. Baseball player build. Disarming mannerisms. He takes his time, speaks slowly, and dedicates his full attention to everything I say or do.
He’s a thinker. Like me. I can tell.
Lee Caldwell is no dummy.
“Appreciate you coming in today, Meadow.” He sits across from me, elbows on the table, hunched forward. It’s like we’re just a couple of pals.
“Of course. Anything I can do to help,” I say. “Elisabeth Bristowe is a very close friend of mine. I’m just heartbroken for her.”
Pushing a hard breath through his nose, he covers his mouth with his hands. “Mm hm.”
“Ask me anything. I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
Lee nods. “We’ve got a lot to cover tonight.”
Good. He’s thorough. I like that.
“I’d like to start with Lauren Wiedenfeld,” he says, tapping his pen cap on the table. “So she’s your roommate.”
“Yes. Was. I moved out recently.”
“And how long have you known her?” he asks.
“Since February twelfth,” I say.
“And how did you meet?”
“She posted an ad on the Tiger Paw Campus Portal looking for a roommate. I was looking for a place to stay. We met up and hit it off.” These questions are redundant. I went over these details days ago with Rhonda, but I’m sure he’s looking for inconsistencies. That’s what they do. They look for little holes in your story and that’s where they know to start digging.
I’ve got nothing to worry about, though. The truth is always consistent.
“So you like her?” he asks.
“Liked,” I correct him. “We were friends. I found out about Bristowe, started distancing myself from her.”
“Distancing yourself how? Why?”
“We just stopped hanging out,” I say. “Avoiding each other at home. I didn’t agree with her sleeping with a married man. I didn’t want to be associated with that.”
“Let’s go back to when you two were friends,” he says it like it was years ago, not weeks ago. “Tell me more about how you felt about her. Initially.”
His question is odd, but I answer anyway. “She was nice and welcoming. Introduced me to her family … her friends … her boyfriend. We got along perfectly.”
“Is it fair to say you idolized her?”
I cock an eyebrow. “I don’t know about idolizing her …”
“You looked up to her, then.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m sorry. What does that have to do with Bristowe’s murder?”
“You dressed like her,” he says. His statement catches me off guard. Obviously he’s been talking to Lauren.
“She gave me her old clothes.” I’m quick to land on my feet.
“Wore the same perfume,” he adds.
“I liked the way it smelled.” She must have been snooping through my things—I thought I’d kept the bottle of Versace perfume well hidden.
“You shared hairdressers, even had your hair highlighted like hers,” he says.
“At her insistence.” I squint at him, trying to steady the outraged tremble in my voice.
“If I were to look in your phone right now, at your music, would it be the same music she listened to?” he asks.
“Friends share music all the time,” I say.
“You were preoccupied with her relationship with Thayer Montgomery,” he says.
I scoff. “Preoccupied? Hardly.”
“You were constantly asking her about him,” he says. “Asking her friends about him. Anytime you had Thayer alone, you’d try and talk to him about their relationship. Prying questions. You tried to break them up on several occasions. You wanted them apart.”
My jaw drops. “You have it all wrong.”
He speaks as if these ridiculous claims are hard, cold facts. And he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. I had him all wrong. He’s not friendly or personable, he’s not your friendly, neighborhood guy next door, and he’s definitely not on my side.
Lee Caldwell is a professional manipulator, skilled at planting seeds and harvesting information, fertile soil or not.
“So none of these things are true?” He lifts a brow and leans back in his chair. He thinks I’m deranged, unstable.
“They’re true, but you’re making me sound like I was obsessed with Lauren’s life, and I wasn’t,” I say. “When you put all those things together, I know the kind of picture it paints, but you’re wrong.”
“Is it true you were in possession of a firearm?” he asks next, ignoring everything I just said.
Fucking Lauren.
“I took it from my mother’s boyfriend,” I said. “I was going to throw it in the Monarch Falls lake. I don’t even know how to shoot a gun.”
His hand covers his mouth once more and he glances down, at the notebook in front of him. From where I’m seated, I can’t make out his handwriting. It’s tiny and sloppy.
“What kind of gun was it, Meadow?” he asks.
I shrug. “I told you, I don’t know anything about guns.”
Glock. It was a Glock. I remember now.
“I think it was a Glock,” I say.
His lips flatten and his gaze locks on mine. “And you still have this gun in your possession?”
Shit.
I left it under my mattress at Lauren’s. Completely spaced it off when I was packing.
“It should be at Lauren’s,” I say. “It was hidden. Under the mattress in the room I rented.”
“We’ll have someone retrieve it,” he says. “Ballistics will need to take a look at it.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” I say. “It’s all
yours. I don’t even want it back.”
“Can you tell me about Saturday night? Where you were … what you did?” He’s trying to establish my alibi now.
“I stayed home,” I say. “I got dinner and stayed home and took a Benadryl and drank a glass of wine and went to bed early.”
“What time?” he asks.
“I don’t know? Seven, eight?”
His mouth turns down at the corners.
“I know most college students don’t go to bed at seven o’clock on a Saturday night, but I’d had a long week and I just wanted to sleep,” I say.
“Can anybody corroborate that you were home all evening?” he asks. “Did you talk to anyone? Anyone stop by?”
I shake my head. “I told you. I was alone. And I was sleeping.”
He jots something down. The silence between us is weighted, intolerable, and my stomach is nothing but knots.
“Did you check into Thayer Montgomery’s alibi?” I ask.
Lee glances up. “His sister was able to verify that he was in Waverly Heights at a family dinner.”
“What about Lauren?” I ask.
“She admitted she was with the victim earlier in the day, but they went their separate ways sometime after nine o’clock. We have text messages that confirm that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just really confused right now,” I say, half-chuckling. “It sounds like you think I had something to do with this?”
He says nothing, but I know what this is about.
Lauren found out I came in here and pointed a finger at her and Thayer, so she marched in here and pointed one right back. She painted me as obsessed with her, jealous. Unhinged. She made me look crazy, like someone capable of doing something so heinous. And then she told them I had a gun.
Someone knocks on the door, stealing Lee’s attention, and he folds the leather portfolio containing his yellow legal pad. “I think I’ve got enough for now. I’ll be in touch if I need anything more. You stick around town, okay?”
So that’s that.