by Kara Thomas
“Oh, he had one.” There’s scorn on the woman’s face. “Left Kathleen when she was pregnant with Ethan. They were never married.”
“So where did he go after she died?” I say.
“One of her cousins took him in. Hate to say it, but it was a relief when he was gone. He really put everyone around here on edge.”
“Because of why he got expelled?” I press.
“Well, that. And his walking the neighborhood at all hours.” The woman picks up her rake. Leans on it, crossing one ankle over the other.
I don’t know why, but the thought of Ethan McCready walking around with no place to go depresses me. “Does he still live with the cousin?”
The woman strips one of her gardening gloves off and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “He lasted a few weeks there.” She points down the street. “He was friends with James Montick, the boy who lived on the corner. His mother caught Ethan sleeping in their basement shortly after that. Told him she’d call the cops. Poor kid. No one ever seemed to want him.”
So what the hell happened to him?
“You haven’t seen him since then?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Beats me where he is now. Could be anywhere, I guess.”
Something in me deflates. I didn’t expect to waltz right into the neighborhood and learn that Ethan McCready never left his dead mother’s house and find him sitting in front of his TV watching the afternoon news. And what would I do if I had found him here?
“Thank you.” I hand the woman the garbage bag, suddenly desperate to leave. “I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”
“Don’t be silly.” The woman lifts her free hand. Hesitates. She rests it on my arm and gives me a gentle squeeze. I think maybe she’s going to say more, admit she knows who I am, but she turns back to her rake.
I get back on my bike. I pedal past the kids kicking around the soccer ball and keep going until I’m out of sight of the woman, slowing when I reach the house where she said Ethan McCready used to live.
I stop in front. It’s small and looks well cared for. There aren’t any Halloween decorations up, but a wooden heart hanging in the front door reads BLESS OUR HOME. To the left of the house is a small yard boxed off by a white fence. To the right there’s a Dead End sign and a patch of woods.
I walk my bike down the path dividing the trees. When the creek comes into view, I pause, remembering Carly’s words: The two of them, like, went off into the woods together all the time.
I picture Jen sitting on the rock jutting out of the creek, a book in her lap. She always had a book with her, was always coming out here to read. If I tried to tag along, she’d announce that she didn’t want to hang out by the creek anyway.
Was she trying to get rid of me so she could meet Ethan in private? Had Susan seen them?
I hook right and head toward the edge of the woods. After a couple hundred feet, the trees thin out and my old backyard comes into view.
My toes curl in my shoes at the clear view of our house. On the windowsill of the second-story corner room, someone has arranged a row of stuffed animals in a neat line and painted over the purple walls with dark blue. My old room.
I keep walking, staying close to the edge of the woods. Head all the way down to where I can get a look at the Berrys’ old backyard. The renovators tore out the pool and installed a stone patio with a fire pit. Inside the house, at the sliding glass door leading onto the back deck, sits a white cat, its tail flicking back and forth like a metronome. Eyes locked on a squirrel balanced on the deck railing, grooming itself.
I picture Ethan standing where I am now. Prowling through the woods, doing whatever he did back here at all hours of the night. Did he watch Susan and Juliana in the house through the glass door that night? Was he waiting here on purpose…waiting here, keeping an eye on the house of the girl who got him expelled?
Daphne’s words return to me: There weren’t any signs of forced entry at the Berrys’ house that night.
Juliana wouldn’t have let Ethan McCready in the front door, and it wasn’t like the Berrys to leave the back door unlocked. If they’d been leaving Susan alone, they would have taken every precaution to make sure the house was secure.
I let myself imagine an alternate scenario. One where Ethan never went inside the house that night—one where he was standing right where I am, the whole time, watching a scene on the deck unfold.
Someone coming to the back door to meet Juliana. Someone she or Susan had been expecting. Ethan would have seen Juliana with the person in the house.
A person who was definitely not Jack Canning.
I know it wasn’t him. It had been Ethan all along. Not threatening Tom, but warning him. Ethan thought he saw the real killer that night.
I walk my bike out to the street and hop on. Pedal home as fast as my legs will allow me. I let myself through the garage, propping my bike against the wall next to Mom’s car. I’ll deal with putting it away properly later; right now I have to text Ethan McCready the message I composed in my head on the ride home.
His response comes right away, as if he were waiting for this moment, for me to put enough of the pieces together.
There’s no school Thursday and Friday because of staff development. The holiday starts at sundown on Wednesday, so Coach has to cancel practice.
It’s ten minutes to three. Ginny and I are in her mom’s car, parked in the lot behind the Millerton Public Library. We sit in silence, watching a girl toss a trash bag into a dumpster with PROPERTY OF COOL BEANS COFFEE & TEA painted on the side.
“I don’t think this is safe,” Ginny says.
I know exactly what she thinks about meeting up with Ethan McCready, because she’s mentioned it about a thousand times since I called her on Sunday to tell her everything I learned in my old neighborhood.
When I told her that he wanted to meet up this afternoon at Cool Beans Coffee & Tea, she was silent for a solid minute.
“I mean, he’s obviously not…well,” she’d said. “Saving that note from your sister all these years and keeping track of where you live?”
“He can’t do anything to me in a public coffee shop,” I said, determined. “And besides, I have to hear what he has to say.”
Ginny insisted on coming. I didn’t mention this to Ethan when I agreed to meet him. I want him to think I’m coming alone.
We climb out of the car. Ginny locks it and we head down the alleyway. Outside Cool Beans, two guys are standing inches apart, one with his back against the brick wall. Facing each other, hands intertwined.
I can’t tear my eyes away from them, warmed by the intimacy of the scene. Two guys engaged in PDA is the type of thing that would raise eyebrows in Sunnybrook, where people still substitute the term good old days for before those liberals took over. I’ve heard that at the high school in Millerton, they were allowed to put on a production of Rent. At my school, a ninth-grade English teacher got fired for playing a DVD of Romeo and Juliet that showed an actor’s naked butt.
“Oh, I knew this place sounded familiar,” Ginny says as we approach the entrance to Cool Beans. A chalkboard sign out front advertises bubble tea and free Wi-Fi. “My mom works at the hospital up the road. She comes here for breakfast after her shift sometimes.”
I pause outside the café, eyes locked on the front window. It’s crowded, everyone at the table closest to the window on their laptops. “Can you go first?” I whisper to Ginny, suddenly nervous.
She opens the door and slips inside. I stay at her back, my heart straining in my chest. I can’t stop seeing that phone number—Ethan’s phone number—on my sister’s call log from the morning she died.
I have to know why he was the last person she talked to.
Cool Beans is packed. There isn’t a single free table in the whole place. I scan each of them, looking for Ethan
. It’s been five years, and I’ve only seen his yearbook photo; he could have changed his appearance.
“The barista,” Ginny whispers. I look at the front counter; a guy with floppy blond hair is wiping down an espresso machine with a rag. My stomach squirms. When he turns and starts untying the apron around his waist, I see his face. It’s slimmed down, making his jaw and nose more striking. His skin, spotted with blemishes in his school photo, is clear save for some sandy stubble. It’s him.
I’m ready to turn and run out, but Ethan is staring straight at me. He blinks, unmoving, almost as if he doesn’t see Ginny at all. He sets his rag down and emerges from behind the counter, a mug of coffee in hand. He stops several feet away from me. When he speaks, I can barely hear him over the chatter in the coffee shop and the sound of the blender behind the counter.
“You came,” he says. Ethan’s gaze falls on Ginny. “Who are you?”
“My friend,” I say, my voice froggy. I swallow, uncomfortable with Ethan hearing the fear in it. “Ginny.”
“There’s a free table in the back where we can talk,” Ethan says.
Ginny and I glance at each other. Ethan rolls his eyes. They’re as dark as they are in his yearbook portrait. “I’m not who you probably think I am, and even if I were, there are other people sitting back there to protect you.”
The note of mocking in his voice ignites something in me. “Well, at least there’s plenty of hot coffee around to throw in your face.”
Ginny looks horrified. Ethan’s mouth curves into a smile. “Follow me.”
We head into the back room of the café, where all but one two-person table is occupied. He drags a chair over so all three of us can sit. It’s loud in here; too loud for me to think, or even to be nervous anymore. I just want answers.
No one says anything while we settle into our seats. Ginny’s looking at her lap, kneading the knuckle on her thumb.
“You guys want anything?” Ethan finally asks. “Tea? Cappuccino? Hot cocoa?” He glances at me. “To drink. Not to throw in my face.”
“I’m good.” I look at Ginny. She shakes her head.
Ethan shrugs. “Suit yourselves.”
We sit in silence for a few more moments before Ethan says, “You look like you were expecting someone else.”
He’s right. I was expecting the sullen kid from his yearbook photo. The hunched-over creep who sat behind my sister in English.
Instead, Ethan McCready looks perfectly normal. Striking eyes, soft-looking surfer hair. If I didn’t know who he was and I passed him on the street, I would think he was cute.
The thought triggers something violent in me; I suddenly want to reach across the table and choke him.
“Do you realize how creepy it is that you were in that house across the street from me?” I demand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Ethan taps his fingers, the nails bitten to stubs, on the handle of his mug. “Where do I start?”
“This isn’t funny.” I don’t realize I’m raising my voice until the people sitting at the window look over at us. Next to me, Ginny has gone rigid.
“No, I don’t think it’s funny,” Ethan says. Calmly. Evenly. “Did you come here for answers, or to yell at me?”
I lean back in my chair. Glance over at Ginny, who is studying her hands. Ethan interprets my silence as concession. “Now that that’s settled, would you like to hear what I have to say?”
My face is hot with anger. But I nod.
“I’d like to start with the fact that your stepfather,” Ethan says, “is the biggest asshole.”
Even though I’m not sure I can trust Tom anymore, I want to get up and leave. Ethan must sense it because he holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. But it needed to be said.”
“What did he ever do to you?” I demand.
“I’ll get to that,” Ethan says. “But I need you to know that even though you’re going to be skeptical about what I tell you happened that night, I swear I’m telling the truth.”
Dread pools in my stomach. Before I can speak, Ginny clears her throat. “You tried to tell Tom what you saw, didn’t you?”
Ethan looks from me to Ginny. “Yes. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Ginny says, at the same time as I blurt, “What did you see that night?”
Ethan cracks a knuckle. Holds my gaze. “I was in the woods behind the Berrys’ house around ten. There was a dark pickup truck parked across the street, and two people were on the back deck. A girl was yelling at someone. I couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a guy because they couldn’t get a word in. Whoever it was, was tall and wearing a hoodie over their head.”
“Which girl was yelling?” I ask. “Susan or Juliana?”
“I couldn’t tell then. Now I know it was Juliana, since Susan was in the shower.” Ethan takes a sip of his coffee. “It seemed like a bullshit argument, so I just kept walking.”
“What do you mean bullshit?”
“Something like Don’t tell me to calm down, or I won’t calm down. I don’t know,” Ethan says. “It didn’t sound serious, and the last thing I needed was for Susan Berry to find me creeping around outside her house and call the cops after I was expelled for a hit list with her name on it.”
If she had, maybe the girls would still be alive. I swallow back the thought. “When did you tell Tom what you saw?”
“Not right away. At first the cops made it sound like they knew for sure that the neighbor did it, so I didn’t really question anything.” Ethan takes another sip of his coffee. “Then a few weeks later, when they released the details to the public, the police said they knew exactly what time Juliana died because of her Fitbit.”
“And you realized it was around the time you saw the argument on the deck?”
“Bingo.” Ethan plucks a packet of sugar from the holder on the table. Pinches it between two fingers and gives it a shake. “I went to the police department and asked to talk to an officer. They put me in a room with this younger cop. He started taking my statement, until your stepdad busted in. He was pissed.”
“At what?” I ask.
“My being there? Me existing at all? I don’t know. He made the other cop leave the room so he could grill the shit out of me. He fixated on the fact that I was outside Susan’s house, like I went there wanting to kill her but Jack Canning beat me to it.” Ethan grips the packet of sugar, the tips of his fingers turning pink. “Jen was dead by then. He started railing at me that he knew I called that morning. It was like he was trying to accuse me of convincing her to—” Ethan swallows. “He told me if I kept telling lies about the murders and caused the families more pain, he would beat me into a coma.”
“That’s not Tom,” I say, hearing the rage bubbling in my voice. Having a shooting on his record would follow Tom for the rest of his career and haunt his conscience for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t threaten to assault a potential witness to a crime. “Tom wouldn’t say something like that to anyone.”
Ethan opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tears open the sugar packet and tips the contents into his coffee. “Grief makes people lose their shit.”
“So you seriously want me to believe Tom interfered with an investigation and never told anyone what you saw?” I demand.
“I don’t care what you believe.” Ethan’s gaze flicks down to the empty sugar packet. He folds it in half. “I assume you want to know why I told you not to trust anything Tom says. Now you have an answer.”
Ethan sets his other hand on the table. He’s holding a cigarette lighter. He drops it on the table. Gives it a spin. I think of all the boys in my classes. Their restless hands, always tapping, drumming pencils against the desk, taking apart pens and putting them back together like they’re puzzles.
Another piece clicks into place in my brain.
I say: “ ‘I know it wasn’t
him. Connect the dots.’ ”
Ethan’s fingers go still around his lighter. He looks up at me.
“I know it was you,” I say. “You’ve been sending those letters to Tom.”
Ethan traces the rim of his mug with a finger. “How do you know about them?”
“I saw them in his desk.” My nerves are thrumming with anticipation. “You send him pictures of all the girls, and not just Juliana and Susan. You don’t think the deaths are a coincidence.”
Ethan meets my gaze. “And you do?”
I glance at Ginny. Her brow is furrowed, eyes focused on me. I’ve been waiting for a moment like this for years—waiting for someone to tell me Jen didn’t want to die. Waiting for the missing piece to prove her death was wrapped up in the others and that she didn’t kill herself out of survivor’s guilt.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m not sure which of them I’m speaking to. My stomach sinks when I see the look of pity on Ginny’s face.
I turn my eyes to Ethan. “What do you mean by ‘connect the dots’? What dots?”
“Well,” he says, “you can start by tying the car crash to the murders.”
The force in Ginny’s voice startles me. “That’s just ridiculous. How could the crash have anything to do with the murders? It was an accident.”
Ethan blinks at her. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
I give Ginny a pleading look. She clamps her mouth shut, jaw moving as she chews the inside of her cheek.
Ethan’s eyes flick from her to me. “Do you know the details of the crash?”
“Bethany was speeding, and she lost control of the car,” I say.
“She was going seventy in a fifty zone,” Ethan says. “So technically, she was speeding. But have you ever driven on Osprey Road?”
“Yes. People drive like lunatics on it.”
“Exactly. So in relative terms, Bethany wasn’t even going that fast.” Ethan wraps his hands around his mug. “Cell phone records show she wasn’t texting. Tox screen showed she hadn’t been drinking or doing drugs.”