What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  “Well, Karen is hoping you’ll hang around more. Said Amber has been low lately,” Mom said.

  “Low?” Brian asked. He said it nonchalantly, but I could tell he was interested.

  “I see her in the neighborhood sometimes,” Mom said. “She’s all, what do you call it? Emo? Wearing black, putting in absolutely no effort with her appearance. I guess she just gave up hope after you dumped her.”

  “Who says he dumped her?” I didn’t like hearing Mom judge Amber like that. Like she was somehow less worthy now that Brian was out of her life. I immediately regretted what I’d said. In the past, it would have been registered as a flippant comment between siblings, but Brian and I hadn’t bickered like that in months.

  Brian noticed, could tell I had an added layer of resentment behind the remark. His eyes narrowed, then relaxed as he forced a laugh.

  “Well, of course he broke up with her,” Mom said. “Who is going to stay with a little rat like that when they have the entire campus at SCU to choose from?”

  I almost choked on my water. I slammed the glass against the table, coughed hard.

  “Dell, you all right?” Brian asked.

  “I think I’m heading to bed,” I said. “I’m really not feeling well. Maybe I can sleep it off.”

  “Night, honey,” Mom said, not even protesting. I’d been a fly on the wall of their conversation. Now she could have Brian all to herself.

  I locked my door before crawling into bed. I couldn’t investigate with Brian in the house. We only had one computer, and there wasn’t internet on my phone. All I had was the information I’d already pieced together. I retrieved the folder and emptied the contents onto my comforter.

  I read the articles again, hoping I might find something to put my mind at ease. At the bottom of the most recent article was a tip line. Should I call it? And say what? My brother goes to SCU and might have abducted those girls. Other than Mila, there wasn’t any evidence tying him to the disappearances. SCU was a small campus. Plenty of guys could have known Mila. Maybe even Danny. I decided to try my luck.

  You up? I texted him.

  Moments later, my phone buzzed.

  No rest for the wicked, he replied. Working late shift at the hospital. Sup?

  You know a girl named Mila Meyers?

  No. Why?

  She’s one of the SCU girls who went missing.

  I couldn’t go to Danny with my suspicions. Not yet.

  My phone buzzed again. Is she the one they found?

  I fell backwards against my bed and immediately dialed his number.

  “I told you I’m at work,” he whispered when he answered.

  “You said they found a girl?”

  “Yesterday. They found a body in the woods outside campus.”

  “And they think it’s one of the missing girls?”

  “They’ve not identified her yet. But what are the odds it’s not one of the girls?”

  “Do they know how she died?” I asked, bracing for his answer.

  “The rumor swirling around campus is she was stabbed.”

  I covered my mouth. I didn’t want Danny to hear my heavy breathing. I didn’t want him to hear the cries that were beginning to break.

  “Della, I was joking about you being careful up here,” he said. He thought I was some teenager scared to visit. “It’s safe here. It is. Brian will watch you. And I will.”

  “Uh huh.” I couldn’t speak.

  “Shoot, I got to go. Talk later,” he said and hung up.

  I dropped the phone and knelt on the ground. The pictures of missing girls formed a circle around me, and I tried to release my anguish as quietly as I could. I wanted to wail. I couldn’t because Mom was down the hall. And Brian was in his room.

  I tucked the file into the top shelf of my closet again. I climbed into bed and cried harder with a comforter over my face. I could almost hear Dad’s words: string two or three coincidences together and you get a conspiracy. You might also get the truth.

  “Feeling better, honey?” Mom asked the next morning. It was past noon when I finally came downstairs. I’d tossed and turned all night, sleeping uncomfortably for only a few hours.

  “Not sure,” I said, pouring orange juice into a glass. “I think I might have a stomach bug.”

  Somewhere between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m., I realized what I really needed was to get Brian out of the house. I couldn’t access the computer, otherwise. It would be too risky. I needed to play sick. Mom and Brian would leave for the barbecue, leaving me a few hours to research. Or at least be alone. Trying to process the information I’d uncovered was agonizing. Having to put on a happy smile for Brian and Mom made it worse.

  “Oh no,” Mom said. She walked over and put the back of her hand against my forehead. “When did you start to feel sick?”

  “Sometime yesterday,” I said.

  “You looked sweaty when I saw you,” Brian said. He drank coffee at the table. I hadn’t realized he was there. “You know, after your walk.”

  “Right,” I said, looking at him, then Mom. “That’s when I started to feel sick, I think.”

  “Be careful what you put in your stomach,” Mom said. “Let me know if you get worse.”

  She walked to the table and sat beside Brian. They continued whatever conversation they were having before I arrived. Occasionally, Brian looked in my direction. I felt like he was assessing me. I finished my orange juice and went upstairs.

  At five o’clock, I was still in my pajamas. Knuckles rapped the bedroom door and Mom gently pushed it open.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Touch and go.”

  “You better stay here,” she said. I noticed she was fully dressed, and her hair was curled. She’d made the decision to go without me hours ago. Normally, her easy acceptance of my absence would hurt. Tonight, it worked in my favor. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I always enjoy attending your events.”

  “I know,” she said, her face full of satisfaction. “There’ll be plenty more. Feel better.”

  She moved in the doorway, revealing Brian behind her.

  “Feel better, Dell,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Have fun.”

  I could hear their footsteps descending the stairs. Seconds later, the front door shut, and Mom’s car engine rumbled beneath my bedroom window. I exhaled like it was the first real breath I’d taken all day. I at least had time to explore, even though I still didn’t know what I might find.

  I went to Dad’s old computer and turned it on. As Danny said, the news was limited. I found one article which was published earlier that day. The body had been identified as Becky Whitmore, the fourth girl. Based on decomposition, it appeared she was killed around the time she was reported missing. She was found in a marshy patch of woods, about three miles away from a popular hiking trail which snaked through campus. A cause of death wasn’t mentioned.

  My mind pictured the knives that hung above Brian’s bed. According to Amber, he’d used one of those knives to threaten her. Scare her. Assert his power. Had Amber been a trial run? A dress rehearsal?

  I deleted the search history and shut down the computer. I walked upstairs and pushed open the door of Brian’s room. Thankfully, it was unlocked. I looked through his belongings. As I touched each item, I took a mental picture of what it looked like before. I wanted to reposition everything exactly. Brian didn’t need to know I was snooping around his room.

  It all appeared ordinary. I sifted through his duffel. I lifted his mattress. I dug through his drawers. I analyzed each section of the room, searching for something strange. Something out of place.

  Dad’s guitar was in the corner by Brian’s bed. I ran my fingers across the smooth leather case. Dad had too many guitars for a family without musicians to keep. We’d each chosen our favorite of his collection and sold the rest. Mine was hidden away in my closet. For now, it still made me sad to see it. Here was Brian’s selection, on full
display in his messy bedroom.

  I sat on Brian’s bed and lifted the case, so it rested on my thighs. I unzipped the closure to expose the honey-colored instrument. Even though I barely knew how to play, I strummed my thumb against its strings. I missed this sound. And this smell. I missed everything about Dad. How would he handle this situation if he were alive? Would he minimize my worries like I was afraid everyone else might? I didn’t think so. I sensed Dad saw the darkness in Brian as clearly as I did, although neither of us suspected he was capable of murder. I still wasn’t sure he was. I placed the guitar back in its case.

  When I closed the lid, I felt something shift beneath my fingers. I reopened the case and saw a small zipper in the fabric lining. I ran my hand over the area and confirmed there was a small, rectangular object underneath.

  I pulled back the zipper and slid my hand inside. My fingers felt something plastic. I pulled it out, realizing it was a series of cards bound together with a single rubber band. No, they weren’t cards. They were driver’s licenses. I slid the rubber string downward and shuffled through the deck.

  They were all there. Victoria and Becky and Dana and Melody. Mila. I swallowed down the wave of nausea building inside me. My entire body started to sweat. It was like a hot, bright light poured over me, showing me what I needed to see. But I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to know I was right. I’d spent my whole life trying to get others to see Brian for what he really was. In all that time, even I didn’t know what he was. And now that I did, I felt numb.

  I flipped through the IDs one more time. I realized there were six, not five. I read all the names again. There was one I didn’t recognize. A girl name Katie Mitchell. She was nineteen and blonde, and I’d bet my life she was a student at SCU. He’d hurt another girl and brought her ID to add to his stash. Is that why he planned a visit so soon after each abduction? He wouldn’t want anything suspicious found at SCU. Our home was now a storage facility for his trophies.

  I took a deep breath and bound the IDs back together. I made sure they were in the correct order. Victoria was first; Katie, this girl I knew nothing about, was last. I slid them into the bottom of the lining, closed the case and leaned the guitar against the wall, tweaking the angle.

  I gave the room another check before shutting the door and running down the hall. I slung my head into the hallway toilet. I gagged and spit until there was nothing left. I’d told Mom I was sick, and now I was. Because I’d finally found what I was looking for. I’d found proof Brian was connected to the disappearances of those girls. I’d proven myself right, and it was the most awful feeling.

  Another wave of sickness washed over me. I puked again. When I leaned back, Brian was standing in the open doorway.

  “Damn, Della. You really are sick,” he said.

  I wiped the side of my mouth and put a palm over my forehead. How long had they been home? Had I been so sick I didn’t even hear them come in?

  “When did you get back?” I asked.

  “Just now,” he said.

  I heard Mom’s heavy steps walk behind him. “Della!” she shrieked. “My goodness, have you been doing this the whole time?”

  “No,” I said, sitting down on the cold tile and leaning my back against the wall. “I just started. All I need is some water and I’ll be fine.”

  Mom felt my forehead, still damp with sweat. “Poor thing. Do you need medicine?”

  “I just need rest,” I said, closing my eyes. It was true. I couldn’t remember the last time I had steady sleep. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to sleep through the night again.

  “Get your sister some water,” she told Brian.

  He waited in the doorway a second longer before turning away.

  Forty

  Now

  It’s almost noon when I wake up on Friday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept so long. Danny’s on call all weekend at the hospital, so I won’t see him again until Monday. I think I need a few days alone. Maybe by the time he returns, I will feel better.

  I roll over and unhook my cell phone from its charger. The screen lights up to reveal I have three messages from Pam.

  At 10:45: Have you heard?

  At 11:08: Call me as soon as you can. Please.

  At 11:23: Are you okay?

  I squint in confusion, wondering if I’ve forgotten some commitment. Surely not, what with school ending yesterday. The only other message I have, from Danny, reads: Good morning, lazy. I love you.

  Sorry, love. I was resting. Hope you can do the same, I text back. Then I dial Pam’s number.

  “Hey,” she whispers when she answers. “Give me a second.”

  I bite my thumbnail, waiting silently. The urgency of her messages disturbs me.

  “Della, you still there?” Pam asks, this time her voice at a normal volume.

  “Yes,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ve not heard?”

  “Heard what?” I ask, sitting upright in the bed. “Truthfully, I just woke up. You’re the only person I’ve talked to all day.”

  “Oh.” She sounds grief-stricken. “I forget you’re not on social media and stuff.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s Marge,” she says. “There was an incident this morning at school. She had an allergic reaction and went into anaphylactic shock.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I say, slapping a hand against my chest. “Will she be okay?”

  “She had an EpiPen with her, thank goodness. That slowed the reaction. They’re keeping her at the hospital for a few hours to make sure she doesn’t have a second episode.”

  “I don’t understand how this could happen. Marge is hyper-cautious when it comes to anything, especially her allergies.”

  “Some of the students said they were munching on leftovers from the bake sale. She must have eaten something that wasn’t marked.”

  Again, this seemed unlikely. Marge was the one who took extra care in making sure each ingredient was displayed, to make sure this didn’t happen.

  “Students,” I repeat. “What students? And what was she doing at the school?”

  “She and the Spirit Club were decorating for tonight’s Prom,” she said. “After all her hard work, she won’t even get to attend.”

  It feels like the entire room is spinning. Like the floor beneath my bed has disappeared and now I’m stumbling for foundation. Marge. Prom. I take a deep breath. Had I predicted this?

  “Who all was there?” I ask.

  “I told you the Spirit Club. I think some other teachers volunteered.”

  “Was she there?”

  “She?” It takes her a second to realize who I’m speaking about. “Della, it’s not like that.”

  “Was she there? Was Zoey there?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  I take a deep breath. The last time I talked to Marge, she’d told me she wasn’t allowing Zoey to go anywhere after Prom. Did Zoey resent Marge’s rules? Did she poison her to get her out of the picture?

  “I told you this would happen,” I say, pushing the covers off my legs and rocketing off the bed.

  “I really don’t think that’s the case here,” she says, but she doesn’t sound as convinced as she has in the past. There are too many coincidences. There are too many people in Zoey Peterson’s way who end up hurt. “If she wanted to hurt Marge, I don’t think she’d do it in a gym full of people.”

  Marge doesn’t have a handy drinking problem like Ms. Peterson did. Regardless, Zoey found a way to incapacitate her, if only for the night, doing it in front of an audience so no one could blame her.

  I clench my fists and lean over my dresser. “I’m just so frustrated. I tried telling everyone Zoey was a threat. I tried telling Marge.”

  “Look, I wasn’t trying to rile you up,” she says, no doubt revisiting our conversation from yesterday. “I called because I wanted you to know about Marge. I know you two are close.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Pam.”
r />   I click off the phone.

  What are the odds both her mother and Marge would be harmed only weeks apart? I’d assumed Ms. Peterson asked Zoey about the Spring Fling after-party, and that’s why she’d attacked her. Living with Marge benefited Zoey. Why would she wait until now to hurt her? It must be about tonight. Prom.

  I don’t think Zoey has anything planned for the actual dance. It’s what might happen after Prom that worries me. Like Brian, and all predators, Zoey must have figured out a routine for isolating and attacking her victims. An unsupervised party with lowered inhibitions and flowing alcohol seems like the perfect place. It worked with Darcy.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but I’m no longer waiting for bad things to happen. Not when I have a chance at stopping them.

  Forty-One

  Spring 2006

  My room was the only place I felt safe. With the door shut, I didn’t have to hide how I felt or make excuses about not feeling well. I was sick, but in a different kind of way. I was heartsick and heartbroken and every other word that could be used to describe someone emotionally devastated. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I wasn’t sure if I had any moves left.

  I couldn’t confront Brian. He would deny involvement, anyway. But he might do something worse. He might hurt me to cover his tracks. Thus far, I was the only person connecting him to the crimes.

  What if I was wrong? What if this was just my sibling brain pulling tricks? Maybe there was a logical reason why he had the IDs. I retrieved the folder from my closet and stared at the tip line phone number. Earlier, I’d convinced myself I needed proof. I’d found that, and yet I still wasn’t sure what to do.

  It was after midnight. I made sure my door was locked and huddled into the back of my closet. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head to muffle my words in case someone walked by my door.

  I dialed the number.

  “Crime Tips,” said a nasal voice on the other end. I’d been expecting an automated system, not a real live person.