He sighs and stares out the window. “The last thing I want is an argument, but you have to promise you’ll let the police handle Zoey from here on out. I need you present, okay? I need you here.”
Suddenly I do feel foolish. All I’d found was two teenagers smoking a joint, and I can’t explain much else after that. I look at Danny, who is studying my face. He needs me. I see that now.
“I’ll let it go,” I say, one hand rubbing my blanketed midsection. “I promise.”
Monday marks the first full week of summer break. Somehow, the sun seems brighter and the house is quieter. I need quiet. I need time to think. Danny has returned to his practice. His absence allows me space to process everything that’s happened.
I’m at least trying to take on a different perspective. Zoey pushed my buttons when she mentioned Florida. The knife incident, for obvious reasons, reminded me of Brian again. Maybe she typed the letter, and then again, maybe she didn’t. Maybe her mother really did lash out at her, and Marge really did eat the wrong brownie. All these coincidences, but no evidence. I certainly didn’t find proof of violence at the party.
Maybe the pregnancy is heightening my emotions and causing me to feel more passionately about things than I normally would. I feel the need to protect people and prove I’m right, because those were two things I couldn’t do at a crucial point in my life. Zoey Peterson can no longer be my problem. As callous as it feels, neither can Darcy. I need to focus on myself. Focus on my baby and moving forward.
For the first time in weeks, I feel peace. There’s still a lot to hash out, particularly with Danny and the baby, but I have time for that. Hell, I have all summer. Everything else can wait, even the Europe trip I never got around to planning.
I sit on the couch and prepare to start summer break with a midday nap. My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Bridgette Cooper from Virginia Valley High School. I’m responding to a message I received about a former student,” she says. “Is this Della Mayfair?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Even when I decide to strip Zoey from my world, she finds a way back in. “I was helping Zoey Peterson with her college admissions essays.”
I decide to stop talking. I’ve already dug a hole with Bowles. If he knew I was still discussing Zoey with former counselors, that hole would plunge deeper.
“Yes, Zoey Peterson. I remember her.” I can hear she’s smiling as she speaks. “How’s she doing at Victory Hills?”
“Fine,” I say, not wanting to say too much. “Summer vacation actually starts today.”
“Oh, I hate to bother you.” I hear movement on the other end of the line. “We’ve still got two weeks left. We were hit with a heavy snow this winter.”
“I appreciate you following up with me, but I won’t be revisiting her file until I return in the fall.”
“I completely understand. I won’t keep you. I just hope she’s doing all right. She was such a sweet kid.”
I bite my lip. “She’s adjusted just fine.”
“We were sad when she left so suddenly. But selfishly, I’m happy she left when she did. Our school has had a difficult year, and it’s not getting any easier.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s been traumatic for our students. Zoey really stepped up. I thought it would make for an empowering piece in her admissions essays, but if you’ve already put away the file—”
“Traumatic how?” I cut her off, my interest in the conversation renewed. “I could always make a note and revisit it later.”
“That’s why it’s taken me so long to get back to you.” As she speaks, I imagine a Virginia version of Pam, scrambling around the school trying to sort everyone’s schedules and problems.
“You said Zoey helped. In what way?”
She breathes heavily. “This fall, we had a student go missing. A sophomore. I hate to say it, but it’s not uncommon around here to have runaways. Our district isn’t as upscale as Victory Hills.” She laughs. “Anyway, Zoey was very close to her. She was one of several people who volunteered to be a peer counselor for students having a difficult time dealing with the disappearance.”
“Sounds just like her,” I say, hoping she won’t sense the sarcasm.
“Anyway, a part of me is glad she wasn’t here when the news broke. She’d probably be seeking counseling herself.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Did you find her?”
“They found her body two weeks ago,” she says. “She’d been out there a long time. Looks like she’d been stabbed…”
I drop the phone. I get off the couch, stumble to the living room desk and open my laptop. I hurriedly type in the words Virginia Valley High School. That’s all I’ll need to find out the rest of the story.
Every article is about her. The girl. Abigail Morrison, 15. Her body was found in a rock quarry, a local hangout for rowdy teens. She had died from multiple lacerations to her body; the fatal wound was inflicted on her right thigh.
I scream in horror. It’s just like last time. The crime is different, and the names are different. But I was right. I didn’t want to be, even though it validates everything I’ve felt these past several weeks. I’d been trying so hard to stop Zoey from doing something horrible. I didn’t realize I was already too late.
After what feels like forever, I stop crying. I click through a few more articles, trying to grasp the situation. I flick through a gallery of photos featuring Abigail Morrison. Over a decade ago, when I was in this same situation, scrolling through pictures, there weren’t many. Each victim had two or three photos available, all provided by family members when they still believed there was hope.
There must be close to a hundred photos of Abigail Morrison. It’s the culture these days. Taking selfies and posting to social media as often as possible. My students snap their own image multiple times a day, sending the pics to friends or uploading for others to see. They never imagine the pictures with the goofy facial expressions and vibrant eye shadow might one day be posted on a website announcing they’ve gone missing. Or worse, that their body has been found.
Abigail Morrison didn’t know that. And yet here she is with her haunting green eyes and vibrant red hair. It’s curly in most photos, but in some it’s straight. She looks happy, happiest when in a photo with friends. That’s probably all she wanted: people to like her, to connect with someone. Unfortunately, that someone ended up being Zoey, and her beautiful smile was ripped from this world.
I look closer at one picture. She’s wearing a formal dress; it could even be her high school’s take on Spring Fling. The same event where Darcy Moore was attacked. Had the police interrupted Zoey that night? Is that why Darcy didn’t end up like Abigail?
I look closer at the picture. Abigail is wearing a green dress that seems to radiate against her pale skin. Her red curls are pinned high on top of her head, and she’s picked the perfect shade of lip color to complement her look. Around her neck I see something… familiar. Something I know I’ve seen before. I click through more of the pictures, making sure this isn’t just a one-off, my mind playing tricks on me. It’s not. I stand, grab my keys and run to my car. I think I’ve finally found the evidence I need.
Forty-Five
Now
I knock on the curved door guarding the Moore residence. There’s no telling who might answer. It’s only the first day of summer, and while Darcy was likely the only person at Victory Hills more eager for a break than I was, I have no way of knowing her plans.
I sigh in relief when she opens the door.
“Mrs. Mayfair?” she asks, her head cocked to the side. I’m sure she’s not used to receiving visits from her teachers, apart from Pam. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to show up like this. I really need to ask you something.” I offer a smile. Darcy isn’t wearing any makeup, but her face is red. “Darcy, are you okay?”
“Come inside.” We walk through the foyer into th
e living room. My house is considered upscale, but this place could qualify as a McMansion. The foyer floor is marble, and the living room carpet feels thick under my feet. There’s a large fireplace in the room, one that seems to be double-sided, so it can be enjoyed from the outside as well. Above the fireplace are two large portraits: her older brother in his college football uniform and Darcy wearing a formal dress. She sits in a cushioned armchair, which almost seems to swallow her small frame.
“I figured you came by because you heard the news,” she says, pointing toward the sofa, and I sit. So much news has been passed around in the past week, I’m not sure what I’ve missed. “They’ve taken in Adam for questioning.”
“Adam? Why him? What evidence do they have?”
“I’m not really sure. Now that the police are involved again, they’re trying to find the person responsible. Everyone seems to think he hurt me.” She starts crying. “I really didn’t think it was him.”
“Darcy, if they’re questioning him that means they’re trying to get more information. It doesn’t mean he’s the one who hurt you.”
They’re making assumptions based on rumors and Zoey hacking into Adam’s phone. They don’t have real proof yet. Not like what I might be able to provide.
Darcy clears her throat. “I’m actually happy you’re here. I wanted to thank you again for speaking with me. You were the first person I was able to confide in.” She smiles softly. “Ever since I told you, I’ve felt the hugest weight lifted. Like I really can get through this.”
“I’m proud of you, Darcy. It takes guts to do what you did,” I say. “I hope Pam is helping you find the proper resources.”
“She is. I think even my parents are getting on board. I thought they’d blame me, but they’ve been more supportive than I would have thought.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” I’m torn, because while I’m proud of the young woman sitting in front of me, I’m still mourning the girl a state away who never received the chance to get better. And I’m worried Adam will be blamed for something he didn’t do. “I need to ask you for a favor now. It might seem odd.”
“Just tell me what you need, Mrs. Mayfair,” Darcy says, uncrossing her legs.
“I’m wondering if I can see your keys.”
“My keys?”
“Yes. I know it sounds strange.”
She walks out of the room and returns carrying her purse. She digs into the bottom of her bag and pulls out her keys. She hands them to me.
As I noticed last week, there’s at least two charms for every key on the ring. And one is a diamond and emerald encrusted cross. The same cross I saw around Abigail Morrison’s neck in at least a dozen photos. I rub my thumb across the jewels.
“Darcy, where did you get this?”
She tilts her head. “Zoey gave it to me.”
I sigh and my eyes fill with tears. Darcy notices, and she seems uncomfortable at my sudden display of emotion.
“I know it sounds odd, but I need to take it,” I say to her.
“What do you want with my cross?”
“I can’t say right now. But I need to give this to someone. It’s very important. I’ll explain more when I can.”
She looks down and fidgets. “It has a lot of sentimental value. Zoey gave it to me after my attack, right around the time we became friends. You know, I was real nasty to her when she first got here. Since then, she’s been one of the most supportive people. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Are you talking about me in there?” asks a voice from behind. I turn in horror to see Zoey walking into the living room. My heart pounds as she moves closer, looking at me with a terrifying blank stare.
I cling tighter to the keys and look at Darcy. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s living with us for the next few weeks,” Darcy says.
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Zoey says, sitting on the armrest of Darcy’s chair. “First there was the incident with my mother. Then Ms. Helton. I thought I was going back into the system until Darcy’s folks offered to take me in.”
“Obviously we have plenty of space,” Darcy says, twirling her finger. “She’s staying in my brother’s room.”
“Are your parents here, Darcy?” I ask, trying to hide the fear in my voice.
“No, they’re working,” she says.
“Looks like it’s just us,” Zoey says. She knows I’m not asking to be polite. She senses my anxiety. “Say, why are you here Mrs. Mayfair?”
Before I can answer, Darcy speaks. “She wants my keys for some reason.”
“Keys?” Zoey looks at me.
“She seems to like the cross you gave me,” she says.
“The cross?” she asks, looking in my direction, staring at my hands. Her wide eyes offer the first sign of real emotion I’ve ever seen on her face. Worry.
“Darcy,” I say slowly. “We need to leave. Now.”
But she doesn’t move. She sits there, her knee against Zoey’s body. “Leave?” she repeats.
“Come over here to me,” I tell her.
Darcy looks at me, then Zoey. “What’s so special about the cross?”
“Yes, Mrs. Mayfair,” Zoey says. She stands and takes a step closer. “What’s so special about the cross?”
“I think you know,” I say, staring at her.
Darcy stands, looking back and forth between us. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”
I look at Zoey, whose eyes almost appear black. Her fists are clenched as she breathes steadily. Darcy seems scared, but she’s not sure which one of us is the threat.
“You stupid bitch,” Zoey says, walking toward me.
“Zoey,” Darcy yelps, mortified Zoey would dare speak to a teacher that way.
“Darcy, run,” I yell, moving so that the sofa separates me from Zoey. She comes closer, although she’s not yet chasing me down. She doesn’t have to. She knows she has the advantage.
“What is wrong with you two?” Darcy shouts, walking backward toward the patio door.
“Darcy, this pendant is from a necklace belonging to a girl named Abigail Morrison—” I start.
“Shut up,” Zoey says, hate spewing.
“This girl went to Zoey’s old high school. Her body was found two weeks ago,” I say.
“Shut up,” Zoey shouts.
“What is she talking about?” Darcy cries.
“Both of you. Shut the hell up!” Zoey screams.
“Abigail was murdered,” I tell Darcy, hoping she’ll listen and put the pieces together. Hoping she won’t think I’m paranoid and delusional like everyone else. The entire time I speak to her, I never take my eyes off Zoey. “This cross belonged to her, and now Zoey has given it to you.”
“Shut the hell up,” Zoey shouts again, this time lunging toward me. She pushes me against the wall and tightens her hands around my throat. I struggle to breathe, amazed by the strength coming out of her.
Darcy walks up behind her and pulls on Zoey’s shirt. “Zoey, stop,” she cries. “What are you doing?”
Zoey pushes her with enough force to make Darcy land on the ground. I raise my knee and aim for Zoey’s torso. I wiggle away and stumble to Darcy.
“Stand up. We need to go,” I say.
I pull Darcy to her feet and try to walk past, but Zoey grabs my shoulder. She pushes me onto the couch. She climbs on top of me, trying to press down on my chest. Darcy rushes over, pounding at Zoey’s back.
“It’s harder when they fight back,” I grunt. “Did Abigail fight?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zoey shouts. But I do. I know exactly what I’m talking about, and that knowledge is what has transformed Zoey from calm to rabid. She wanted to toy with me. She never imagined I’d be smart enough to piece everything together.
“You wanted me to know, didn’t you?” I ask, blocking her body with my knees. “It’s why you wrote the essay about Darcy in the first place.”
Zoey pulls ba
ck her hand and slaps me. I keep resisting and pushing her away. Darcy grabs Zoey’s shoulders and pulls her off the sofa. She falls backward, her body thudding when it hits the floor.
“What is she talking about?” Darcy yells at her.
“She’s crazy, Darcy.” Zoey’s voice sounds disturbingly rational, as though someone flicked a switch. “She’s on the verge of getting fired. She has this weird obsession with me, and now she’s trying to attack me. She’s filling your head and everyone else’s with lies. I don’t even know an Abigail!”
“No,” Darcy says, standing over her. “What is she talking about when it comes to me? What essay?”
Zoey’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak. She catches her breath. “I don’t know. I told you. She’s freaking crazy.”
“The person who attacked you wrote about it, then turned the paper into me,” I tell her, trying to catch my breath. “I know it was Zoey.”
“She doesn’t know shit,” Zoey yells.
Darcy looks at me. Then she turns to Zoey. “Did you attack me that night?”
“Darcy, no. Of course I didn’t—”
“Tell me the truth!” she shouts. Her eyes dance around Zoey’s face, as though she’s finally piecing it all together. I don’t know what she remembers, but it’s something. She knows.
Zoey senses she’s losing. She yanks at Darcy’s leg, pulling her to the ground. Zoey lands on top of her, but this time Darcy fights back. Like a cat who has been thrown in water. She claws at her, making use of every bit of rage she’s kept inside for the past month.
Zoey finally retreats, exiting the living room and running into the backyard. Darcy helps me stand.
“Let’s get out of here,” Darcy says.
I follow her to the front door but stop. “Do you have your keys?”
“No,” she says, pausing. “Let’s just leave.”
“Run,” I tell her, turning and sprinting toward the backyard.
I walk outside and see no one. The space is huge, with a large pool in the center. There’s no sign of Zoey, but there’s also nowhere she could have gone. The fence would be too high for her to jump, and there isn’t enough traction for anyone to climb it. I know she must be back here. I circle the parameter of the pool, passing the stone fireplace and looking around the columns connecting the back awning to the ground. She’s nowhere. I spot a shed in the far corner and am walking toward it when I see movement in my peripheral vision. Zoey grabs me from behind.
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 28