She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 21
The detective cleared his throat as his eyes darted toward the wall. “No.”
Amy nodded. “I didn’t mention this earlier, but now that you’ve all but accused my daughter of murdering her teacher, I’m going to say it. I overheard principal Albright and Jefferson Sebold arguing about how to handle Ms. Mayfield just hours before her death. They were both very agitated. Worried about a lawsuit or something to that effect. Not that I think either of them is capable of something like this, of course. But if you’re going out of your way to question Phoebe simply because she was upset, then you should question them, too.”
The detective pressed his lips together and tapped his pen on his pad. “I assure you we’re pursuing all angles, ma’am.” He released a drawn-out breath and wrapped up the interview with a few niceties and a vague reference to more questioning, if necessary. Amy drove Phoebe home, throwing a sideways glance toward her daughter, who was buckled into the passenger seat. “Why didn’t you tell me you went back to school last night?”
Phoebe stared out the window, her fingers touching her earlobe. “I thought you’d be mad about the earrings. You know, because Dad gave them to me.”
Amy nodded, her stomach sinking with her growing list of failures. Phoebe wasn’t wrong about the earrings. Amy probably would have been angry, or at least annoyed. She couldn’t blame Phoebe for not confiding in her.
The jitters in Amy’s stomach had calmed when her phone rang a few hours later, Scott’s name flashing across the screen.
“You let our daughter talk to the police without an attorney present? Are you kidding me?”
Amy sucked in a breath, withholding the urge to scream at him for not being there. “I tried to reach you. Besides, she has nothing to hide.”
“That’s how innocent people get convicted every day! Everything related to Phoebe and the police runs through me from now on. Understand?”
Amy stared at the phone shaking in her palm. Then she ended the call.
Twenty-Three
Amy
“Hurry up, Phoebe. You’re going to be late!” Amy stared down at the swirl of cream she’d poured into her coffee and forgotten to stir.
Phoebe stepped into the kitchen, body drooping beneath her backpack, her chopped hair shooting out in all directions, and her face even paler than usual. Amy wondered if she’d slept. Amy hadn’t.
It had been five days since Elena’s murder. Amy assumed the students and staff would have a week off, at least, to recover from the shock and to allow the police to complete their investigation. She’d been wrong. The rumor mill was running at capacity. The local news reported Elena’s purse had been recovered, unopened. The murder weapon—a knife from the Taco Loco food truck—was discovered buried under the root of a nearby tree. The only thing missing from Elena’s person was the necklace she’d been wearing. The teacher had been stabbed twelve times. Amateur detectives posted a variety of theories online, quickly concluding the teacher’s death was something more sinister than a mugging gone wrong. Afraid to come across any mention of Phoebe’s name, Amy had clicked off the gossipy site before she could read more.
Crashing ice broke the silence, bringing Amy back to the present. Phoebe pressed her water bottle against the ice-maker on the front of the refrigerator. Maybe the noise would be enough to rouse Ben out of bed. Only forty minutes until his bus arrived. Somehow, they were already back to the routine.
Amy peered out the front window. A gust of wind tore rust-colored leaves from the maple tree and sent them swirling toward the end of the driveway, toward the spot where Phoebe’s bus would stop in less than five minutes. Fall was usually the prettiest time of year, but this morning the scenery looked wild and desolate.
Phoebe’s eyes were sunken as she pulled on her coat and shoved an overflowing folder into her backpack.
“I can drive you this morning if you want,” Amy said.
“No. It’s fine.”
“Phoebe.”
The girl stood motionless, her pupils flickering toward Amy.
“Do you have your…” Amy stopped herself. She was about to say “essay,” but remembered that the person who’d given Phoebe the assignment last week was no longer alive.
“What?”
“Everything you need?”
Phoebe shrugged.
“Don’t talk to anyone, about, you know.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I mean, the police. Don’t talk to them without me present.”
Phoebe glared at Amy. “I know what you mean, Mom.”
Amy nodded and took a sip of her unstirred coffee, finding it had already gone cold. Phoebe lowered her chin and opened the front door, a few crisp leaves skittering across the doormat.
“I love you.”
Phoebe nodded without turning back.
Through the window, Amy watched her daughter trudge to the foot of the driveway, a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wished she could scoop her up in her arms and hug her. She would do anything to go back in time and do things differently, to see that spark of hope in Phoebe’s eyes again or the playful banter between her and Ben. They’d been so happy before the divorce. Now Phoebe felt more like a stranger who happened to live in the same house. After reading the horrid poem, Amy realized how little she understood about her daughter.
Outside, a clump of Phoebe’s hair stood up straight in the wind as she shifted her backpack and craned her neck in the direction of the bus. A potbellied man with ruddy skin strolled toward Phoebe, arms hanging long at his sides, blue baseball cap tilted down. Amy didn’t remember ever seeing him in the neighborhood before. Her skin tingled as the man and Phoebe exchanged words. Maybe “hi,” or “good morning.” He continued past her, but not before leering toward the front of the house. Amy stepped to the side, not sure if he’d spotted her watching from the window. Maybe he was one of the new neighbors.
“Do we have any pancakes?”
Ben’s voice startled Amy, causing her arms to jerk up and spill a dribble of coffee across her hand.
“Sorry sweetie. Just cereal.”
“Hmph.” Ben scowled and languished toward the cabinet where they kept the cereal boxes. “Can I still go to Noah’s Halloween party tomorrow night?”
Amy set down her mug. It was the day before Halloween. She’d completely forgotten. It seemed like the grisly holiday had already been playing out for days, or even weeks.
“You don’t even have a costume.”
“I’m going to wear the same skeleton one from last year.”
“This might be your last year trick-or-treating.” She swallowed, not believing the words coming out of her mouth, that her son was already in seventh grade and about to sacrifice one of the last remnants of his childhood.
Ben’s eyebrows scrunched together. “That’s not true. I saw a bunch of ninth graders come to our door last year.” He poured frosted flakes into a bowl. “So, can I go to Noah’s party?”
Her eyes closed, the weight of her body falling into her heels. “Sure.”
Ben jumped up, a smile spreading across his lips. “Thanks.”
Amy’s shoulders lightened for a moment. With everything going on at the high school, it was important to keep things as normal as possible, especially for Ben.
Outside, the bus lurched to a stop. The man who’d been out front earlier had disappeared around the bend. Phoebe climbed the steps until the yellow folding doors swallowed her.
Amy smoothed down Ben’s hair with her fingers. “I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Upstairs, she pulled her dark jeans and a flowered blouse from the closet. She’d have to be at the school office in a few hours and wanted to look presentable, although she could only imagine what Lydia would be wearing today. Principal Albright’s most recent email had warned of a possible police presence in the building. The message continued with a promise of two temporary grief counselors in the empty office across from the band room for anyone who needed to talk about their feelings. Amy hoped the detective didn’t need to speak to Phoebe again.
Amy teetered on her heels as she crossed the parking lot toward the double doors closest to the office. The school loomed over her, its tinted windows like giant watching eyes. Three police cars were parked along the perimeter of the student parking lot. Her hands turned clammy. This must have been how Phoebe felt walking into school this morning—as if the entire building was accusing her.
The final lunch period was ending, and a group of girls carrying cardboard coffee cups stepped to the side. Amy passed them, clutching the handle of her new purse tighter. She’d picked it up over the weekend and was still getting used to the shorter straps.
“That’s Phoebe’s mom,” one said.
“Police… questioning…”
The words floated past in whispers. Amy pulled back her shoulders, fighting her instinct to grab the cup out of the smug girl’s hand and splash the scalding drink into her face. Instead, she kept her eyes trained straight ahead, toward the door to the office where she worked. Phoebe may have argued with Ms. Mayfield the night she died, but Amy knew her daughter wasn’t capable of murdering anyone. It was ridiculous that anyone could even consider the possibility. Phoebe was a good girl. A rule-follower. Besides, it would have been physically impossible. She’d lost her strength since she’d stopped playing tennis. Couldn’t they see how skinny her arms were?
It would take a few days, or weeks even, but eventually the rumors would die down. She and Phoebe would have to proceed as normal and power through.
Lydia’s mouth dropped open as Amy entered the office. “Amy. I’m glad you made it in today.”
“Of course.” Amy remained calm, but Lydia’s words ate at her. Why wouldn’t she have made it in today? Was Lydia implying that Phoebe had something to do with Ms. Mayfield’s murder? Amy pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and took her familiar seat at her cubicle.
Lydia lowered her voice. “There are a lot of absences. I couldn’t get to all of them, so you can pick up where I left off.”
Amy nodded. “I thought they’d give the students a few more days.”
“So did I.” Lydia stood and stepped closer. “How’s Phoebe holding up?”
“She’s fine. She doesn’t have anything to hide.”
Lydia eyed her. “That’s not what I meant.”
A pile of paperwork sat behind Amy’s computer. Someone had messed up the orderly files she’d arranged. Amy stowed her purse in the bottom drawer and logged into the system, waiting for the home page on the school accounting site to load. Her stomach churned along with the spinning spiral in the center of her screen. Had the police been going through her things?
At last, the rows of deposits and expenses lined the screen. The most recent transaction she’d entered appeared on the top line, a withdrawal from the Geeks and Goblins account in the amount of $12,000 to the Ravenswood High School Operations Fund, LLC. Amy exhaled, relieved no one had tampered with her spreadsheet.
She switched to the attendance screen, noting the teachers’ absences first. Nick Bell had called in sick. Her chest heaved as she read his name. He must be devastated. The thought of the athletic teacher caused her insides to tingle. She knew her attraction to the younger man was inappropriate, especially given the timing.
Amy cleared her throat and steadied herself, refocusing on work and the first duty outlined in Lydia’s email to her.
1. Send email to all members of the boys’ soccer team informing them that practice will be canceled today.
Amy typed up the form letter and copied it into an email, addressing it to the group labeled “Boys’ Soccer,” and hit send. One task accomplished. That’s how these last few days had gone—one task at a time, one breath at a time.
She raised herself from her chair and approached the door, edging it open into the hallway. The commotion of kids changing classes bustled past. She longed to catch a glimpse of Phoebe, but the atmosphere outside was even heavier than in the office, the normal volume of screeching and chattering voices more subdued. Kids floated by her as if in slow motion, their eyes lingering on her for longer than usual. Amy refused to indulge them. A dough-faced boy with a crew cut pushed through the door of the makeshift counseling office further down the hall, a reflective sheen visible beneath his eyes. He swiped the back of his hand across his cheek and continued on his way.
Through the crowd of students, she spotted Phoebe and Rowan plodding away from her. Amy’s tooth poked into her tongue, drawing a drop of blood. Phoebe had promised to keep her distance from the morose boy. Phoebe had even conceded that Rowan was a possible suspect in Ms. Mayfield’s death, that she hadn’t known for sure if he’d been playing a video game during the hour he claimed not to have seen her text, that his loyalty had been endless and, at times, misguided.
“Do you get many trick-or-treaters at your house?” Lydia wedged herself into the doorway, her breath hot against Amy’s skin.
Amy stepped back, having forgotten, again, that tomorrow was Halloween. She’d have to stop at Plum Market and buy some candy on the way home. “No. We don’t get very many. Our houses are so spread out.”
“That’s too bad. We get a ton in our neighborhood. I wonder if fewer people will be out this year, though.”
Amy shifted her weight, the words Lydia hadn’t spoken hanging between them. There was a killer on the loose. A killer who hadn’t been caught. The unsolved murder would be enough to keep most people inside.
The mail truck revved its engine and sped around the curve in the dirt road, kicking up leaves and dust. Amy exited her car and walked through the open garage, a reusable grocery bag clutched in her hand. She’d made a pit stop at the market, selecting a multipack of organic, dairy-free, and nut-free chocolate bars in order to accommodate any vegan or allergy-prone kids in the neighborhood. She’d also purchased a prepared container of vegetable lasagna and a few breaded chicken strips for Ben.
Glancing up at the darkened windows of her house, she wondered if Phoebe was home yet. Her first day back must have been difficult.
Nicolette’s Volvo hummed around the bend and pulled into the circle drive across the way.
Amy bypassed the mailbox and crossed the street, desperate to pin down her neighbor who she hadn’t seen for several days. She raised her free hand. “Hi.”
Nicolette emerged from the car, her sleek hair folded neatly at her shoulders, sunglasses perched on her forehead. Her eyes stretched wide at Amy’s approach as if she was considering running. “Amy. How are you?”
“Hanging in there. How are you and Simone doing?”
“We’re fine. We’ve been concerned.” She stepped to the side. “You know, about Phoebe. Simone said she was questioned by the police?”
“Yes. It was standard procedure. They questioned everyone who was seen with Ms. Mayfield at the Geeks and Goblins party.”
Nicolette nodded, but her lips pinched with doubt. “Yes, but I heard about the argument.”
“It was blown out of proportion.” Amy waved her hand in the air. “Anyway, I know the girls have drifted apart lately, but I wanted to see if they could leave the past behind. Let bygones be bygones.” Amy giggled nervously. “Maybe Simone can come over tomorrow night to hang out with Phoebe. I’ll make some popcorn, and they can study for their history test. Or they can just help me pass out candy?”
Nicolette cocked her head. “Does Phoebe know you’re asking?”
“Well.” Amy scratched an itch on her forehead and looked down. “No. Not yet.”
“I’m not sure what Simone has planned. I’ll mention it to her.” Nicolette rubbed the gold bracelets on her wrist. “Are you really okay?”
“Of course.” Amy crossed her arms, the words of Phoebe’s poem surfacing like bruises. She wondered if Nicolette had read it. Amy itched to explain to her holier-than-thou neighbor that the poem had merely been a therapeutic assignment, but decided it was better not to bring it up.
Nicolette’s mouth twitched, eyes assessing. “You know, I’m not sure if it’s my place, but as your neighbor—and your friend—I wanted to make sure you had legal counsel secured for Phoebe. Amar has the name of someone good he can give you.”
“Phoebe had nothing to do with whatever happened to Elena Mayfield.”
“A lot of people saw her screaming at Ms. Mayfield that night. And I heard about the video footage from the parking lot.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“That’s all the more reason she should have an attorney.” Nicolette’s pointed pupils pierced into Amy.
Amy’s hands balled into fists. She wondered if Nicolette and Scott had been conspiring behind her back.
“Simone said Phoebe’s been hanging out with Rowan Hasloff.”
Amy lowered her eyes. “Yes. I didn’t realize that until recently. I’ve been trying to discourage it. Do you know him?”
“Only from the clinic.” Nicolette grimaced. “I can’t tell you any more because of confidentiality. I’ve already said too much.”
The shopping bag weighed like a thousand bricks in Amy’s hand.
Nicolette placed a manicured hand on Amy’s arm. “This must be a lot for Phoebe to handle. And you. You’ve been through so much with the divorce, and now this. Do you still have that card I gave you?”
“Yes, Nicolette. To be perfectly honest, I went to see the psychologist you recommended, and I didn’t find it overly helpful.” Amy tightened her jaw. Dr. Pilsburn had been a joke, but she didn’t see the point in being rude to her neighbor. “We’re doing fine. Like I said.”
“Okay.” Nicolette glanced away. “I’ll ask Simone about tomorrow night.” Her car made a locking sound, and she strode away from Amy toward her front door.
Amy retreated to her mailbox and reached her hand inside, relieved Nicolette was no longer evaluating her. A stack of catalogs hit her fingers and she pulled them out. A few bills lay in envelopes on top. She flipped through them, stopping at a flimsy blank envelope underneath. Anger hardened in Amy’s chest. She glanced toward the house across the street. Shielding the envelope with her body, she ripped it open, feeling more like she was detonating a bomb. A white page folded into thirds unfurled itself in the wind, revealing a single word scrawled in red marker.
