She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 23
Last year, they’d only gotten a single toddler and Ben’s group of half a dozen boys.
“How was school?” Amy asked her for the third time since Phoebe had arrived home. The first two times, Phoebe had mumbled “fine” and skittered into her room like a mouse afraid of the light. Amy knew Phoebe hadn’t stabbed her teacher, but she wished her daughter would stop acting so guilty.
Phoebe removed her headphones and straightened up as if she was seeing her mom for the first time all day. “Everyone was acting weird. Like they all knew I screamed at Ms. Mayfield right before she died.” Moisture reflected under Phoebe’s eyes, and she sniffled. “Yeah. I was angry, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
Amy hugged her. “This will all be sorted out soon. Listen, honey, I know we talked about this before, but are you sure Rowan went back to his house after he dropped you here?”
Phoebe eyed her. “Yes.” She sniffled and wiped her hand across her nose. “I mean, not a hundred percent sure because I wasn’t with him. Rowan wouldn’t kill Ms. Mayfield, though.”
Amy rubbed her palms across her pants, choosing her words carefully. “How do you know?”
Phoebe’s eyes flickered. “Because he was practically in love with her.”
Amy’s stomach turned over, a sickening sensation crawling through her.
High-pitched laughter filtered through the front window, followed by car doors slamming. Amy rose from the couch and peeked outside, catching sight of Simone, Dawn, and Grace doubled over in laughter and tripping over themselves toward Simone’s front door.
Phoebe sidled up next to her, smelling of the chocolate candy she must have eaten. She stared across the street at the carefree girls.
“Should we watch a scary movie?” Amy asked.
Phoebe turned toward the living room. “Sure.”
The doorbell rang, and Amy’s heart thumped, a part of her believing it was the clan of girls from across the street. Maybe they’d come over to apologize to Phoebe, finally realizing how horrible they’d been to leave the nasty notes in our mailbox, and how rude they’d been to exclude her from their group.
Instead, Amy opened the door to find two little girls, no more than six years old, dressed as clowns.
“Trick-or-treat!” they yelled in unison. Their dad lingered back near the road, offering a wave.
Amy waved back. “Hi, girls!” She reached for the bowl of candy, collecting herself. “Here you go.” She clutched two handfuls and dumped them into their plastic buckets.
“Thank you,” they said, faces beaming from beneath the white paint and bulbous red noses.
She couldn’t bring herself to close the door right away as the children traipsed down the driveway in their giant clown shoes, so sweet and innocent. Memories of happier Halloweens came flooding back. A gulp lodged itself in her throat, but she swallowed and closed the door. The clock ticked from the wall as Phoebe messed with the remote. Amy’s fuchsia yarn lay in a bundle in a basket next to the couch, needles piercing into the air. The new pattern she’d started was giving her problems, and she made a mental note to attend the next knitting group meeting at the library.
The ring of the doorbell pulled her back into the foyer. She opened the door, greeted by a gust of wind and a swirl of leaves. Five preteen boys crowded into the doorway, including Ben in his skeleton mask.
“Trick-or-treat!” they shouted together.
Amy extended the bowl toward them, hoping they’d finish off most of what was left. “Hi, boys. Having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of candy is this?” one of the boys mumbled.
“My mom only buys organic stuff.”
“It’s good-quality chocolate.” Amy plopped another handful into each of their pillowcases. “Any other kids out there?”
“We haven’t seen anyone else.”
“Can I sleep over at Noah’s?”
“No. You have school tomorrow. Be home by ten.”
“Aww.”
Ben turned and ran to catch up with his friends, who were already halfway to the next house.
As the door began to close, Amy’s arm froze, a blip of movement near the edge of the property catching her eye. She thought someone had stepped behind a tree. More trick-or-treaters? Her neck craned, but she couldn’t make out anything through the darkness. It was probably only a deer. Her heartbeat quieted. The beams from the boys’ flashlights bounced in the distance as they traveled in a group down the street. The door clicked shut, but a sensation of unease rippled through her. She envisioned the stack of notes hidden in her jewelry box. She wouldn’t let those girls get to her. She’d watched too many disturbing Halloween movies in her younger years. All of the rumors about The Silver Slasher extending his boundaries had made her jumpy. Now her imagination was spinning out of control. Just to be safe, she reached up and turned the deadbolt. Then she texted Noah’s mom, Sherrie: I’ll pick up Ben at ten.
Amy slid to the front of her fold-out chair, kicking the bag containing Phoebe’s unfinished hat underneath her. Needles clicked around her, the rhythmic noise transforming into a sort of meditation. She positioned the beginning of an azure scarf on her lap, counting the stitches as her needles wove in and out. She breathed in the scent of the library community room—worn carpeting cut through with swirls of Hilde’s pungent violet-scented perfume.
Bev’s square jaw dropped open, her eyebrows lowering. “Such a shame about that murdered teacher.”
Amy stopped unfurling the knot in her yarn and looked up.
“I heard she was a rising star,” Bev said.
“Just awful.” Mindy bit her lip and flipped her long braid over her shoulder. “Stabbed to death right on school property. Yet, somehow, no one saw anything. Did your daughter know her?”
Amy’s body went rigid as four sets of eyes focused on her. “Yes. Ms. Mayfield was her English teacher.”
“Oh dear.” Bev rubbed her forehead and clucked. “You think they would’ve given those poor students more than two days off school.”
Laurie set aside her needles and yarn and wrapped her arm around Ruth. “My husband has a friend in the police department. He said it might have been the teacher’s boyfriend. Or her ex-boyfriend. I can’t remember.”
Mindy’s forehead creased. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it was a disgruntled parent. People are so consumed with their kids getting straight As nowadays. They forget that the process of learning is what’s important.”
Bev hunched forward, her coarse gray hair skimming her jawline. “My friend’s son goes to Ravenswood. She said the teacher was arguing with a student just minutes before it happened. It makes sense. Teenagers have very little impulse control.”
Amy’s palms pushed down into her chair, her body suddenly feeling as if it was teetering on the edge of a wind-tossed boat. The meditative state she’d enjoyed only seconds earlier had disappeared. She didn’t think she’d ever told them her last name or Phoebe’s name. These women couldn’t possibly know the student who’d been arguing with Ms. Mayfield was her daughter. Still, her vision blurred at the edges, her rational thoughts struggling against her instinct to lash out, to protect her own. Even at a knitting group among relative strangers, she couldn’t escape the ugly rumors circling Phoebe.
She clasped her hands in front of her and forced her grimace into a smile. “The student who was arguing with the teacher has already been cleared. That’s just a rumor that spiraled out of control.” Her voice shook as she spoke. The knitters stared at her with blank faces. “The police stated it was an isolated incident.”
Little Ruth let out a cry, and Laurie bounced her up and down. “Well, they haven’t caught The Silver Slasher yet, either. I guess if it was an isolated incident, then it’s a relief to know there’s not a serial killer on the loose, too.”
Forty-five long minutes later, Amy stepped up the last stair, the door to the adult reading room catching her eye. As long as she was at the library, she’d pick up a new book to read, something to get her mind off the Elena Mayfield drama altogether. She turned toward the high-ceilinged room, row after row of book-filled shelves creating a maze-like hallway. She paused at the “New Arrivals” table, turning over a psychological thriller with a black-and-neon cover to read the description. A figure passed by ahead of her, disappearing behind the stacks. Amy’s eyes shot from the book toward the mysterious person. The man had made eye contact with her, but when she looked back up, he was gone.
Even in the second she’d spotted him, she recognized the blue baseball hat, the ruddy skin, the fold of gut that hung over his belt. It was the same person who’d strolled past Phoebe’s bus stop yesterday morning. The new neighbor. She rushed past the wall of books toward the spot where he’d been standing so she could introduce herself but found only the door to the men’s room swinging shut and no one else around. Her introduction would have to wait for another time.
Disappointed, she edged toward the mysteries. A familiar voice echoed through the shelves. Amy slunk to the end of the aisle and peered around the corner, shocked to find Phoebe sitting on a sofa near the wall of windows overlooking the city. The unkempt black hair of the person next to her caused bile to rise in her throat. Rowan.
Her heart pounded, a scream gathering in the back of her throat. Why was Phoebe here with Rowan again? She was supposed to be at home. She’d promised to stay away from him. Phoebe had agreed it was best if she and Rowan kept their distance from each other during the investigation. Amy ducked her head back behind the cover of the books, afraid to breathe. She couldn’t let Phoebe see her. She would shut down completely if she thought Amy was spying.
Amy spotted another aisle of books closer to the teenagers, directly to the side of where they now sat. She skittered across an opening and behind the shelves, crouching down as she neared them.
“You need to stop acting so guilty,” Rowan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“How am I supposed to act?”
“I’m sorry.” His pale, pierced face leaned dangerously close to Phoebe. “I’m sorry if any of this was my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have made you go back.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked in Amy’s direction. She stepped backward and pressed herself against the row of books.
“I wasn’t in love with her, you know. I mean, not the way I am with you.”
Phoebe nodded.
“Have you talked to the police again?” he asked.
“Not since the other day.”
“Me neither.”
Phoebe’s brow furrowed. “It didn’t seem like the detective believed me about the earring.”
“The guy’s a moron. They have no evidence besides that stupid security footage.” He shifted closer. “There’s nothing they can do to us.”
“I hope you’re right.”
What was going on? Air expanded in Amy’s lungs, unable to escape.
Phoebe reached out her hand. Rowan took her fingers in his and squeezed, their eyes locked in on each other. Amy held her hand over her mouth to silence her scream, turned on her heel, and bolted toward the front door.
Amy made it home from the library before Phoebe. Even if her daughter had left at the same time, there was no way she could have beaten Amy the way she’d been driving, her mind separating from her body as the car tore through yellow lights and careened around bends in the roads. She pulled into the driveway without remembering how she’d gotten there. Her mind spun out of control. Phoebe needed to stop talking. She was going to say something to incriminate herself. She especially needed to stop talking to Rowan. Maybe Scott—and Nicolette—had been right. A conversation like the one she’d just overheard was exactly what the police needed to pin the blame on Phoebe. Amy would swallow her pride and call Scott. She would tell him that she agreed with him on this one matter, that Phoebe needed the protection and guidance of an attorney.
A barrage of machine-gun fire pierced through the quiet of the house. Amy set her purse and knitting project on the kitchen counter. Ben played a video game on the TV in the living room. He was supposed to have an hour limit, but Amy had stopped enforcing it weeks earlier. His dad didn’t enforce it, and she was tired of being the bad guy.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Hey.”
“How was school?”
“Good.” He didn’t move his eyes from the screen. “Watch out, Noah. He’s behind you!” Ben yelled into the headset.
Amy rolled back her shoulders in a failed attempt to release the tension. Climbing the stairs to the master bedroom, she envisioned how good it would feel to flop onto the bed and sob. Ben was just downstairs, though. He didn’t need to endure more than he already had. She pushed down the swell of emotion that rose in her chest and entered the bathroom, dampening a washcloth and pressing it against her forehead.
A few minutes later, she wandered back down the stairs, the normally quiet house sounding more like a war zone.
“Can you turn that down, Ben?”
“What?”
“Turn the volume down. I can’t hear myself think.”
Ben groaned but lowered the volume.
Amy paced back and forth across the kitchen. Her phone lay on the counter. She picked it up, then set it down, debating whether to text Phoebe a stern message to come home. Instead, she pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from the wine fridge and poured herself a glass. If there was ever a day she needed a glass of wine, it was today. The cool liquid sat in her mouth, prickling against her tongue, the warm afterglow of the alcohol spreading through her. She’d focus on making dinner for now. One step at a time. One breath at a time.
Inside the refrigerator, she found an assortment of leftover vegetables suitable for a stir fry. She pulled the rice cooker from the high shelf inside a cupboard, trying not to think about the fact that it had been a wedding present to her and Scott from one of his co-workers all those years ago. She measured the rice and poured it in, along with water, and then began chopping onions and peppers, tossing them into the frying pan every time the cutting board got too full. After adding a few handfuls of broccoli florets and sliced carrots, she turned on the gas burner and waited to hear the sizzle.
The front door burst open and Phoebe slipped inside, earbuds in and eyes glued to the floor. Outside, Rowan’s car squealed away.
Amy positioned herself in front of her daughter, hands on her hips. “Where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“You must have been somewhere.”
“I was at the library. Studying.”
Amy raised her chin. “I don’t want you hanging around Rowan anymore. Don’t eat lunch with him. Don’t text him. And don’t hang out with him after school. It looks bad.”
Phoebe glared at her mother, pupils dilating. “Sorry to embarrass you.”
“Phoebe! This is serious. The police are looking for any reason to arrest you. Or him.”
“The police should do a better job, then.”
“Your attitude is getting old, young lady.” Amy’s fingers grasped Phoebe’s upper arm, tightening. Their eyes connected as her daughter’s face flashed with fear. “Go to your room and start your homework. Dinner in thirty minutes.”
Phoebe’s pulled her arm from the grip. “I’m not hungry.”
Amy threw her hands up in the air. “You’re not hungry? You’re so thin, you look sick. You need to eat, even if you don’t feel like it.”
“I want to go live with Dad.”
Amy’s hands now weighed down at her sides, her mouth frozen. Not this again. The few sips of wine she’d taken now pooled like acid in her empty stomach as the smell of burning vegetables floated in from the kitchen.
Phoebe raised her chin. “I talked to him today. He said I could.”
“Absolutely not. We’ve been over this before. He doesn’t get you.”
“I’m not a pawn in your stupid game.”
“It’s not a game, Phoebe. I have rules because I care about you.”
“You’re an irrational control freak.” She pushed past Amy and ran up the stairs. “Dad’s picking me up on Friday at five.”
“You can stay with him for the weekend. It’s his weekend, anyway. But that’s it.”
A door slammed from upstairs.
Ben twisted toward his mom from his station on the couch. “Dude, I gotta go. I think our house is on fire,” he said into his headset.
A blanket of smoke floated through the air. Amy sprinted toward the stove and turned off the burner, but it was too late. The vegetables were charred and black. She lifted her hands to her face and squeezed the smoke-filled air from her eyes, her failures multiplying.
Ben stepped next to her, peering at the mess of vegetables. “Mom, can we go get subs?”
She lowered her hands and stared at Ben, her forgotten child. His brown eyes brimmed with innocence. Hopefully his video game had distracted him from his sister’s drama.
“Yeah,” Amy said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “That’s a good idea. Let’s go get subs.” She swiped her purse from the counter and followed him through the door to the garage, leaving Phoebe stewing alone in her room.
Twenty-Six
Jane
I existed in front of my fourth-hour class, a deadened mass of cells with two arms and two legs and a head that couldn’t organize my thoughts. Even the posters on my walls couldn’t make me smile. I’d started each class with a short statement acknowledging the loss of Ms. Mayfield and how we were all hurting, and letting my students know that anyone who needed to visit the grief counselor was welcome to go during my hour. Up to this point, there’d been no takers.
The kids were lethargic, as if they’d eaten half a sleeping pill before heading off to school. Rowan slumped in his usual spot, eyes focused on his hands, his mouth turned down. Phoebe sat a row in front of him, her arms crossed and face still. A few kids shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one talked.
A lesson I’d written on the board from the week before was still there.
“How was school?” Amy asked her for the third time since Phoebe had arrived home. The first two times, Phoebe had mumbled “fine” and skittered into her room like a mouse afraid of the light. Amy knew Phoebe hadn’t stabbed her teacher, but she wished her daughter would stop acting so guilty.
Phoebe removed her headphones and straightened up as if she was seeing her mom for the first time all day. “Everyone was acting weird. Like they all knew I screamed at Ms. Mayfield right before she died.” Moisture reflected under Phoebe’s eyes, and she sniffled. “Yeah. I was angry, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
Amy hugged her. “This will all be sorted out soon. Listen, honey, I know we talked about this before, but are you sure Rowan went back to his house after he dropped you here?”
Phoebe eyed her. “Yes.” She sniffled and wiped her hand across her nose. “I mean, not a hundred percent sure because I wasn’t with him. Rowan wouldn’t kill Ms. Mayfield, though.”
Amy rubbed her palms across her pants, choosing her words carefully. “How do you know?”
Phoebe’s eyes flickered. “Because he was practically in love with her.”
Amy’s stomach turned over, a sickening sensation crawling through her.
High-pitched laughter filtered through the front window, followed by car doors slamming. Amy rose from the couch and peeked outside, catching sight of Simone, Dawn, and Grace doubled over in laughter and tripping over themselves toward Simone’s front door.
Phoebe sidled up next to her, smelling of the chocolate candy she must have eaten. She stared across the street at the carefree girls.
“Should we watch a scary movie?” Amy asked.
Phoebe turned toward the living room. “Sure.”
The doorbell rang, and Amy’s heart thumped, a part of her believing it was the clan of girls from across the street. Maybe they’d come over to apologize to Phoebe, finally realizing how horrible they’d been to leave the nasty notes in our mailbox, and how rude they’d been to exclude her from their group.
Instead, Amy opened the door to find two little girls, no more than six years old, dressed as clowns.
“Trick-or-treat!” they yelled in unison. Their dad lingered back near the road, offering a wave.
Amy waved back. “Hi, girls!” She reached for the bowl of candy, collecting herself. “Here you go.” She clutched two handfuls and dumped them into their plastic buckets.
“Thank you,” they said, faces beaming from beneath the white paint and bulbous red noses.
She couldn’t bring herself to close the door right away as the children traipsed down the driveway in their giant clown shoes, so sweet and innocent. Memories of happier Halloweens came flooding back. A gulp lodged itself in her throat, but she swallowed and closed the door. The clock ticked from the wall as Phoebe messed with the remote. Amy’s fuchsia yarn lay in a bundle in a basket next to the couch, needles piercing into the air. The new pattern she’d started was giving her problems, and she made a mental note to attend the next knitting group meeting at the library.
The ring of the doorbell pulled her back into the foyer. She opened the door, greeted by a gust of wind and a swirl of leaves. Five preteen boys crowded into the doorway, including Ben in his skeleton mask.
“Trick-or-treat!” they shouted together.
Amy extended the bowl toward them, hoping they’d finish off most of what was left. “Hi, boys. Having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of candy is this?” one of the boys mumbled.
“My mom only buys organic stuff.”
“It’s good-quality chocolate.” Amy plopped another handful into each of their pillowcases. “Any other kids out there?”
“We haven’t seen anyone else.”
“Can I sleep over at Noah’s?”
“No. You have school tomorrow. Be home by ten.”
“Aww.”
Ben turned and ran to catch up with his friends, who were already halfway to the next house.
As the door began to close, Amy’s arm froze, a blip of movement near the edge of the property catching her eye. She thought someone had stepped behind a tree. More trick-or-treaters? Her neck craned, but she couldn’t make out anything through the darkness. It was probably only a deer. Her heartbeat quieted. The beams from the boys’ flashlights bounced in the distance as they traveled in a group down the street. The door clicked shut, but a sensation of unease rippled through her. She envisioned the stack of notes hidden in her jewelry box. She wouldn’t let those girls get to her. She’d watched too many disturbing Halloween movies in her younger years. All of the rumors about The Silver Slasher extending his boundaries had made her jumpy. Now her imagination was spinning out of control. Just to be safe, she reached up and turned the deadbolt. Then she texted Noah’s mom, Sherrie: I’ll pick up Ben at ten.
Amy slid to the front of her fold-out chair, kicking the bag containing Phoebe’s unfinished hat underneath her. Needles clicked around her, the rhythmic noise transforming into a sort of meditation. She positioned the beginning of an azure scarf on her lap, counting the stitches as her needles wove in and out. She breathed in the scent of the library community room—worn carpeting cut through with swirls of Hilde’s pungent violet-scented perfume.
Bev’s square jaw dropped open, her eyebrows lowering. “Such a shame about that murdered teacher.”
Amy stopped unfurling the knot in her yarn and looked up.
“I heard she was a rising star,” Bev said.
“Just awful.” Mindy bit her lip and flipped her long braid over her shoulder. “Stabbed to death right on school property. Yet, somehow, no one saw anything. Did your daughter know her?”
Amy’s body went rigid as four sets of eyes focused on her. “Yes. Ms. Mayfield was her English teacher.”
“Oh dear.” Bev rubbed her forehead and clucked. “You think they would’ve given those poor students more than two days off school.”
Laurie set aside her needles and yarn and wrapped her arm around Ruth. “My husband has a friend in the police department. He said it might have been the teacher’s boyfriend. Or her ex-boyfriend. I can’t remember.”
Mindy’s forehead creased. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it was a disgruntled parent. People are so consumed with their kids getting straight As nowadays. They forget that the process of learning is what’s important.”
Bev hunched forward, her coarse gray hair skimming her jawline. “My friend’s son goes to Ravenswood. She said the teacher was arguing with a student just minutes before it happened. It makes sense. Teenagers have very little impulse control.”
Amy’s palms pushed down into her chair, her body suddenly feeling as if it was teetering on the edge of a wind-tossed boat. The meditative state she’d enjoyed only seconds earlier had disappeared. She didn’t think she’d ever told them her last name or Phoebe’s name. These women couldn’t possibly know the student who’d been arguing with Ms. Mayfield was her daughter. Still, her vision blurred at the edges, her rational thoughts struggling against her instinct to lash out, to protect her own. Even at a knitting group among relative strangers, she couldn’t escape the ugly rumors circling Phoebe.
She clasped her hands in front of her and forced her grimace into a smile. “The student who was arguing with the teacher has already been cleared. That’s just a rumor that spiraled out of control.” Her voice shook as she spoke. The knitters stared at her with blank faces. “The police stated it was an isolated incident.”
Little Ruth let out a cry, and Laurie bounced her up and down. “Well, they haven’t caught The Silver Slasher yet, either. I guess if it was an isolated incident, then it’s a relief to know there’s not a serial killer on the loose, too.”
Forty-five long minutes later, Amy stepped up the last stair, the door to the adult reading room catching her eye. As long as she was at the library, she’d pick up a new book to read, something to get her mind off the Elena Mayfield drama altogether. She turned toward the high-ceilinged room, row after row of book-filled shelves creating a maze-like hallway. She paused at the “New Arrivals” table, turning over a psychological thriller with a black-and-neon cover to read the description. A figure passed by ahead of her, disappearing behind the stacks. Amy’s eyes shot from the book toward the mysterious person. The man had made eye contact with her, but when she looked back up, he was gone.
Even in the second she’d spotted him, she recognized the blue baseball hat, the ruddy skin, the fold of gut that hung over his belt. It was the same person who’d strolled past Phoebe’s bus stop yesterday morning. The new neighbor. She rushed past the wall of books toward the spot where he’d been standing so she could introduce herself but found only the door to the men’s room swinging shut and no one else around. Her introduction would have to wait for another time.
Disappointed, she edged toward the mysteries. A familiar voice echoed through the shelves. Amy slunk to the end of the aisle and peered around the corner, shocked to find Phoebe sitting on a sofa near the wall of windows overlooking the city. The unkempt black hair of the person next to her caused bile to rise in her throat. Rowan.
Her heart pounded, a scream gathering in the back of her throat. Why was Phoebe here with Rowan again? She was supposed to be at home. She’d promised to stay away from him. Phoebe had agreed it was best if she and Rowan kept their distance from each other during the investigation. Amy ducked her head back behind the cover of the books, afraid to breathe. She couldn’t let Phoebe see her. She would shut down completely if she thought Amy was spying.
Amy spotted another aisle of books closer to the teenagers, directly to the side of where they now sat. She skittered across an opening and behind the shelves, crouching down as she neared them.
“You need to stop acting so guilty,” Rowan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“How am I supposed to act?”
“I’m sorry.” His pale, pierced face leaned dangerously close to Phoebe. “I’m sorry if any of this was my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have made you go back.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked in Amy’s direction. She stepped backward and pressed herself against the row of books.
“I wasn’t in love with her, you know. I mean, not the way I am with you.”
Phoebe nodded.
“Have you talked to the police again?” he asked.
“Not since the other day.”
“Me neither.”
Phoebe’s brow furrowed. “It didn’t seem like the detective believed me about the earring.”
“The guy’s a moron. They have no evidence besides that stupid security footage.” He shifted closer. “There’s nothing they can do to us.”
“I hope you’re right.”
What was going on? Air expanded in Amy’s lungs, unable to escape.
Phoebe reached out her hand. Rowan took her fingers in his and squeezed, their eyes locked in on each other. Amy held her hand over her mouth to silence her scream, turned on her heel, and bolted toward the front door.
Amy made it home from the library before Phoebe. Even if her daughter had left at the same time, there was no way she could have beaten Amy the way she’d been driving, her mind separating from her body as the car tore through yellow lights and careened around bends in the roads. She pulled into the driveway without remembering how she’d gotten there. Her mind spun out of control. Phoebe needed to stop talking. She was going to say something to incriminate herself. She especially needed to stop talking to Rowan. Maybe Scott—and Nicolette—had been right. A conversation like the one she’d just overheard was exactly what the police needed to pin the blame on Phoebe. Amy would swallow her pride and call Scott. She would tell him that she agreed with him on this one matter, that Phoebe needed the protection and guidance of an attorney.
A barrage of machine-gun fire pierced through the quiet of the house. Amy set her purse and knitting project on the kitchen counter. Ben played a video game on the TV in the living room. He was supposed to have an hour limit, but Amy had stopped enforcing it weeks earlier. His dad didn’t enforce it, and she was tired of being the bad guy.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Hey.”
“How was school?”
“Good.” He didn’t move his eyes from the screen. “Watch out, Noah. He’s behind you!” Ben yelled into the headset.
Amy rolled back her shoulders in a failed attempt to release the tension. Climbing the stairs to the master bedroom, she envisioned how good it would feel to flop onto the bed and sob. Ben was just downstairs, though. He didn’t need to endure more than he already had. She pushed down the swell of emotion that rose in her chest and entered the bathroom, dampening a washcloth and pressing it against her forehead.
A few minutes later, she wandered back down the stairs, the normally quiet house sounding more like a war zone.
“Can you turn that down, Ben?”
“What?”
“Turn the volume down. I can’t hear myself think.”
Ben groaned but lowered the volume.
Amy paced back and forth across the kitchen. Her phone lay on the counter. She picked it up, then set it down, debating whether to text Phoebe a stern message to come home. Instead, she pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from the wine fridge and poured herself a glass. If there was ever a day she needed a glass of wine, it was today. The cool liquid sat in her mouth, prickling against her tongue, the warm afterglow of the alcohol spreading through her. She’d focus on making dinner for now. One step at a time. One breath at a time.
Inside the refrigerator, she found an assortment of leftover vegetables suitable for a stir fry. She pulled the rice cooker from the high shelf inside a cupboard, trying not to think about the fact that it had been a wedding present to her and Scott from one of his co-workers all those years ago. She measured the rice and poured it in, along with water, and then began chopping onions and peppers, tossing them into the frying pan every time the cutting board got too full. After adding a few handfuls of broccoli florets and sliced carrots, she turned on the gas burner and waited to hear the sizzle.
The front door burst open and Phoebe slipped inside, earbuds in and eyes glued to the floor. Outside, Rowan’s car squealed away.
Amy positioned herself in front of her daughter, hands on her hips. “Where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“You must have been somewhere.”
“I was at the library. Studying.”
Amy raised her chin. “I don’t want you hanging around Rowan anymore. Don’t eat lunch with him. Don’t text him. And don’t hang out with him after school. It looks bad.”
Phoebe glared at her mother, pupils dilating. “Sorry to embarrass you.”
“Phoebe! This is serious. The police are looking for any reason to arrest you. Or him.”
“The police should do a better job, then.”
“Your attitude is getting old, young lady.” Amy’s fingers grasped Phoebe’s upper arm, tightening. Their eyes connected as her daughter’s face flashed with fear. “Go to your room and start your homework. Dinner in thirty minutes.”
Phoebe’s pulled her arm from the grip. “I’m not hungry.”
Amy threw her hands up in the air. “You’re not hungry? You’re so thin, you look sick. You need to eat, even if you don’t feel like it.”
“I want to go live with Dad.”
Amy’s hands now weighed down at her sides, her mouth frozen. Not this again. The few sips of wine she’d taken now pooled like acid in her empty stomach as the smell of burning vegetables floated in from the kitchen.
Phoebe raised her chin. “I talked to him today. He said I could.”
“Absolutely not. We’ve been over this before. He doesn’t get you.”
“I’m not a pawn in your stupid game.”
“It’s not a game, Phoebe. I have rules because I care about you.”
“You’re an irrational control freak.” She pushed past Amy and ran up the stairs. “Dad’s picking me up on Friday at five.”
“You can stay with him for the weekend. It’s his weekend, anyway. But that’s it.”
A door slammed from upstairs.
Ben twisted toward his mom from his station on the couch. “Dude, I gotta go. I think our house is on fire,” he said into his headset.
A blanket of smoke floated through the air. Amy sprinted toward the stove and turned off the burner, but it was too late. The vegetables were charred and black. She lifted her hands to her face and squeezed the smoke-filled air from her eyes, her failures multiplying.
Ben stepped next to her, peering at the mess of vegetables. “Mom, can we go get subs?”
She lowered her hands and stared at Ben, her forgotten child. His brown eyes brimmed with innocence. Hopefully his video game had distracted him from his sister’s drama.
“Yeah,” Amy said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “That’s a good idea. Let’s go get subs.” She swiped her purse from the counter and followed him through the door to the garage, leaving Phoebe stewing alone in her room.
Twenty-Six
Jane
I existed in front of my fourth-hour class, a deadened mass of cells with two arms and two legs and a head that couldn’t organize my thoughts. Even the posters on my walls couldn’t make me smile. I’d started each class with a short statement acknowledging the loss of Ms. Mayfield and how we were all hurting, and letting my students know that anyone who needed to visit the grief counselor was welcome to go during my hour. Up to this point, there’d been no takers.
The kids were lethargic, as if they’d eaten half a sleeping pill before heading off to school. Rowan slumped in his usual spot, eyes focused on his hands, his mouth turned down. Phoebe sat a row in front of him, her arms crossed and face still. A few kids shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one talked.
A lesson I’d written on the board from the week before was still there.
