She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 3
Twenty-five years later, Granger Rentals owned the largest bulk of off-campus student housing in the city, complete with five full-time property managers. The divorce agreement had forced Amy out of the business she’d helped build, just as she’d been forced out of her marriage and replaced with a younger model, but she’d fought to keep ten percent ownership in Granger Rentals, plus five years of child support and alimony. And the house.
A smooth motor hummed around the bend and slowed. Simone’s mom, Nicolette, lowered the window of her Volvo as she stopped short of the driveway across the street. The Janas’ house looked like it was ripped from the pages of a magazine—windows shining beneath the solar-paneled roof, the native plantings out front bending in the breeze. Nicolette was head of psychology at the university and her husband, Amar, was a surgeon. No money had been spared.
Amy blinked away the moisture in her eyes and realized she was standing in the middle of the front yard with yellow gardening gloves dangling from her fingers. She waved toward the Volvo and pushed her feet forward.
Nicolette tipped her head through the open window. “Hi, Amy.”
Amy pressed her lips into a smile. “Hi.”
“Are you getting back into the school routine?”
“Yes. How about you?”
“Yeah.” Her neighbor propped her dark, glossy sunglasses on top of her equally dark, glossy hair. Her large hoop earrings reflected in the sun as her eyebrows furrowed. “I heard Phoebe quit the tennis team. Is everything okay?”
Amy’s breath rushed from her lungs. She folded the gloves into thirds and pressed them between her sticky hands. “She says she’s not that interested in tennis anymore.”
Nicolette peered at her, her stoic and unwavering eyes always making Amy feel as if she was assessing her for some sort of psychology experiment.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Nicolette said. “She’s an excellent player.”
Amy balled the gloves into a lump and crossed her arms.
Nicolette rummaged through her center console then thrust a white card out the window. “You know, it might help Phoebe to talk to someone about her feelings. I have several colleagues at the clinic who could help. The same goes for you. You’ve just been through so much this past year.”
Amy nodded. “Thank you, but we’re fine.”
Nicolette waved the card up and down. “Just take the card in case you change your mind.”
Amy took it, reading the words University Family Clinic before shoving the card in her pocket. This wasn’t the first time Nicolette had tried to convince her to visit the clinic. Her psychologist neighbor had witnessed the toll the divorce had taken on her, but Amy was determined to climb this mountain on her own, and Phoebe could do it too. What Phoebe really needed right now was a friend.
“How’s Simone? I haven’t seen her lately.”
“She’s well. Very busy, as usual.” Nicolette pressed her lips together as if stopping herself from saying more.
Amy waited for an uncomfortable number of seconds, then held her hand up toward her neighbor. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
The Volvo turned into the circle drive across the way and disappeared into the garage.
The Granger mailbox stood a few feet away and Amy staggered toward it. She pulled open the metal door, her fingers closing around a stack of envelopes. The top one was from the Green Hills Nursing Home in Tampa. Amy’s stomach sank even further, not wanting to think about the outrageous amount she owed so that her mother could waste away in a sterile room while being spoon-fed orange roughy and Key lime pie. She flipped through a few more envelopes containing requests for charitable contributions and a cable bill.
A flimsy envelope poked out from the bottom of the stack, no markings on the front, not even a return address. Amy held up the plain envelope, examining it in the afternoon light as a warning prickled over her skin. She peered over her shoulder. Only a squirrel swished its tail behind her, then skittered up a tree. Satisfied she was alone, she opened the mysterious envelope. Her fingers shook as she tore the seam and unfolded the sheet. Her eyes squinted against the glare of the white paper, but there was no escaping the angry words that screamed from the page.
DIE, BITCH!
She blinked, rereading the horrible words, hands shaking. Who would do this? The message was scrawled in red ink, the lettering written evenly with the dot of the exclamation point in the shape of a bubble. Exactly the way a teenage girl would write.
The Cape Cod sparkled from across the street. Images of the mean girls who had excluded her daughter from their group reeled through her mind. She pinched her lips together and stuffed the note back into the envelope. At least Phoebe hadn’t seen it.
Three
Jane
The bell rang. Teenagers bolted from their tables like bats out of hell. It was Friday. The first week of school had been checked off. I stood behind my desk, gathering my things, and waiting for kids to clear out while reading the text Nick had sent Elena and me a few hours earlier: Friends Brewery downtown? Meet me in the teachers’ lounge after the bell.
When the screeching voices in the hallway faded, I grabbed my keys and oversized canvas bag and turned the corner to the lounge. Behind me, the door to Elena’s classroom sat closed, voices murmuring from underneath. I turned back to wait for her, stealing a peek through the narrow window to the side of the door. Elena sat at her desk, hands folded together, forehead creased. A chair had been pulled up next to her desk. I couldn’t see the student’s face, but the long coat, unruly hair, and multiple ear piercings clued me in: Rowan.
I stepped back. Had Elena heard about Rowan? She must have. There was no way she could have missed the accidental email sent three days before school started. One of the school’s social workers had meant to send a confidential message to Albright, except—in the king of royal screwups—she’d mistakenly copied all Ravenswood staff members into the recipient list. I held up my phone and scrolled back through my emails until I found the one entitled “Rowan Hasloff” and reread the rogue message.
It has come to my attention that incoming eleventh grader, Rowan Hasloff, who is no stranger to trouble at this school, has posted a disturbing image on his Instagram account that appears to praise the perpetrator of a recent school shooting in Virginia. As a result, I recommend the school contact Rowan’s father and the appropriate authorities, and that Rowan is added to Ravenswood’s Watch List, in addition to mandatory weekly visits with one of the school social workers.
An hour after the email was sent, the school scrambled to cover its proverbial ass. Corrections and apologies followed, explaining the “watch list” was a newly instituted precautionary measure Ravenswood had taken in the wake of the nation’s uncontrolled gun violence to protect students and teachers. The list was meant to be strictly confidential, only available on a need-to-know basis.
The damage control had come too late, though. All the staff members had already read the email. Every teacher now knew that the school kept something called a “watch list” and that Rowan was on it.
I tipped forward and focused on Elena’s concerned expression. Had she noticed some disturbing behavior and made Rowan stay after class on a Friday? Maybe she was even more badass than I’d realized. Or had Rowan been the one to hold her up? As quiet as he was, I couldn’t imagine him drawing attention to himself. On the other hand, I’d heard the boys’ comments in the hallway when they didn’t think anyone was listening.
“Check out the new English teacher.”
“Ms. Mayfield is hot.”
Maybe Rowan’s hormones had gotten the better of him.
I hovered outside the door, straining to catch a phrase or a sentence, but the words were muted and jumbled. My resolve running low, I turned and headed toward the lounge without her. Inside, Nick stood near the window. He’d taken advantage of casual Friday. He hooked his thumb into the pocket of his jeans. His navy polo shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and his hair was slicked back with some sort of manly styling product. He’d put in some effort today, and it wasn’t because he was trying to impress his students.
“Elena’s still in her classroom,” I said.
Nick raised an eyebrow.
“With Rowan Hasloff.”
His face fell. “Oh, man. We’ve really got to give her the rundown.”
I tipped my head, assuming Nick meant that we should warn Elena about getting too close to Rowan, or at least brief her on not getting sucked in by too many needy kids and after-school activities.
“Hey, Jane.” He shuffled closer, lowering his voice. I smelled a hint of cologne reminiscent of aging oak barrels. “Do you know what Elena’s situation is? I mean, romantically speaking?”
“No idea, Romeo. No wedding ring, though.” I winked at him.
“I noticed that.” He rolled his shoulders back. “I’m not hounding her or anything. I was just wondering.”
“Yeah. Right.” I punched the solid muscle of his arm and watched his lips twist into a sly grin. “I’m pulling for you, man.”
Nick’s bumbling presence made me extra thankful I was married to Craig. I exhaled, relieved the singles dating scene was a distant memory.
Nick scratched an itch on his forehead then turned toward the door. “Let’s go rescue her.”
My phone dinged at the same time as his. I looked down, a text from Elena appearing: Something came up. Go without me. Sorry!
Nick tipped his head back and sighed. “Seriously?”
“Maybe we can still talk her into it.”
We scrambled out the door, both of us rushing toward room 102. The rubber soles of my shoes squeaked as I turned the second corner in the hallway, finding the door to Elena’s classroom closed. I peered through the thick glass window again. This time, the room was empty.
“She already left? She was just here.”
Nick tried the handle, but the door was locked. He swung his head toward the exit at the end of the long hallway. A janitor wheeled a squeaky bucket toward the girls’ restrooms. No sign of Elena or Rowan.
Nick kicked the tiled floor. “Well, that sucks.”
“No kidding. Look at all that hair product you wasted.” I smirked at him.
Nick smiled and shook his head but didn’t speak.
“We should reschedule. Maybe next week?”
His face sagged. “Yeah. I’ll need to check our game schedule.”
“It must have been something really important,” I said.
“I guess.”
We walked silently out to the parking lot together, our Friday euphoria diluted.
Nick waved toward me. “See you on Monday.”
I stood next to my car and watched him climb into his battered pickup truck, rev the engine, and squeal away.
A few minutes later, my Prius glided into the driveway of our shoebox-size house on the west side of town, sliding past Craig’s car and into our garage. In a parallel universe, I envisioned us living here with both sides of the garage cleaned out, but in my current world, Craig stored all the tools and supplies for his handyman business on his half, his car permanently parked in our driveway. Our black lab mix, Moose, poked his nose out as I opened the door into our cramped laundry room. I gave him a few good pats on the head, his tail wagging wildly.
“I’m home.”
“Hey. Down here.”
I dropped my bags on the kitchen counter and followed Craig’s voice down the basement stairs. He leaned to the side, smiling up at me. His T-shirt sagged against his concave body and sweat reflected beneath his stubby goatee.
“I thought you were going to happy hour with the lovebirds.”
“Something came up. Elena canceled. I think Nick took it hard.”
“Ouch.”
“Have you sold your idea to Apple yet?” I asked, repeating my daily joke.
“It’s probably going to happen tomorrow.”
My husband didn’t have the physique of a bodybuilder or a professional soccer player like Nick, but he had some formidable brain cells. He was determined to invent the next big app, and his work ethic was second to none. And because we also needed to pay the bills, he ran his own handyman business on the side. He didn’t always love the manual labor, especially when it came to toilets, but the freedom made up for it.
“What are you going to do with all of your newfound time?” Craig asked, now entranced by something on his computer screen.
Moose panted and scratched at my leg.
“I was thinking of taking Moose for a hike by the river. Want to come?”
“Oh. I would, but I’m moments away from a really big breakthrough.”
“Come on.”
“I had to paint trim all morning. I want to do this for a while.” He looked up at me, the crease in his face softening. “I’ll go with you tomorrow, I promise. How about we order Chinese later and watch Netflix?”
“Deal.”
Wandering into the bedroom, I kicked off my work shoes and pulled thick cotton socks onto my aching feet. I shed my work clothes, replacing the stiff pants and shirt with leggings and a sweatshirt. An elastic headband restrained my chin-length hair. I dabbed sunscreen on the point of my nose, hitting my forehead and cheekbones and thankful for the organic compounds known as zinc oxide and titanium dioxide. Damn you, UV rays.
Fifteen minutes later, the earthy scent of trees and damp soil surrounded me. My feet hustled faster, eager to escape the hum of the nearby highway. Moose pulled me down the steep incline. We’d hiked the same route so many times since he was a puppy, I trusted him to lead me. It took about five minutes of hoofing it to get far enough into the forest to no longer hear the cars. After shuffling down the second hill, my eyes flitted toward the late-afternoon sun filtering through the treetops.
Last winter, a bald eagle had swooped past me in this very spot. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. It had been a stressful few weeks at work, and my caffeine addiction had been messing with my sleep. When the bird circled back and perched on a tall branch, its golden eyes peering straight through me, long reeds of grass hanging from its beak, I realized the majestic creature was real, that I’d experienced something rare. Now I felt like a six-year-old looking for Santa Claus every time I entered the woods.
As I surveyed the treetops for birds of prey, a man with a golden retriever jogged past and raised his hand in a wave, a Patagonia hat shielding his face. My chest expanded in solidarity with him—a fellow lover of dogs and nature. There was comfort living in a place where people fought to protect the environment. In the world outside our bubble, it felt more like the Dark Ages lately.
For the first few years of our marriage, Craig and I had agreed we wouldn’t bring any children into this world. We’d been satisfied to call Moose our baby. We agreed the planet was doomed, stretched to the brink to provide for the humans that multiplied exponentially and ate away at the very earth that provided for them, whittling it down to nothing, like termites. The ice caps were melting, the ocean temperatures were rising, and the rainforests were burning. The blue macaw went extinct last week—wiped from the face of the earth. The story hadn’t even made the nightly news. I’d stopped eating meat three years earlier to reduce my carbon footprint, but teaching was the only thing that really made me feel like I could make a difference, maybe even save the planet. Teaching was my superpower. My profession gave me hope that I could spark knowledge for some unsuspecting kid. Maybe something I said or taught would inspire them to go on to stop climate change, to clean up the plastic in the ocean, or find the cure for cancer. That was why I wouldn’t trade teaching science for any other job, despite my underwhelming paycheck. And for a long time, that was good enough for me.
Then last June, I’d been volunteering on this very trail with a local preservation group to remove invasive species. I’d met a woman whose brimmed sun hat wasn’t wide enough to hide the bags under her eyes. As we knelt beside each other, pulling up garlic mustard and Japanese knotweed by the roots, she told me how she’d left her two new babies at home with her husband for a few hours so she could get out of the house. I admired her slim waist and wondered how she’d done it, with twins no less. She smiled, explaining they’d adopted the babies from China. Removing her phone from her pocket, she angled the screen toward me, sharing a photo of two squishy, round-faced girls with the largest brown eyes I’d ever seen.
“We adopted them from the orphanage,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s so many more who need homes.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about those doughy, saucer-eyed babies as I tossed the weeds into my bag. Their faces had permeated my head, displacing all my previous anti-human sentiments. I wondered what their lives would have been like if wealthy do-gooders hadn’t traveled overseas and plucked them from their baby prison. I thought about the ones who remained. There were probably more abandoned babies arriving every day.
For the first time, the biological urge to become a mother, the desire to care for a child of my own, panged through my core. I googled Chinese orphans as soon as I returned home, finding disturbing images of malnourished babies crying from beneath their shocks of black hair. Others showed fat, happy babies being carried away in fancy car seats by American, European, and Australian couples. I tugged Craig’s arm and pulled him over to the screen. We submitted an online request for more information a week later.
Now, I trudged ahead, past the spot where I’d met the new mother in the wide-brimmed hat. A squirrel darted across the path and Moose lunged after it, pulling my thoughts back to the present and nearly yanking my arm out of its socket. Voices echoed from another trail in the distance and I shortened the leash in case our paths crossed. I squinted toward the other hikers, but the trees were thick with leaves, the branches blocking my view. A melodic laugh echoed over the ridge. My feet stopped, my jaw locked. Moose wagged his tail and peered back at me. I knew that laugh. I’d heard it earlier today. Was Elena here? Or was it only someone who sounded like her?
