real answers. She watched the discovery of Zoe’s body steal the last flash of hope from Aster’s eyes. She saw her best friend crumble. Martina can’t get Zoe back for Aster. No one can. But she’s going to try her hardest to bring Aster a little bit of peace. Answers—solid, definitive—let you sleep at night.
“Will you help me?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Anna says. “Yes.”
Martina exhales.
Then, Anna’s voice drops. “Can I ask you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“Has Caden … said anything? About me?”
Martina chews on the inside of her cheek. Growing up, she used to feel a tenuous kind of connection to Caden, even though he was three years ahead of her in school. When you live in a town as white as Herron Mills, you notice the one or two (in her case, two) other biracial kids at your school. Maybe you aren’t close friends, but you exchange glances. Keep tabs. But Caden has been less than cooperative over the past six months. Any connection she used to feel is gone.
“He’s back at Yale,” she says finally. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Right,” Anna says quickly. “Of course.”
“I’ll schedule the call,” Martina confirms, and the girls say their goodbyes.
Alone again in her kitchen, Martina punches the phone’s red end call button. Anna should be in college herself by now. Martina wonders if she’ll still get to go, sometime. Or if she’ll end up getting her degree in prison. She eyes the remaining tostones and decides she’s not really hungry anymore.
She’d rather think about college than the question of if Anna really did it. But of course that’s exactly what she needs to figure out. For Aster, and Zoe. For the whole Spanos family. For herself. Because once again, the police have latched onto the available explanation. They have their suspect, their confession. Their easy answer. Even though Martina can spot at least three gaping holes in what she’s heard of Anna’s story. Holes she’s sure the police have decided to conveniently ignore in the interest of closing the case.
Martina has seen every true crime documentary available on Netflix and Investigation Discovery. Has listened to enough episodes of The Vanished and Criminal and True Crime Garage to develop a healthy distrust of law enforcement. She’s watched footage of detectives cajoling confessions out of minors without their parents in the room. She’s listened to heartbreaking testimonies from the wrongfully convicted and stories of police departments and sheriff’s departments bungling investigations due to lack of resources or lack of communication or lack of expertise or the plain willful conviction that they’ve got their man.
At the same time, Martina’s gut says that Anna is lying. Maybe she’s innocent. Or maybe whatever happened that night was much worse than the story she told police. She wants to trust Anna, but Anna never told Martina about the messages from Zoe on her phone. What else has Anna been hiding? Maybe her confession doesn’t add up because Anna is manipulating the details. In the grand scheme of things, a charge of second-degree manslaughter looks a lot better than murder.
Martina makes the same silent promise she made back when she recorded the first episode of Missing Zoe last February. She’s going to do her best to find out what happened to her best friend’s sister. She’s going to put her interests in journalism and true crime reporting to work, to get answers to the questions the detectives should be asking. If Anna is innocent, she’s going to use what small platform she has to try to ensure justice isn’t falsely served. But if she’s guilty, she’s going to root out the truth for the Spanos family, uncover the real story beneath Anna’s murky confession.
8 THEN
June
Herron Mills, NY
IT’S RAINING. A hard, drenching cascade that seems to barrel from the clouds in fully formed sheets. It pummels the Clovelly Cottage roof, the grounds, goads the pool’s infinity edge into a gushing waterfall. It’s only ten thirty, and Paisley is bored with Quiddler and Ticket to Ride. I suggest Moana, then Happy Feet, then Matilda. Paisley is not in the mood. Paisley wants to do something.
It’s clearly not a beach day, and unlikely to clear up into a town day any time soon. I can hear Emilia in her office, on what sounds like an intense phone call about deliverables and reliable vendors for high-end printed something or other. I’m on my own to figure out a fun indoor activity.
I promise Paisley that if she puts the board games away, I’ll have a surprise planned for