the bag while she moved the tissue paper aside, first pulling out the tiny pink outfit, her smile stretching wide. Then she reached deeper, her face twisting as she felt the cold metal, maybe her fingers brushing over the engraving. She pulled out the silver jewelry box with my mother’s name engraved on top. It had been a gift from my father on their wedding day. Shana Farrell, it said in this perfect script—fancy but easy to read; formal but not pretentious.
Laura didn’t say anything. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched the light catch the name on the surface. “Oh, Nic,” she said, her hand up to her mouth and then down to her belly.
“Oh, don’t do that. Oh, God. Don’t have the baby now. I’m not equipped.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “I can’t take this. It’s yours.”
“I’ll never have a Shana Farrell,” I said. “Please. She would’ve given it to you if she were here. I know it.” It was true. I could picture her doing this, feel her standing in this very spot, reaching for Laura, smoothing her hair.
She shook her head again but kept the box in her hands. “Thank you,” she said.
“Laura?” Katie poked her head in back. “The guests are here, babe. You okay?”
Laura wiped her cheeks, held my hand, and squeezed. “We will take good care of this, Nic,” she said. “Are you coming?”
“In a minute. Go ahead,” I said.
I spent a few moments in the bathroom, which had always been my favorite place for a good cry.
* * *
THE SHOWER WAS IN full-on party mode, Laura’s friends holding punch, grouped together with cupcakes and miniature sandwiches. Her mom and sister restocking the trays and moving effortlessly from group to group. People placing bets on the birth date on a sheet of paper hung over the gift table. I leaned against the entrance, readying myself for the show. Smile. Be friendly. For Laura.
“I don’t think they’re related,” I heard one of her friends say as she pulled the papers out from underneath the table. She was in Laura’s high school class; I knew her. Knew of her, at least. Same shade of hair, dyed a deep red. Monica Duncan. At least that had been her maiden name. “Annaleise was nothing like Corinne Prescott.”
They hovered around the search-party grid and Annaleise’s picture, which I’d taken down and hidden to specifically avoid nosy hands, prying words—everything I hated about this place.
Laura stood on the other side of them, her back to us, but she looked over her shoulder and said, “Oh, hush now, Monica.”
They waited for Laura to turn back around, and Monica lowered her voice. “What?” she said. “It’s true. Don’t you remember? That girl used to come around to our parties when she was barely fourteen—fourteen—the bunch of them. Remember?” Laura looked over her shoulder again, and I saw her face turning red, her eyes scanning the room. I shrank back into the kitchen. “Hitting on our boyfriends, acting like they owned the town—I mean, what did they think was going to happen? If that was them at fourteen, imagine them at eighteen. Wait, we don’t even have to imagine. There were more than enough rumors.”
I couldn’t believe they were talking like this at Laura’s baby shower. Laura, who was married to Daniel, an unofficial suspect in that case. Laura, sister-in-law to Corinne’s best friend.
“Annaleise was such a sweet thing. Never made a stir. Knew her place. The Prescott girl, she was different. She was a disaster waiting to happen. Who here is really surprised?”
“I don’t know,” someone else said. “Annaleise was supposedly seeing Tyler Ellison.” I heard nervous laughter. “So maybe not so sweet after all.” They all laughed.
“Martin said the police showed up at Tyler’s place this morning. For questioning. But he wasn’t there,” a third woman in the group added.
God, the rumors, the conspiracy theories. This is how it starts. This is how people decide on innocence and guilt. Time for me to get out there, make them stop because of my presence, and because they have nice Southern manners, after all.
“Can we please not talk about this at my shower?” Laura asked.
“Oh, I don’t want to upset you, dear!” Monica said, a hand around Laura’s waist. “What I’m saying is, there’s nothing for us to worry about. It’s not the same thing. No pattern. No reason to think this is all connected,” she whispered. I guess they hadn’t heard about the text that Annaleise had sent to