marks on my throat. She had a history of drug abuse and assault. They also matched her DNA to the crime scene at Lauren’s apartment. There was a blip in the paper, the sort of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it write-up.
Nicole saw it, though, and called me. Alexa did, too. I haven’t called either one back yet; I’m not quite ready for that. Maybe it’s because of everything that happened, everything I did. Maybe it’s because of the genuine concern in their messages. Alexa even apologized for accusing me of doing anything wrong. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look her in the eye again. And even if, out of pity, Nicole asks me to come back to Silverstone, I’ve decided to resign there and focus solely on my private practice and my patients. If she and I don’t work together, maybe we can salvage our friendship. I hope so, anyway.
This week I returned to work, and I took more notes than I can remember taking in a long time. I listened to my patients, too. Really listened. I’m grateful that I have them, even if everything else falls apart.
I still don’t remember anything after running out of the basement that last night with Becca. I still don’t know where her body is. But now I think I might know why, no matter how improbable.
“Were you there that night?” I say finally. “Did you see what happened to Becca?”
“No.” The word is barely audible, and she clears her throat, her attention still on the table. “No,” she says, louder this time. “I heard you sneak out the first time, and the second, when you came home, you were crying. The third time, I followed you—you were sick that night and I was worried—to the house. I waited outside. And after you ran out, I went in.”
When she looks up, I see truth. I can’t believe she’s known all these years. Can’t believe I never knew she knew.
“Mom, I—”
“It wasn’t a secret the two of you were fighting. When I found her, when I saw, I assumed it got out of hand or there was an accident of some kind. She had bruises on her face, and I didn’t know what to think. There was nothing I could do, do you understand? She was already gone. She’d been gone for a little while.”
Because I killed her. Not the Red Lady. Me.
“I knew it was wrong, but I panicked. I just wanted to protect you. That’s what mothers are supposed to do. If I’d called the police—I didn’t know her mother would be blamed. I thought people would think she just ran away. Kids do that. If I’d known what would happen, I would’ve come up with something else. I swear I would’ve. But I saw her there and I couldn’t do anything to help her and I was afraid you—I wasn’t thinking, I just knew I had to …”
“I need to tell you what happened, okay?” I wait for her to nod. “It was a game, sort of. And it started with a story.”
Slowly, the truth tumbles from my lips. All of it. The house. The Dead Girls Club. The bruises. Lauren’s drinking. The Red Lady. And those final nights in the house.
When I’m finished, my chest hurts, but I feel twenty pounds lighter. Just to tell it, to let it all out. “It sounds outlandish now, but it made perfect sense then. We thought she’d be okay. I swear we did. I never would’ve hurt her, not like that. Not to really hurt her.”
“I know.” Her voice is gentle.
It’s a struggle to find words. “Does Dad—”
“No, and he never will. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I also know we’ll never speak of this again. “This might sound odd, but did you leave her bag on her porch? Her backpack?”
She cocks her head. “I did. I accidentally left it in my car and didn’t know what else to do with it. I knew I couldn’t keep it there, couldn’t throw it out. Why? How did you know?”
“Just a guess,” I say. “And her necklace? The half-heart? Did you put that in her backpack, too?”
She starts and visibly swallows. “Yes. It-it caught on something in the-in the trunk, and when I went back to the car, I saw it there.” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking at all. But how …?”
“Mom?” I don’t want to ask, but I need to know. The words are so small, but so heavy: “Where is she?”
* * *
The Coleman building is twelve stories of glass and brickwork. Pretty, but still functional, it sits next to an old cemetery dating back to the 1890s. I find an open spot on a nearby street, pay the meter, and walk. There’s a small park across the street from the building, and I plop down on a wrought-iron bench. It’s cold today, too cold to sit outside for any length of time, but I pull my coat tighter. Ignore the chill leaching from the metal into the backs of my thighs. The sky is an angry shade of blue-gray that can’t tell in which direction it wants to tip. I smell frying chicken from a fast-food restaurant, burgers from another.
I think of all the people in the building, in their offices. I think of Becca beneath all that weight, all that dirt. Tucked away. Hidden. I think of her being so sure I’d help her. I think of her in the basement, her eyes shut, her skin cooling, me by her side.
I think of my mother putting her here, knowing they were finally about to pour the concrete. Hiding Becca beneath rubble with no way of knowing if she’d be found or not. Hoping she’d be safe. Hoping I’d be safe, too. I think of my dad, never knowing, not when he was working on site and not now.
I wish I could rewind the days and change it all. I wish I could bring her back, but what’s done is done. A thousand apologies can’t change that. She’s gone, and she’s been gone for a long time. Part of me is gone, too. Has been since that night. You can’t do what I did and come out on the other side unchanged. Undamaged. But I would’ve done anything for her, anything at all.
I remove the half-heart necklaces from my purse. When I went back to see what remained of the house, I found them on the ground near the water.
Best friends forever.
I think about that last night in the house, how sure Becca was that the Red Lady was going to fix it all, that everything would be okay. But nothing was okay. Nothing was ever okay. She was only a story, but once we fell in there was no way out.
The sky darkens and the chill settles deeper into my bones. A breeze touches the back of my neck, and in that caress, I hear the whisper of my name. Sense someone standing behind me. Smell freshly turned earth and the coppery tang of wet pennies. My muscles lock, and I can’t move. Can’t think.
And then it’s gone.
But I won’t look. I won’t ever look.