given me enough over the years. At least until now.
“Is she still your patient?”
“Heather.”
“I know, I’m just shocked, that’s all.”
“You knew it was a possibility.”
“A remote one, yes, but …”
“She’s paid her price, that’s all I’m going to say.”
We hang up with a promise to get together soon. My fingers grip the half-heart even harder. Just because Lauren’s out doesn’t mean she sent this to me. For one thing, how would she have gotten it? If she had it all along, why wait until now? It doesn’t make any sense. I want to understand, but I can’t. Why spend years in prison if you know—
I rub the confusion from my forehead, put the necklace in my desk drawer, and pull up a browser. I find the same article about her release and archived articles about the crime. She probably won’t be on social media, but I check anyway. Thirty minutes later, with no luck whatsoever, I shell out sixty bucks to a pay site claiming they can provide information on anyone. Unfortunately, the results can take up to twenty-four hours.
Okay, then.
Before knowing Lauren was released, I’d thought Gia and Rachel were the only ones who could be involved. Again, it makes no sense for them to wait until now, but I can’t completely ignore the possibility. So while still logged in to my oft-neglected Facebook page, I search for Gia Williams. A few profiles have no pictures; others obviously aren’t her. Maybe she got married and changed her name. I try Georgina Williams. The second profile listed has GIA in parentheses, the picture unmistakable. Small and curvy; straight, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun; wide, full-lipped smile.
Most of the pictures show her and a man with a dark, close-cropped beard. Climbing Arizona-hued rocks; in diving gear beside a cerulean sea; roasting marshmallows over an open flame, a tent in the background. I stop at a photo of them standing beside a FOR SALE sign. He’s holding a bucket with gardening tools; she has a tape measure and paintbrush. The house, a pale-blue Cape Cod. Two-car garage. Nice front yard.
The first comment says, CONGRATS! NOW YOU’RE OFFICIALLY AN ANNAPOLITAN!
You’ve got to be kidding me. Annapolis? We’re next-door neighbors. Of all the places in Maryland she could’ve moved to. And we’re not exactly sitting next door to the old neighborhood. Annapolis is about forty-five miles away from Towson.
The picture is dated July of this year. Two months ago. Curious timing. Maybe a little too curious? More pictures show outings with other women, dinners with other couples. They all show a woman content and happy with her life, not a woman who’d poke old secrets like a bad tooth. But what the world sees—what you present to the world—doesn’t mean a damn thing.
I could send her a friend request. Play catch-up. But I need to be smart about this.
It takes a little longer to find Rachel McAffrey, now Anderson—she isn’t friends with Gia, and her page is as frequently updated as mine. But I learn she’s married with a son and she’s an attorney, which seems out of character for the Rachel in my memory. A little more digging reveals she practices family law. The house in her profile picture’s background catches my eye and, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t far from where we grew up.
A few minutes later, I have their addresses. Rachel’s is exactly where I thought, and Gia’s is so close we must’ve run into each other at some point. Annapolis is a small place. Starting points. For what exactly, I don’t know yet. I may not have made the first move, but I’m not going to sit idly by while waiting for the second.
I tick names off my fingers. Lauren. Gia. Rachel. There’s no one else I can think of.
Except the Red Lady.
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my ankles. The Red Lady. What a wretched story; what a wretched beginning to the end. Before her, my friendship with Becca, Gia, and Rachel was the stuff of every healthy childhood. All that laughter, all that sugar and spice. Look closer, though, and you’ll see the sharp teeth and smell the cruelty lurking beneath the surface.
I type THE RED LADY into the search bar but don’t press enter. I know what I’ll find: nothing. She was only ever a story. Becca’s story. And yet.
And yet.
Red Lady, Red Lady.
I rub the side of my abdomen, frowning at the memory of chanting. The four of us were still talking