make it through the day. Physician, heal thyself? Bullshit.
I remember many things in vivid detail, but there’s also a lot I don’t remember at all. What if someone else was there and I didn’t see them? Or don’t remember seeing them? Time has taken some of the memories, but others … Dissociative amnesia can occur from severe stress or trauma, and killing your best friend definitely qualifies.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t allow myself to fall apart. I have to view this as I would a case. Concerned, but not overly involved. Not emotionally involved. This is what I’m trained to do. Put the puzzle together and see the picture as a whole.
Cassidy’s focused on her crayon and paper, so I open a browser. Type in REBECCA LILLIAN THOMAS. It’s been a long time since I’ve read the official story, but I know it by heart: Lauren Thomas, Becca’s mother, killed her in a drunken rage. They didn’t find her body, but it didn’t matter. There were signs of a struggle in the house. There should’ve been a countrywide media circus—the case was ripe for tabloid frenzy—but three days after her arrest, a fourteen-year old was found murdered in the woods behind her home in northern Baltimore County. She came from a good two-parent family. Sunday dinners and after-school clubs. Her school picture revealed shiny hair, big eyes, perfect teeth. The right kind of dead girl. And you can bet her death—at the hands of a neighbor with a history of sketchy behavior—made the national news.
Instead of the expected Baltimore Sun archives, there’s a new link, a new story. Five months old—new enough, anyway. I skim it, landing on the important phrases: Pleaded guilty to killing her daughter in 1991. Paroled after serving—
My vision narrows to the letters on the screen, and I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind. Lauren Thomas is out of prison. Becca’s mother is free.
CHAPTER TWO
THEN
The ride to the mall took forever. Maybe because it was Friday, June seventh, the last day of seventh grade. Maybe because there was traffic. Or maybe because me and Becca were so excited we could hardly sit still; we finally had enough money saved for the necklaces.
My mom listened to the same radio station we did, so when “Baby, Baby” came on, she turned it up loud and the three of us sang along. Lots of people said it was the best song of 1991. At that minute, it was for me, too.
At the mall entrance, I had the door open before the car stopped all the way. When I got out, my hair caught on the seat belt and I had to yank out a bunch of strands, squinting at Becca the whole time. She’d made me take out my braid this morning because she said it looked better down. If hers had been down to her waist instead of her shoulders, she’d have understood what a pain it was.
We were practically opposites. Becca was smallest-kid-in-the-class short and had almost white hair and eyes like the sky mixed with clouds. Last year, Jeremy Dixon hadn’t stopped calling her “ghost girl.” She said it didn’t bother her, but names always hurt. Plus, she hated that she looked like her mom. She had an aunt—her mom’s sister—who’d died when Becca was a baby, and she looked like her, too. I’d seen a picture once. But Becca was the prettiest.
Mom called me lanky, which meant tall with long, skinny arms and legs. I’d gotten my height from my dad. Everything else—my thick hair, mud-colored eyes, and caterpillar eyebrows—came from her and Nana, who was mostly Italian.
“Thank you for giving us a ride, Mrs. Cole,” Becca said.
“You’re welcome. And girls? Seven o’clock on the dot.”
“Yes, Mom,” I said, adding syllables where there weren’t any extras.
“Mrs. Cole?” Becca said.
“Yes, dear?”
“Please be kind,” she sang, extending the last word.
“And rewind.” Mom sang, too. “Have fun, be careful, love you both!”
Normally we’d make a beeline to the food court, but normally Rachel and Gia were with us. We hadn’t invited them today because we wanted the necklaces to be ours first. They knew we were best friends and we knew they were best friends, but we didn’t want them to copy.
Soon as we got to Claire’s, we went to a spinning jewelry display case in the back.
Becca spun it once. “Oh, no, they’re gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? There were a bunch.”
“I know. They were hanging right here. I remember.” She