“Jesus,” he continued, his head cocked back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. “That could’ve been you.”

I knew this was probably my last chance to come clean about all I knew; I wanted to tell him that there probably hadn’t been a boogeyman lurking around Margot’s land, that the real culprit was most likely Margot herself. Or Margot and Brad. Or just Brad. But the truth stayed lodged inside my chest, a stubborn, stabbing pain.

“I know,” I said instead, and then felt guilty for playing along with this scenario, as if I were milking undeserved sympathy.

“Any suspects?”

I shook my head, drained the rest of my beer. Brad. Margot. Margot and Brad.

“Her poor parents.”

I felt my shoulders relax when he said this; I was happy the focus was back off me. “And your friend, Jill or whatever—sorry, I can’t keep them straight—” he said with genuine apology in his voice.

“Jill, yes,” I said softly.

“She must be in shambles.”

I nodded, bit down on my lower lip.

“Oh, Soph,” he said, drawing me back into a hug. “I’m so sorry for your friend.”

I buried my head in his chest, which smelled charred and tangy from the grill, and this time, allowed myself to be folded into his arms while a rigid dam inside me burst and my chest began to quake with sobs.

Abby is dead. Abby is dead. Abby is dead.

43

Friday, April 20, 2018

IT'S ONE IN the morning. The sky outside my window is stained with black storm clouds, but it hasn’t rained yet and the air outdoors feels stuffy and oppressive.

I’m back inside just now from my walk on the trail. I couldn’t bear to stay in the house this morning, waiting for the full story about Abby to drop, so as soon as Graham and Jack left, I bolted out the back door and headed up the quiet street. I couldn’t even still myself long enough to sit behind my laptop and wait for it to spring to life—I needed to keep moving.

I woke up at daybreak this morning, my eyes puffy from crying, and powered up my phone. As of six thirty there was no news story yet about Abby. And even though I was itching to turn on the television or peek at my cell while the three of us ate a rushed breakfast of toast and overly cooked scrambled eggs, I held myself in check in front of Graham: I knew whatever I read would only make me crumble, and I didn’t want that to happen again in front of him if I could help it.

Walking up the steep crest of our street, I slid my phone from my hoodie. At seven thirty, still no story. But midway through my walk, just as I was approaching the battered wooden bridge that crosses the stream, my phone pinged from inside my pocket.

It was Tina, the town crier. A text. No message, just the link to a piece in the Mapleton Times, which I promptly clicked on. It wasn’t a long story, only a quick paragraph.

BODY OF LOCAL MISSING GIRL FOUND IN WOODS

The body of Abby Wilson, 17, was found yesterday afternoon in the woods on a parcel of private land on Cedar Lake, ending a near-weeklong search for the Mapleton teenager. The victim of an apparent homicide, Abby was last seen with her boyfriend, Brad Simmons, on Friday evening when he dropped her off at home after dinner. Authorities said that Wilson’s body was discovered by a groundskeeper and that she is the victim of a shotgun wound. No suspects have been named yet and the Seminole County medical examiner will perform a full autopsy to determine time of death, but authorities are speculating that the preliminary findings show the time of death to be close to the time of Wilson’s disappearance, possibly within hours. This story is still developing.

I stashed the phone back in my pocket without replying to Tina and ran the rest of the way home.

* * *

—

I’M PACING THE hallway now, churning from room to room, my head spinning with this latest piece of news.

The preliminary findings show the time of death to be close to the time of Wilson’s disappearance . . .

My mind chews on this tidbit, working it over and over; it brings me a twinge of relief. It doesn’t absolve me, but at least I can tell myself that sharing my secret about Margot and Brad probably wouldn’t have saved Abby; what happened to her most likely happened the same night she went missing. Even if I had told someone about the text, the terrible outcome would have still been the same.

Part of me wants to share this turn of events with someone, and I’m struck by the strange urge to call Graham. Not to tell him everything, but to share this latest update, to simply say that the search for Abby had been futile—it was over before it even started.

This won’t exonerate me, of course, but somehow it might start to scrub away at the filthy shame I’ve been drenched in these past few days.

But I can’t call Graham now because as I’m standing here in the living room, chewing on a frayed fingernail and staring out the window, I see a police car pull up in front of the house and park.

44

I WATCH THEM file out of the car and stroll up the narrow sidewalk toward the house. A square-jawed man with a tall, broad-shouldered woman. Both in plain clothes. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses but the woman’s eyes are unshielded, and as she scans the outside of the house, she squints them into an unfriendly expression. Dread seeps over me and I want to fall to the floor, hide beneath the window, and crawl, commando-style, to the back of the house and not answer the door.

But the knocking begins—sharp, quick raps—which sends adrenaline zinging through my body, giving me an instant headache.

I open the door.

“Sophie O’Neill?” the man asks with a quick flash of a smile. Dimples pool on both of his cheeks, and as he removes his shades, tucking them into the front of his white oxford shirt, smile lines crinkle around his pale blue eyes.

“Yes, that’s me.” I’m still in my jogging clothes, and my white T-shirt is pasted to my body, damp with sweat. I should’ve changed when I saw them approaching. I feel dirty, exposed.

“I’m Detective Flynn,” he says, slipping his badge from a back pocket for me to inspect. “Mike Flynn. And this is my partner, Wanda Watkins.”

He sticks out his hand for me to shake and I take it. His grip is strong and his skin is dry like cardboard.

“Good to meet you both,” I say, my eyes now traveling to Wanda, who still has her face crimped into a tight squint.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” she says. Her voice is brash and her accent is thick East Texas.

“Could we come in for a minute?” she asks, swatting a hand in front of her face as if to fan it, as if the sweltering heat outside is my fault. Her hair is a helmet of brassy blond curls and she’s wearing a maroon skirt suit with honest-to-goodness shoulder pads. She looks less like a police officer and more like someone who would’ve given me a makeover at the Merle Norman counter in high school. And what kind of name is Wanda Watkins? I’ve already taken an instant dislike to her, and in my head I’ve now childishly renamed her “What the What.”

“Of course,” I say, ushering them into the living room. “May I ask what this is about?” I add, after they’ve both taken seats on the edge of the sofa, leaving me no choice but to sit in the armchair opposite them, which puts me on the defensive, the pair of them facing me down.

“We’re sure you’ve heard about Abby Wilson,” Detective Flynn says, brushing a speck of lint off the knee of his freshly pressed dress pants. He looks up at me with an expectant, warm smile.

“I have indeed,” I say. My eyes fall to my lap. “And it’s terrible. I feel just awful for her family,” I bumble, casting around for something proper to say. “I’m sorry but I forgot to offer you something to drink.” I suddenly feel cotton mouthed and need a sip of water. I rise from my chair and step into the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea?” I ask over my shoulder, sounding, again, like a character in a television drama. Doesn’t everyone offer the police coffee in TV shows?

“No, we’re fine,” Detective Flynn answers.

My hands wobble as I fill a glass with tap water and take a few swallows before returning to the living room.

Wanda’s eyes take in the surroundings—framed pictures of Graham, Jack, and me resting on the mantel; a faded peach-colored ottoman that Jack loves to dribble his juice on; tacked-up, colorful masterpieces of Jack’s art hanging on the wall—before returning to my face. Her gaze is cold, her eyes cast-iron black.

“Where were you the night of Friday, April 13?” she asks. A notepad flipped open on her lap, she grips a ballpoint, hovering it over the blank page.

“I—” I start, but my voice catches in my throat.

Wanda needles me with her eyes.

“I was here, at home, in the early evening, with my husband and son,” I say.

“And after that?” Wanda asks with a huff of impatience in her voice.

Have I ever met a nice Wanda? My mind ticks back: Wanda Spears, second-grade teacher, stone-faced and stern, gripping her hand around mine to try and correct my messy handwriting. Wanda Klein. A friend’s mother in Florida, forever complaining. No, no nice Wandas.