AMY K. GREEN was born and raised in a small New England town where she was once struck by lightning. She was a practicing CPA before leaving the corporate life to work in film production, write, and wear fewer high heels. She now lives in Los Angeles but spends as much time as she can in Boston.

The Prized Girl

Amy K. Green

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Amy K. Green 2020

Amy K. Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008334482

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008334475

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One: Virginia

Chapter Two: Jenny

Chapter Three: Virginia

Chapter Four: Jenny

Chapter Five: Virginia

Chapter Six: Jenny

Chapter Seven: Virginia

Chapter Eight: Jenny

Chapter Nine: Virginia

Chapter Ten: Jenny

Chapter Eleven: Virginia

Chapter Twelve: Jenny

Chapter Thirteen: Virginia

Chapter Fourteen: Jenny

Chapter Fifteen: Virginia

Chapter Sixteen: Jenny

Chapter Seventeen: Virginia

Chapter Eighteen: Jenny

Chapter Nineteen: Virginia

Chapter Twenty: Jenny

Chapter Twenty-One: Virginia

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jenny

Chapter Twenty-Three: Virginia

Chapter Twenty-Four: Jenny

Chapter Twenty-Five: Virginia

Chapter Twenty-Six: Jenny

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Virginia

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jenny

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Virginia

Chapter Thirty: Jenny

Chapter Thirty-One: Virginia

Chapter Thirty-Two: Jenny

Chapter Thirty-Three: Virginia

Chapter Thirty-Four: Jenny

Chapter Thirty-Five: Virginia

Chapter Thirty-Six: Jenny

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Virginia

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jenny

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Virginia

Chapter Forty: Jenny

Chapter Forty-One: Virginia

Chapter Forty-Two: Jenny

Chapter Forty-Three: Virginia

Chapter Forty-Four: Jenny

Chapter Forty-Five: Virginia

Chapter Forty-Six: Jenny

Chapter Forty-Seven: Virginia

Chapter Forty-Eight: Jenny

Chapter Forty-Nine: Virginia

Chapter Fifty: Jenny

Chapter Fifty-One: Virginia

Chapter Fifty-Two: Jenny

Chapter Fifty-Three: Virginia

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five: Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Virginia

Five Days After

WHEN MY HALF SISTER, Jenny, was killed, it was all over the news—national news, not just the local paper that had to use an offensively large font to fill its pages. Strangers drove great distances to be part of the fanfare. Reporters and their vans lined the street in front of the church hosting her funeral. I parked my dented Jetta along the side of the road about a quarter mile away. There was no reserved parking space for me.

St. Bernard’s Cathedral was the only church aesthetically pleasing enough for my stepmother, Linda, to hold the funeral in. It was too large for the community; even Christmas Eve Mass couldn’t fill more than half the pews. Not today, though. Today, the local police were turning people away.

Men and women were milling around crying, consoling each other. No one was smiling, not even the polite forced smile you use to mask pain. Just hordes of people looking truly devastated by Jenny’s death. I didn’t recognize any of them, and I highly doubted they had ever set foot in this town before.

A dopey uniformed officer named Brett stood at the base of the church stairs. We went to high school together. It was the type of town where no matter the age, it felt like we all went to high school together in some shape or form. He looked exhausted, and his buzz cut was useless to sponge up the beads of sweat multiplying across his forehead. He just let them grow until they dripped off and splashed onto his shirt.

Brett was a bouncer without a list, making gut decisions about who he could let into the church. I was fourth in line, an actual line that I had to wait in patiently to attend my own sister’s funeral. It was my choice. I didn’t deserve special treatment. I was not a good sister.

I watched Brett turn two people away before recognizing the couple in front of me and allowing them inside without hesitation. When I stepped up for my turn, he looked up carelessly, locked on my face, processed who I was, and straightened his spine.

“Virginia … hi. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“This is crazy, huh?” He finally wiped his brow, altering the trajectory of his sweat beads.

“Was I supposed to RSVP?” I joked. I probably shouldn’t have. No jokes at funerals.

“Of course not,” he said, too nervous to get it. “Please go on in.” He stepped aside and extended his arms with such flourish it was as if I had the last golden ticket.

IT WAS LOUD INSIDE. Churches were supposed to be quiet. The noise was unsettling. A group of sobbing women who must have gotten in just before Brett took the helm filled the last two rows. They looked like they were attending the Kentucky Derby. Are funeral hats a thing?

The next few rows were a mixed bag of strange faces and town staples. It was easy to tell who the out-of-towners were because they ignored me. The people from town gave me intrusive pitying looks followed by immediate avoidance of continued eye contact. It was the same way when my mother died.

Wrenton was one of those old New England towns where the founding families all spawned from some combination of people from the Mayflower, and for a long time it was just the same names swapped around over and over again. Even though there were a lot more surnames now, it still felt to me like we were all from the same litter, destined to live and die where our ancestors had. Someday, I was going to leave and never look back—just not today.

I could see Linda in the front row amidst a few distant relatives of hers. Her outfit wasn’t as on point as I’d expected. Her black skirt was wrinkled in the back, and her pleated blouse was, dare I say, frumpy. She hadn’t touched her curling iron, which was a real shocker. Linda always curled her hair for events. Instead, the blonde strands, too long for her age, just fell flat against her back.

I watched her face contort and quiver as people whispered things to her with delicate smiles. I knew she was hurting, but I was struggling to muster any sympathy. Jenny was her only child, her favorite little trophy, and Linda was a parasite. Every activity was a calculated move to help Linda feed off her daughter and reinforce her fragile ego.

It was never more apparent than with the beauty pageants. From ages five to twelve, Jenny won more Grand Supreme titles than anyone else in New England. I was told about it quite often, and Linda wasn’t going to let anyone in this church forget it. Gigantic glamour shots of Jenny surrounded the coffin. In each one, a dead-behind-the-eyes little girl was dressed in a slightly provocative costume with enough makeup for a roadside hooker.

You would think my half sister had been some angelic being. There were just so many stories about the pageants, and her beauty, and how big her heart was. Her potential! These people were delusional. Jenny would have been fourteen in three weeks. She hadn’t done a pageant in months and was becoming a nosy little twat.

I took a seat away from Linda next to an elderly couple who smelled like a forgotten attic. I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. The elderly strangers in the church seemed less creepy to me than the younger people attending the funeral of a child they didn’t know. Old people just like to go to church.

From a private door in the front, my father, the esteemed Calvin Kennedy, entered the church and joined his wife. I knew he was a suspect. The father was always a suspect in these sorts of things. Part of me hoped he was guilty. I found solace in fantasizing about all the horrible drop-the-soap-type prison clichés.

I was not one for being out in public for extended periods of time. In Wrenton, everyone knew everything about everyone, or tried to at least. In the minutes it took me to pay for my gas I could learn five to seven intimate facts about my neighbors. World news didn’t resonate. A good story was one you had to whisper for fear that the very person you were shit-talking could be lurking just around the next corner.

My skin was crawling. I could feel the eyes on me. Suddenly, I was relevant again and my secrets were fair game. I had to get out of that church. I slipped out of the pew, kept my head down, and made my way to the exit. Another A-plus decision for Virginia Kennedy.

JENNY’S FUNERAL LASTED a little over an hour. I waited outside, among the hedges to the left of the church doors. If I smoked, I’d have been smoking. Instead, I just chewed at my fingernails, trying to gnaw them even, each bite making it worse.

I could hear everything. Linda’s cousin read a poem she had written that rhymed, some of Jenny’s perfect little friends from school sang a song, and the priest talked forever about God choosing special children to stand by his side in heaven. The verbiage was particularly disturbing given she was raped and murdered, left to die in the woods. Seems like he could have chosen her with a lightning bolt or something.

When I heard pews creak and feet shuffle, I knew it was my time to fully commit to bailing. I hustled to my car, keeping my head down and praying I wouldn’t cross paths with anyone who would attempt to engage. I didn’t go to the cemetery. It was a selfish thing to do, but Jenny wouldn’t know. She was too busy being God’s personal assistant now.

I went home to my tiny apartment, where I could pretend nothing had happened. I could pretend nothing had happened to Jenny, or to me, or to the world. I could embrace some sort of delusional existence where I wasn’t a piece-of-shit person or a piece-of-shit sister. It would be harder to hide now, now that Jenny was gone.

Chapter Two
Jenny

Five Weeks Before

THE SCHOOL BUS was late on the first day, and Jenny leaned against the remnants of a rock wall, shifting her weight back and forth, bored, anxious. It was her first year in high school. Technically, she was only in eighth grade, but the student population was small, and long before she was born, the district voted to convert the former middle school building into town offices. The students were displaced. Seventh graders were crammed into the elementary school, and eighth graders moved into the high school. It was normal procedure now, but no less jarring for those making the transition. Last year Jenny had shared the halls with kindergarteners; now there was a guy with a mustache waiting for the bus.

The other students huddled together across the street from Jenny in a small area deemed to have the best cell phone reception. She wished her parents would let her have a cell phone, but there was no way they would give her one after what had happened.

Jenny was the only one who seemed to care when a faint whistling came from up the hill. She gazed toward the bend in Sanford Hill Road, anticipating the source of the sound. A lanky teenage boy in an oversized camouflage jacket, baggy jeans, and combat boots marched around the corner. Jenny recognized what he was immediately: a new kid. He looked older, maybe a junior. She stared at the stranger until it was obvious he was walking toward her, then averted her eyes, pretending to look for something in her backpack.

He sauntered over and joined Jenny at the rock wall, but left a comfortable space between them. He took a deep breath and rubbed at his thighs, preparing for an interaction she didn’t care to initiate. She fidgeted with her bag, like maybe she was so enthralled with it that she hadn’t noticed him. Surely he would understand because whatever she was looking for was important. Where was the freaking bus?

“Want one?” the boy asked, reaching into his coat pocket.

Jenny paused her frantic searching to look up and see him pull out a packet of cigarettes. “No, thank you,” she said, even though her brain pulsed with the opportunity to do something so forbidden.

“Eh, that’s good. These things are disgusting.” He pulled one from the pack and returned the rest to his pocket. With his other hand, he grabbed a lighter from his jeans and lit up. “I’m hooked.” He smiled as he turned his head to blow the smoke away from her.

Jenny debated going back into her bag. Would he notice that she had just given up this all-important search? Why did she even care?

“What’s up with this school?” he asked. “I hate new schools. Either they assign me some hyperactive pep squad bitch to show me around, or no one knows I exist.”

“We don’t have a pep squad.”

“Good, maybe I’ll be left alone then.”

“Maybe” was all Jenny could muster. He had engaged her, but now he wanted to be left alone. Mixed signals.

“Where’s the bus?” he asked.

Jenny shrugged.

“You just have all the answers,” he teased.

Jenny’s reciprocating smile was cut short as a car came speeding down the hill, tearing through the gravel, and sliding to a stop in front of them.

Christine Castleton rolled down the window of her hand-me-down Nissan. “Hey, Jenny,” she said, as if they had interacted more than zero times in the past. “I have one seat left. Are you interested?” She intended for the question to be rhetorical. Of course Jenny would want a ride. Christine Castleton was a special brand of popular. After a knee injury her junior year derailed her promising athletic future, she went from golden child to intoxicating rebel. At some point over the summer, she had even dyed her hair a bright magenta, unheard of in this town.

It meant something that she was talking to Jenny. It meant something to be chosen, but Jenny froze. Her summer had been long and full of painful isolation. Her mother had made sure of that. Jenny wasn’t ready for the Christine Castletons of the world. It wasn’t just a car ride. It was an initiation.

“I’m going to wait for the bus,” Jenny answered, trying to be casual about it, but Christine hit the gas and blew through the stop sign at the end of the road, evidencing her disapproval.

“Must be some bus,” the boy she had momentarily forgotten about said before smirking. He took one last long drag from the cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and stomped it out with his combat boot. “Day one, can’t wait.”

The sound of diesel in the distance was the most welcome noise Jenny had ever heard. They both slid off the rock wall, and she was unsure if she should walk with him or leave their interaction at that. She took the lead, and he followed just enough behind her to show he wasn’t sure either.

“I’m JP, by the way. If you cared.”

“Jenny,” she said, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. It was her first day of high school; she hadn’t even boarded the bus yet and had already rejected Christine Castleton and attached herself to a weird nobody.

JP reached out to symbolically hold the bus door open for her, and as her foot left the ground, a voice yelling in the distance demanded their attention.

“Jenny! Jenny!” her mother screamed in no particular direction as she came barreling down their driveway, running parallel to Sanford Hill Road and all too visible from the bus. Linda was in her silk bathrobe, hair wet, arms and legs flailing. “Jenny!” She spotted the bus and began a targeted sprint.

Jenny stared in shock before jumping off the bus, pushing JP out of the way. “Mom, what? Stop.”

Linda threw her arms around her daughter and squeezed. “Oh my God, I didn’t know where you went. I was so scared.”

Jenny shoved her off. “Jesus, Mom, this is so embarrassing. Please go.”

“You’re right, OK, I’m sorry.” Linda backed away. “Have a great first day. I love you.”

Jenny rolled her eyes and headed back to the bus. Doomed.

Chapter Three
Virginia

THE FUNNY THING about death is how hard everyone strives for normalcy in its wake. If we could all just pretend it didn’t happen, these horrible feelings would go away. Only a week had passed since Jenny’s murder, and we were having Sunday dinner. The weekly ritual was something none of us enjoyed to begin with. Now, it was unbearable.

I pulled into the driveway around six, awaking several reporters who had been parked across the street for the past three days. They flooded from the vans but couldn’t step on the property, and I was grateful for the long driveway. I slipped into the side door attached to the garage. Once I was inside, they went silent and retreated to their vehicles like zombies resetting in a haunted house. They would lie dormant until I resurfaced later that night.

I entered the kitchen from the garage. It smelled like Italian. I peeked in the oven and saw a lasagna. It was store-bought, Costco probably. Linda always cooked extravagant Sunday dinners, but since the murder, doctors had her on something close to horse tranquilizers.

“Hello?” I yelled out into the house.

“In here,” said my father from the living room.

He sat in a brown leather chair and clung to his phone, typing with purpose. He looked up after a second. “Virginia, come, sit.”

Linda was curled up on the couch, leaving plenty of room for me to join her. She was put together, but wrapped tightly in an old afghan that her late mother had knitted for Jenny, and rocking so subtly one could miss the motion if they weren’t looking for signs of insanity.

I lowered myself down onto the couch, afraid if I created too much movement she would break. “How are you doing, Linda?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “I’m doing well. Thank you. How are you?” Her voice was affected. Linda always spoke with misguided energy, but now she was deflated, giving a canned response that was totally inappropriate given the circumstances. Jesus Christ, Linda, just admit something really horrible happened and you aren’t one hundred percent. I won’t tell anyone.

“You know …” I trailed off. “A lot of reporters out there.”

“A bunch of vultures who don’t think of us as real people,” spat my father.

“They just want to help,” Linda tried.

“Help who? You think they’re out there to help us? They’re out there waiting for us to do something that they can use to say it’s our fault. Proof we weren’t good parents, proof we didn’t do enough to protect our daughter. It’s what they always do.”

That upset Linda. She rested her head down on the arm of the sofa, a physical sign of surrender.

“Do the police have any leads?” I asked my father.

“It was that man from the pageants. Had to be. A truly disturbed man. Evil.”

Linda met this with a labored moan. “Can you please stop? Can we just have a nice family dinner?”

“Christ, Linda, what else do you expect us to talk about?” he grumbled.

I didn’t expect compassion from my father, even in this extreme circumstance, but it wasn’t any easier to witness. Even I wanted to offer Linda a hug, something my father only did in front of the cameras. She just looked so fragile. I almost forgot how much I disliked her.

The timer went off in the kitchen, and Linda unwrapped herself from the blanket and announced, “The lasagna is ready.”

MY FATHER SAT at the head of the table. He brought his phone with him, something that always agitated Linda. I sat in my normal chair to the left. The extra leaves were still in the table from the wake, resulting in three empty chairs instead of just one, Jenny’s.

Linda entered with the lasagna and placed it in the center of the table. She had removed it from its packaging and set it into a casserole dish, hiding the evidence. Such a poor misguided woman to think anyone would care that eight days after the death of her only child she didn’t make a homemade lasagna.

She took the chair to the right of her husband, then reached out and took his hand, pulling it away from the phone in an affectionate way. He obliged and set it down on the table. A small victory for Linda.

“I would like to say something before we eat,” she announced.

“We don’t need to be dramatic. Can we just eat?” asked my father.

“Calvin, I want to say something.”

He leaned back in his seat. Another Linda win. She interlocked her hands, thinking about her words. “Jenny was such a beautiful girl. She had a bright future. She could have been Miss America, but she was taken from us by a monster. I hope that once they find that man and bring him to justice, we will be able to find peace.” She nodded like she had finished grace and reached for the knife, slicing into the lasagna.

Linda’s obsession with pageants was nauseating. It had long been one of my triggers. I knew what it was like to be my father’s child. It came with such pressure to be successful that I had long ago snapped, revolted, and practically been disowned. That poor child saved me. She became the focus so that I could slip away. It worked for everyone until it stopped working for Jenny. For the past few months, she had not been behaving as required. It was not addressed, and it was ignored to the point that even now Linda was talking Miss America. I could feel my temperature rising. I had to say something.

“But don’t you think the timing was odd? I mean, if it was this Benjy guy, why now? She wasn’t even doing pageants anymore. Don’t you think he would have found a girl, you know, more perfect?” I knew the last part would sting. That was the point.

“She was perfect,” Linda snapped.

“I just mean, I think too much emphasis is being put on her pageant life. The pictures everywhere are these disgusting glamour shots. I think it’s just creating a false story. She wasn’t a doll. She was a teenager.”

“That’s enough,” my father commanded.

It felt empowering to get that out even if I was alone in thinking it. I was a lousy sister, and this felt like the least I could do. Someone had to stick up for her memory, not the memory her parents and the media wanted portrayed, the memory she would want.

I left right after dinner. They wanted normal and that was normal. I didn’t like those people. I hadn’t realized how much of a buffer Jenny had been between me and my father and Linda. I always thought they used her to ignore me. Apparently I used her too.

I stepped outside and awoke the zombies.

They kept yelling questions as if I would stand at the top of the driveway and yell answers back down to them. The narrative was already clearly established: Jenny was a beautiful, pristine child raped and murdered by a pedophile obsessed with her. A murder that rocked a perfect town and a perfect family. I would watch that Dateline episode. It was time to shake that image up a bit.

When my car reached the end of the driveway, the reporters parted to allow me access into the street. They surrounded the car, trying to get a good look at me. I rolled down the window to help them. Then I raised both middle fingers and announced, “You’re all so fucking stupid,” before hitting the gas and driving off.

Chapter Four
Jenny

IT WAS AN uneventful first day thus far as Jenny walked into the bustling lunchroom. Eighth graders were separated into two class blocks, and she found herself in the B block without any of her friends.

Mallory Murphy, Jenny’s best friend since kindergarten, waved at her from a table of pretty girls in the center of the room. Mallory was stocky but fit, with blonde ringlets and a reputation built around having a tryout with Olympic gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi once.

“Oh my God, Jenny, I can’t believe you aren’t in our block,” Mallory said before Jenny could even sit. “You have to tell your mom to call. It’s so stupid. They’ll switch you.”

“Yeah.” For the first time, Jenny realized she had enjoyed the peace of her morning. She felt bad. These were her best friends.

“There’s a new kid,” Mallory announced.

“I know,” said Jenny.

“You know? Did you meet him? He’s in our block. How do you know?”

“He’s in our grade?” Jenny questioned.

“Yeah, he’s old, though. He’s already sixteen. Like, he stayed back a bunch. He must be dumb, but he’s kind of hot.”

“Ew, Mallory,” Nora, one of the skinny teens flanking Mallory, spoke up.

“Whatever,” Mallory negated the girl’s opinion and switched subjects. “Christine Castleton gave me a ride to school this morning.” She paused for a reaction that Jenny wasn’t going to give. Poor Mallory, unaware of her sloppy-seconds status. “She told me there were three spots open on the varsity squad and all the freshmen are chubby losers.”

Cheerleading, Jenny’s current destiny. Mallory was a shoo-in; her gymnastic skills were set to give the small squad a legitimacy it had never experienced. Heck, Christine Castleton could barely jog on her busted knee and was somehow still the captain.

“I can’t believe you even have to try out,” Laura, another flanking groupie, gushed at Mallory.

A shift had taken place over the summer. Linda had kept Jenny on lockdown after she quit the pageants, and Mallory had eased herself into the alpha role in the group. Jenny searched her brain for jealousy, but could find only relief.

THE ONE CLASS Jenny was unable to hide out in was geometry. It was a high school course offered every other year to students who passed a certain test the school administered at the end of seventh grade. Jenny was ecstatic last year when she found out she’d passed. Now, as she took her rightful seat next to Mallory, she was less thrilled.

“Have you seen Mr. Renkin?” Mallory leaned over and whispered.

Jenny shook her head.

“He’s gorgeous.”

Almost on cue, Mr. Renkin stepped through the doorway. He had toned arms and broad shoulders, but a small stomach that bunched just a bit over his belt, a flaw that made him real. His eyes were a unique shade of green highlighted by thick black eyelashes, and Jenny thought maybe if he wore one of those veils that covered the rest of his face and body, she could have mirrored Mallory’s infatuation. Superficiality aside, his best quality was his playful demeanor, which had long awarded him uncontested status as everyone’s favorite teacher.

He dropped the textbooks he was juggling on his desk with a thud. “All right, geniuses, come grab one.”

The eight students slid out of their desks like they were disembarking a plane—most filed into an appropriate order; one asshole pushed ahead. Mallory was that asshole. She shoved this poor kid Dirk almost back into his desk. In her defense, he didn’t really exist in her mind.

She paused as she placed her hands on the textbook and gifted Mr. Renkin extended eye contact. “I’m Mallory,” she said, then waited for him to faint. The teacher nodded, and Mallory headed back to her desk cataloguing the interaction as a victory.

As the rest of the students grabbed their books, Mr. Renkin turned to the whiteboard and wrote his name in large letters, a useless thing to do. All that kids do before school starts is compare their teachers and classes.

“I’m Mr. Renkin,” he announced for those who couldn’t read, or speak, or think.

He leaned down to squint at the roster list on his desk. “Raise your hand when I read your name.”

“Laura?” Hand.

“Krystal?” Hand.

“Dirk?” Hand. He did exist!

“Brian?” Hand.

“Mallory, we met.” He grinned, mocking the girl.

“Nora?” Hand.

“Samuel?” Hand.

“And last but not least, Jenny?”

Jenny raised her hand, surprised to be last, defying the laws of alphabetization.

Mr. Renkin placed both hands down and leaned onto the desk as he looked at her. His actions could be those of a man who had reached the end of a list, but the stare felt deeper. Mallory, whose senses were on high alert, turned to look at Jenny in the millisecond before Mr. Renkin looked away and before any other student noticed. When Mallory wouldn’t let it go, Jenny gave the best explanation she could—a light shrug.

THE BELL RANG at 3:10 and the swarm of kids around Jenny jumped from their seats. Jenny didn’t rush, happy to let them all go first. It was time to grab her bag, walk to the locker room, change into tiny spandex shorts and a tank top, and earn her spot on the squad. It was stupid. It was easy. It made sense, but she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t know why. Was she being a brat? Was she being lazy? Maybe she was jealous of Mallory after all.

She got on the bus and went home. One action to bear a million consequences.

She wasn’t looking forward to facing her mother and explaining why she didn’t go to tryouts. If the gods were on her side, she would already be passed out. Linda had developed a nice little wine-drinking habit in the last few months, meaning she drank it by the bottle whenever Jenny left the house. She had debilitating separation anxiety, which only heightened after Jenny quit the pageants, dissolving their special bond. With her husband in New York during the week and Jenny back in school, Linda was buying wine by the case.

Jenny climbed the carpeted stairs to her bedroom and shut the door. The room wasn’t her at all, not anymore. Stuffed animals and dolls stared at her from a corner shelf. They looked much more foolish to Jenny than they had the day before. She was officially an eighth grader now.

She opened her closet door and began tossing the animals into the back, one at a time, until the shelf was clear and the closet was a gruesome pileup of beady-eyed carcasses. She flopped down on the bed and gazed up at the sheer princess canopy above her. That would have to go too, but she couldn’t bring herself to get back up. She would rip it down later.

So much had changed in the past few months, and she didn’t know who to blame. Maybe her dysfunctional family, maybe herself? She couldn’t blame Benjy. It wasn’t his fault.

Chapter Five
Virginia

I PARKED ON THE STREET in front of the police station at half past one. I made sure to schedule any appointments in the middle of the day so as to feel the most productive. I usually slept until ten, and if I could manage to stay out until at least three, that was only four hours until it was dark and I could go to bed again.

I found myself recently unemployed due to having quit my job. I was a temporary person. It was the only way I could get out of bed in the morning, knowing it wouldn’t be like this forever. It was hope, I guess—really mutilated, beyond recognition, hope. It was something I definitely didn’t inherit from my mother. She had no hope.

My father married my mother when they were both nineteen. They were high school sweethearts out of convenience. The town didn’t produce many attractive people, so the ones who existed tended to couple up. They had me one year later and at least four years earlier than my dad planned on procreating.

He was in college studying some business bullshit. He became a big-time finance asshole, but back then he was a kid from a small town with a lot of ambition and a hot wife. They were two kids who got out of Wrenton. They were living in New York City, but when I was born, my mom brought me back with her to be near her sister. My dad took the train home from the city every weekend. He still did.

My mom became extremely paranoid that my dad was cheating. I doubted it. He was not a passionate man. She turned into a belligerent screamer and a drunk. She was small-town, very small-town, and resented her big-city husband. It got ugly. Monday through Friday she would go to the bowling alley with me in tow and drink until the owner put us both in the county’s only cab. He would give me a lollipop. I do vaguely remember the candy.

My father would get home sometime after I went to bed on Friday, and by Sunday, they weren’t speaking. That included speaking to me. It sounds like a horrible childhood, but it wasn’t that bad. Some of my friends at school had these overbearing mothers who would show up all the time and bring them sweaters and kiss them in front of everyone. Ten is the very important age when you start to realize that parents aren’t cool and if you have any chance of being cool, they need to back the fuck off. By eleven, I was one of the most popular kids in my class. That lasted for about six months until my mom killed herself.

I lived with my aunt for two years before my father met Linda, got her pregnant, and tried this whole family thing again. Everyone would have been happy for me to stay with my aunt, but when she got sick, I had to go home—a new home with Linda and baby Jenny at the base of Sanford Hill. Everyone really enjoyed the constant reminder I provided of all the terrible shit they were trying to forget. At least I didn’t have to change schools; it would have been a real shame if I had to start high school without all that carefully cultivated baggage.

It was the same high school Jenny attended, fully equipped with her own baggage. She had only dipped her toe into those waters when she met her demise. If I could switch places with her, I would. Not for her to be alive now and for me to be dead like some selfless act of love. It’s just, if I had died a few weeks before my fourteenth birthday, it would have prevented everything.

I FIRST SPOKE to the police on the day they found Jenny’s body. Chief Garrety was geriatric, with a physique that couldn’t catch a paraplegic criminal. He was sweating profusely that afternoon, and part of me worried we might have a second dead body on our hands. I guess that’s why they brought in the big guns. A detective from Hartsfield would be taking over. Hartsfield wasn’t much of a city, but they had detectives, so they were bigger than us.

I entered the station to an unmanned reception counter. Being alone made it somehow better and then somehow worse. I didn’t want to make small talk, but at least it would be a distraction. Instead, I stood in front of the empty bull pen that seemed to shrink when I felt claustrophobic and expand when I felt small. I could hear some gruff man talk coming from the back, so I rang the bell on the desk like I was picking up dry cleaning. Then I rang it a few more times before Chief Garrety finally poked his head out from the kitchen.

“Oh, Ms. Kennedy, hello.” He brushed some crumbs off his shirt and came to meet me. “How are you doing today?”

“You know …” I trailed off. I didn’t know how long I would have to wait before I could answer “Good” to that question. Death is a funny thing. Murder is worse.

“Yeah.” He nodded, then leaned in and hushed his voice. “Look, this guy thinks he’s a real hotshot. Solved some big case once. Don’t let him push you around, ya know? Just answer his questions and smile a lot. You’re a pretty girl.”

That wasn’t comforting at all and possibly insulting. I couldn’t tell. “I’ll do my best.”

Chief Garrety was convinced. “Follow me.”

The chief showed me into the interrogation room and it put me on edge—steel table, two matching chairs, a mirror spanning the wall, dim lighting.

“I’ll grab the detective,” he said. “And remember …” He guided the corners of his mouth up with his fingers into a creepy grin. If I smiled like that, I’d be suspect number one in all murders ever.

I took a seat on the chair facing the door and settled in. The wait was rubbing me the wrong way. I came in on my time. This is your job. Get it together. I decided to believe this hotshot detective was taking a shit, a nervous shit because this was the biggest case of his life. I didn’t want to be all annoyed when he finally came in. This made him more sympathetic.

I had bitten off three of my fingernails by the time he came in. He sat at the table with a file folder in his hands, staring down, fixated on its contents just like on television. He glanced up and reacted like he hadn’t known I would be there. This guy was a trip.

“Hello, Ms. Kennedy. Thank you for coming in. I’m Detective Colsen.” He extended his hand and we shook. So formal. He was attractive enough. No traits in particular were anything to fawn over—thirties, twenty-dollar classic haircut, acceptable face shape, average height. Still, he was a stranger, and there was something inexplicable about him that made me nervous.

He helped himself to the other cold, hard chair and fanned his sacred file out on the table. Right away a picture of Jenny’s dead body appeared. I hadn’t seen it before; I’d only heard what happened. She was covered in leaves and dirt, cemented to her by the early morning rainstorm. There were splotches of blood on her nightgown where the knife had entered. Cuts and bruises were everywhere. Her blonde hair was chopped to pieces, eyes closed, face devoid of color. Her hands were placed so peacefully together over her stomach, I imagined that’s how they were now, inside the coffin. I couldn’t stop staring. A dead body. A kid. My sister.

Images flashed in my head. Memories of Jenny as a clumsy toddler. My brain’s defense mechanism showing her to me at her most innocent, back when I lived in the house and saw her regularly, often letting her sleep on my chest because she couldn’t string enough words together to bother me. Back when she was a blob—before she was a person, before she was a performer, before she was my replacement.

The detective caught me staring. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He quickly covered the picture with his notes. It wasn’t convincing. I knew he wanted to see my reaction.

“Am I a suspect?” I asked.

“Right now, everyone’s a suspect, but I wasn’t particularly thinking it. Should I be?”

I smiled as instructed in an attempt to subvert the implication.

“Why don’t you tell me where you were the night of the murder?” he asked.

“At home. In my apartment.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He jotted down some notes. He wrote more than seemed reasonable based on how little I had said. “Your parents were home alone that night too,” he stated.

“Is that abnormal? I think most people are home alone in the middle of the night. What were you doing in the middle of the night on Saturday?”

“And how was your relationship with your sister?” He ignored me.

I shrugged. “Pretty limited.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I only saw her on Sundays for dinner.” That was a lie. I had seen her more recently. Two times to be exact. It was a sad state of affairs that I could so easily count how many times I had seen my sister outside of Sunday dinner. “I don’t really get along with my stepmother, and Jenny is, was, thirteen years younger than me. We didn’t have much in common.” Nothing I could share about my sister seemed relevant. It also didn’t seem like his business. It’s kind of sick how, since my sister was dead, it was acceptable for this stranger to pry into my personal life.

“You don’t get along with Linda?” he plucked from my statement.

“Linda? You guys on a first name basis already?”

He looked up for a hot second, acknowledging my point without fueling the fire.

“Linda has always found me to be a burden and I’ve always found her to be incessantly annoying,” I explained. “Over time, we have worked out a comfortable groove of avoidance.”

“How was her relationship with Jenny?”

“Super.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know. She thought Jenny was the bee’s knees.”

“And your father? How was his relationship with Jenny?”

“Fine, I guess. He likes her much better than me and nobody killed me, so I guess you can take him off the suspect list.”

“And who do you think should be on the suspect list?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“I suppose so,” he answered, charmingly unoffended by my obnoxiousness. “Let me ask you something,” he said as if I had to give him permission. “I’m going to show you a picture, OK?”

I nodded. It was nice of him to warn me this time.

He slid out another picture of Jenny’s body. This one was zoomed in on her neck, her face and body cropped out. “Does this necklace look familiar to you?” he asked, pointing at a small gold pendant in the shape of a heart, the thin chain it hung from caked in mud across her collarbone.

“No,” I answered.

He slid the picture back into the folder, nodding. “No one seems to recognize it.”

“Kids have secrets,” I said, shrugging.

“What do you know about Benjy Lincoln?” he asked, transitioning flawlessly.

“Same thing that it probably says in the file.” And a smile.

“Indulge me?” Then he smiled. Too much smiling was happening.

“I don’t really know the details, just what I’ve heard from my father and Linda.”

“Do you think he abused her?”

“I wouldn’t know. We weren’t close like that … or at all, really.” I waited patiently to be judged, but he just nodded.

“Families are tough,” he offered.

I wasn’t sure what the point of this interview was, but I knew it wasn’t to be my personal therapy session. “Are you arresting Benjy or what?”

“We’re trying to find him.”

“He’s on the lam? Seems suspect.”

“I don’t know if he’s on the lam, per se. He left his home a few weeks ago. We’re trying to track him down.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at me like I would have an answer.

“Well, you should try harder.”

He closed the file. “Yes, thank you for coming in, Virginia.” He’d graduated to my first name without my offering it. I was on par with his close friend Linda now.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it. I just like to meet with the family, create a relationship to move forward with. I want you to feel comfortable coming to me if you think of anything.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. I shoved it into my pocket to be destroyed the next time I washed these pants.

We stood in unison, and he guided me out of the room, putting his hand on the small of my back. “I apologize for not saying this sooner, but I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” One last smile couldn’t hurt. He reciprocated.

I walked out of the station and straight to my car. I hoped it was Benjy Lincoln. It felt like an awful thing to hope for, but she was already raped and murdered. Would hoping it was someone else be any better? I just wanted it to be over. That fucking picture. Now I had five hours to spend thinking about it before it would be dark again.

Chapter Six
Jenny

JENNY’S LAST PAGEANT was on April 19, and almost five months had passed since then. It wasn’t her biggest competition, not even close. She would have won the Grand Supreme title with ease if she had gotten that far.

She hated pageants by this point. It had been years since she actually enjoyed them, but it was Linda’s obsession. Even her father embraced the pageants. He told her it was a real opportunity for her to become something. She wasn’t sure what.

With success comes fans. Even a child beauty queen from a small town can have fans, obsessive ones. Her biggest fan was a grown man with a child’s IQ named Benjy. She started noticing him when she was nine. He was at almost every pageant. He sat alone, watched the entire show, and always gave a standing ovation during crowning.

When she was ten, he gave her a birthday card. She was walking from the stage to her mother in the back of the ballroom when he stopped her. He was bashful and wouldn’t make eye contact. The card was homemade with ten balloons individually cut out from different pieces of construction paper. The message was simple: Happy Birthday, Jenny. You’re the prettiest of all the girls. Love, Benjy.

Jenny made it a point to say hi to Benny at every pageant after that, always when Linda was out of sight. She wouldn’t understand.

Sometimes he would bring her small presents, usually something from a vending machine. Her parents felt strongly that presents were for birthdays and Christmas only, which gave it an added thrill. Occasionally, Benjy would give her letters. They were short and harmless, usually about something she did in a pageant that he liked. Jenny would squirrel the letters away in her pocket, feeding off keeping a secret from Linda.

On April 19, Jenny came to the pageant with her own letter for Benjy. It was one page of notebook paper about how she didn’t want to do pageants anymore. She wrote it down so she could get it out, and then realized she didn’t have anyone else to share it with.

It was a glitz pageant, Jenny’s least favorite kind. It required hours of prep time, with Linda poking and prodding at her hair and face. The pageant had an Easter theme, and the irony of having all these slutted-out children dress as bunnies was lost on the starry-eyed parents. Linda was still in the back, adding last-minute sequins to the tail, when Jenny took the opportunity to give the note to Benjy.

He was sitting in the fourth row, and she waved him over to the corner of the ballroom. He bumbled over to her. “You looked very beautiful onstage. You look beautiful now too, I didn’t mean … I just …” He tripped over his words, worried he had offended her, shifting from one foot to the other.

She grabbed his hand to calm him down. “Thank you, Benjy. You’re so sweet.”

He steadied his feet. “You have to go change. They don’t give you a lot of time here for this one.”

“I know, I just wanted to give you something.” She reached into a slit in her costume and pulled out the note, folded up into a small square.

“A note for me?” He beamed.

“Yup.” She handed it over. “Don’t read it yet. Wait till after the show, OK?”

“OK.”

“’K, gotta run.”

“Good luck,” he said as she ran backstage.

LINDA PULLED JENNY’S HAIR back so tight under the bunny ears she thought she might cry. Not an emotional cry, but an uncontrollable release of pain. Large pink satin bunny ears were affixed firmly to her head with about twenty bobby pins. Whiskers were drawn on her face with a thick eye pencil, then highlighted with sequins. One more light pass of translucent powder over Jenny’s face and Linda was satisfied.

“Perfect.” She glowed.

FROM THE WINGS, Jenny caught a glimpse of Benjy, two rows back on the far aisle. He was staring down into his lap. Benjy usually never took his eyes off the stage. She wasn’t even sure he blinked. Jenny nudged forward to get a better look.

It was her note. She should have just let him read the note when she gave it to him. Linda could have waited another five minutes. He began unfolding it.

Another girl finished smiling, waving, and bunny-hopping around the stage. Jenny was next. She edged closer to the curtain without taking her eyes off Benjy as he read. His face twisted, and then he was out of his chair, head tucked down, running for the exit.

In a split second, Jenny was running backstage. She excused herself through her peers, who were shocked to see the one to beat bailing in a panic. She slipped out into the hallway just in time to see Benjy close himself in the janitorial closet down the hall.

She ran toward the closet, heels clacking on the tile floor. As she reached the door, she heard her name announced onstage. She hesitated only a second. She was going to be disqualified. Linda was going to have a panic attack.

Jenny knocked softly on the closet door. “Benjy, it’s Jenny. Can I come in?”

“Go away.”

“It’s going to be OK. I’m coming in.”

She slowly opened the door. Benjy was sitting in the corner next to a mop bucket, his arms wrapped around his knees. Jenny knelt down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to make you upset. I just wanted to tell you, because you’re my friend.”

“We’re friends?”

“Of course,” she said.

“You’re so good at pageants. Why do you want to stop?”

“I don’t like it. It’s almost every weekend on the road with only my mother. They’re all the same. I just want to try something else.”

“Your mom’s gonna be real mad.”

“I know. Now give me a hug and let’s go finish this one.” She wrapped her arms around him. His hug was soft and encompassing. Jenny felt calm and quiet for the first time in a long time until the door flung open. She lunged away from Benjy, but it was too late. They’d been seen.

Linda’s scream filled the hall. The sound was piercing. “Get away from her!” she screeched. “Someone call the police!” Linda grabbed Jenny by the arm, pulling her like a rag doll out of the closet. She slammed the door closed, trapping Benjy inside.

“Mom, stop! He’s harmless.” Jenny tried to pull her mom away from the door to free Benjy, but her solid thighs were too much. Linda didn’t budge.

“Call the police!” Linda screamed again.

Benjy was banging on the door from the inside.

“Let him out! You’re scaring him.” Jenny punched her mother in the stomach, her satin bunny ears flopping back and forth.

A crowd gathered around. No one was sure what to do. Jenny was pageant royalty, her mom the queen. The pageant director pushed through the spectators. He grabbed Jenny by both arms and pulled her from her mother.

“Linda, what’s going on?”

“Call the police. A pervert was attacking my daughter and I’ve trapped him in here.”

“No! She’s lying.” Jenny flailed in the director’s arms and he tightened his grip.

“Take Jenny away. I’ll handle this,” he said to Linda, and they exchanged prisoners, Jenny for Benjy.

Linda squeezed her arms so tight her fingernails broke Jenny’s skin. She dragged her daughter toward the exit while Jenny scrambled her feet, unsuccessfully trying to regain control of her body.

“I hate pageants!” Jenny screamed toward the gawkers. “You’re the perverts, not him.” Jenny had never acted like this. She was a rabid animal. “I’m never doing one of these ever again. Do you hear me?” And with that, Linda shoved her out the door. Jenny’s last pageant.

JENNY AGREED TO see the school guidance counselor, Ms. Willoughby, as a compromise with her parents for skipping cheerleading tryouts. Linda thought with a little counseling Jenny would change her mind. Her father didn’t care so much about cheerleading as long as Jenny replaced it with some sort of extracurricular activity. His exact phrasing was, “I won’t let that school cultivate your lack of ambition like it did for your sister,” which was his pretentious way of saying Virginia had done nothing then, so she did nothing now, as if a semester of volleyball was the solution.

The most interesting thing about Ms. Willoughby was that she was dating Mr. Renkin, and the halls echoed with rumors of students catching them hooking up. Jenny sat outside Ms. Willoughby’s office waiting for her turn, but when the door was flung open, it wasn’t another misguided student; it was the man himself, Mr. Renkin.

“Jenny …” He stopped in his tracks.

“Hi.”

“Hope you aren’t in any trouble,” he said, winking as if the idea were impossible. That was annoying. He didn’t know anything about her. She just looked at him, no need for further conversation. He brushed it off and continued on his way.

Jenny stood and poked her head into Ms. Willoughby’s office. It was depressing; there wasn’t even a window. She sat at a small desk, rubbing her forehead and staring blankly at the papers on her desk.

“Ms. Willoughby?” Jenny said, not sure if she should be interrupting.

The counselor looked up. “Oh, Jenny, come in.”

Jenny took a seat as Ms. Willoughby shuffled the papers away.

“So, what brings you to see me?”

“My parents wanted me to. I skipped cheerleading tryouts and now they’re worried I’m becoming a delinquent.”

“Are you?”

Jenny couldn’t help but laugh. “My mother thinks you’re going to convince me to do it.”

“I’m not here to convince you of anything. I think you should only do what you feel comfortable with. I’m just here to help.”

“Were you a cheerleader?” Jenny asked, wondering if the pretty blonde woman in front of her had walked in her shoes and survived.

“Not quite.” Ms. Willoughby glanced down and smiled, slipping momentarily into her own memories. “You’re at a difficult age. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“Next month.”

“Some people are exactly who they are from the day they’re born, but for most of us, we change, and that’s completely normal. Don’t be afraid to change, even if other people give you a hard time.”

“My mom’s not going to like that advice.”

“Well, sometimes it’s hard for a parent to look at their own child objectively. Just know that someday you’re going to move out of that house. You’ll be on your own, and if you let your parents make all your decisions, you won’t be prepared.”

This woman was basically telling her to disobey her parents but in a totally alluring way that made it seem not only appropriate but also a sign of maturity. Jenny was into it. None of her friends talked like this. Their idea of the future was next semester.

“Nothing that you do right now has to be a life sentence,” she continued, like Jenny’s desire for her to keep talking was palpable. “Try new things. Let old things go. Whatever feels right to you.”

Jenny only heard what she wanted to hear. It was a green light, permission to trust her own instincts.

THE HOUSE WAS pitch-black as Jenny crept down the stairs from her bedroom into the living room. She hadn’t heard a peep from Linda in over an hour, and her father was in New York. She ran her hand against the wall until she reached a small accent lamp on the closest end table.

The lamp gave off just enough light for her to see her way around the living room. Behind the couch, along the wall under a large bay window, was an alcohol cabinet. It stretched the five-foot length of the window and doubled as a table for Linda’s expansive Christmas village during the holidays. The rest of the year, Linda kept the top barren, like nothing else was worthy of such prominent display.

This was Jenny’s first attempt at sneaking out, and she had a newfound appreciation for the almost wall-to-wall carpeting in the house. She slid the cabinet open, revealing an assortment of bottles that she couldn’t distinguish. She pulled out the first one, a dark brown color, bourbon. She unscrewed the top, took a whiff, and gagged. She returned it and opted for a much less offensive bottle of peppermint schnapps.

Her bag was too small, and the end of the bottle poked out from under her arm as she slid through the kitchen and out the garage door, the exit farthest from her mother’s bedroom.

THERE WERE NO STREETLIGHTS, but the moon was full and it adequately lit her path. JP was waiting at the bottom of the hill where they had agreed on. When he saw her, he flicked his cigarette behind him.

“Did you have any trouble?” he asked.

“No, my mom is dead to the world.”

“She’s not going to come down the road screaming, is she?”

“No.” Jenny laughed, praying it was the truth.

“You wanna go to my place?”

“Is your uncle going to be there?” Everyone knew JP’s uncle Boomer. He was a local celebrity, a harmless old drunk with splotchy red skin who always wore shorts, even in the dead of winter.

“Nah, he’s gone. I don’t know where he went. Been a couple days.”

“OK,” she agreed, ready to take the next step in her rebellion and follow him up the hill.

THE TREES LINING the dirt road seemed taller at night. The woods weren’t particularly dense, serving more as privacy than an unforgiving maze, but that didn’t make them any less scary at night. She sped up to walk closer to JP, causing the liquor in her bag to slosh around.

“What do you got in there?” he asked.

“Oh, I took this from the house.” She pulled the bottle out and presented it to him.

“What are you going to do with that?” He laughed.

“I just thought we could have a couple drinks.”

“You don’t have to try and impress me, you know?” he said without looking back at her.

“I’m not.”

“Drinking is no good. Makes you do bad things.”

“Not all the time. Sometimes it’s just fun.”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know. Everyone.”

“That’s my house,” he announced, pointing through a patch of trees and changing the subject.

BOOMER’S HOUSE WAS, as she’d expected, in shambles: old worn furniture, empty beer cans, a distinctive stale smell. “We can sit out back,” JP insisted as soon as they were inside, leading her around a stained plaid couch to the sliding door to the backyard.

As they stepped outside, a motion-sensor floodlight lit up the overgrown lawn. There were two rusty lawn chairs, a cooler, and a lot of cigarette butts. Jenny had zero interest in sitting on one of the rusty chairs but didn’t want to seem high-maintenance. Maybe she would get tetanus, but she was sneaking out to hang with a boy. Bad things were supposed to happen.

He reached into the cooler, sifted past a few beers, and pulled out a Sprite. “In case you get sick of the schnapps.”

Jenny took the soda, relieved she didn’t have to drink the alcohol. “You like living here?” she asked.

“It’s OK. Better than my grandma’s place.” He cracked open a Sprite of his own.

“You think you’ll stay here for a while?”

“I bet you’d like that.” He smirked. “You ever get out of this town?”

“I used to travel a lot for pageants.” She cringed as soon as she said it.

“Pageants? Are you a little beauty queen?”

“Not anymore.”

“Fair enough. I got a cousin in Mexico. You ever been there?”

“No. Not even close.”

“I’m gonna go there. Soon. Once I get the money.”

“How much money?” She hoped for an insurmountable amount that would keep him there with her forever.

“Probably like a few grand. My cousin can get me a job once I get there. I’ll just do that until I’m eighteen. Then I’ll come back and join the marines. What about you? You got a plan?”

“I’m only thirteen.”

“So what? You gotta have a plan. That’s how you know you’re living your life and not someone else’s. You make the plan, then you stick to it. If you can’t follow through, then what’s the point?” JP chugged the rest of his Sprite, crushed the can, and threw it into the tall grass. “You wanna see something?”

“Sure.”

He hopped up and led her toward the edge of the lawn, where the woods began. Jenny was not a fan of the woods at night, but she had to make a choice. Was she going to be a little girl who ran back home, or was she finally going to experience something?

He slowed to a stop as he approached the rock wall bordering the first trees and she was relieved. That is, until he reached behind the wall and pulled out a knife.

Jenny retreated, and he seemed to regret not prefacing it. “It’s OK, don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just a machete.” He laid it across both hands and presented it to her in a nonthreatening way. She inched closer to inspect the weapon.

“Why do you have that?” she asked.

“Gotta have a weapon. In case anyone fucks with you.” He stepped back from her as he gripped the handle and waved the knife around with calculated precision. “There’s lots of bad people out there, Jenny.” He whacked the machete into the closest tree. “You know what happened to my mom?” he asked.

“What?”

“Killed. Ex-boyfriend. Beat her to death.” He pulled the knife out of the tree. “I was pretty young. I don’t really remember it. I kind of remember hiding, but I don’t know. Maybe I just think I remember.” He inspected the surface of his weapon, brushing off a sliver of bark.

Jenny wasn’t sure what to say. His story was so personal and so terrifying.

“I was too young to do anything, you know? Only four. It’s not like I could have stopped him.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said when she realized her silence was causing him some discomfort. It wasn’t her intention. Not at all. She wanted to comfort him, but she couldn’t find the right words and he didn’t seem receptive to a hug, standing there gripping his machete. “What happened after?”

“I had to move in with my grandma. She sucked. She always talked so much shit about my mom, but I know most of it wasn’t true. I think she was just pissed to be stuck with me. Boomer says my mom was really nice.”

“I’m sure she was.”

“Yeah, doesn’t matter now. Now it’s just me. But see, that’s why you need a plan. So you don’t end up like her.” He slid the machete back behind the rock, and Jenny was happy to see it go.

“C’mon, it’s getting late,” he said, giving her permission to run home.

Chapter Seven
Virginia

DETECTIVE COLSEN STOOD in my doorway two hours before I was ready to get up and start the day. He was already in a suit; I was in an oversized T-shirt and boxer shorts. He shoved a newspaper in my face and maneuvered past me and into my apartment uninvited.

It had been a long time since I held a newspaper and even longer since a man was in my apartment. I thought newspapers were a lost art, but there I was with my blurred-out middle fingers on the cover juxtaposed nicely with one of Jenny’s glamour shots. The subtle headline read, Jealous Sister Disrespects Dead Girl.

“You want to explain this?” he asked.

“Which part?” I threw the paper down on my makeshift coffee table that was technically a TV stand and flopped down on the couch.

“This is not the kind of attention we need right now.” He shook his head and helped himself to a seat next to me. It was too close for comfort, but my apartment didn’t have any other real seating.

“You can’t blame me for this. It should have said, Grieving Sister Hates Asshole Reporters.”

“They’re saying it because you skipped the funeral.”

“I made an appearance.”

“It rubbed people the wrong way. And now, the only time you visited your parents since the murder, you stayed for one hour, then reacted like this.” He pointed back to my cover photo.

“So what? I don’t like them. What do you want me to do?”

“Look, I know who did it. You know who did it. Everyone knows who did it, but the longer it takes us to find him, the more people get restless. They need to have something to talk about, to keep the story going, to point out other suspects.”

“So, now I’m a suspect?”

“No, no, you’re not a suspect. I’m just saying—”

“Why not? I could have done it. A lot of people could have done it. I think putting all your eggs in one basket is pretty shitty detective work.” I was only half awake and not in the mood to be scolded.

“Look, Virginia, I know you like the attention, but this is what I do, and when your antics interfere with me doing my job, we have a problem.”

“Attention” was such a weapon word, a grenade thrown out to get under my skin. I wanted to inform him I was perfectly capable of dying alone in a bunker, but regardless of my intentions, I was getting attention, and I didn’t like it either.

“What do you suggest?” I asked with as little sarcasm as I could manage.

“Just lie low. Look sad when you go outside. Visit your parents more. No bullshit.”

“OK,” I said and waited for him to leave. He didn’t budge.

“Do you have any coffee?” he asked, almost settling in.

The question caught me off guard and I think I made a stink face. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. The authority under which he arrived was blurring into something personal. I couldn’t ignore the invasive permission he granted himself because, what? I had smiled at him a few times? “I don’t have any coffee.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry,” he said, standing. He seemed genuinely enlightened and subsequently embarrassed, and then I just felt bad. Maybe his intentions were not as seedy as I had been eager to assume.

“I think I have some tea?”

“Yeah?” he timidly confirmed the offer.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled.

The problem with a studio apartment is that it’s difficult to excuse yourself from a situation. In a regular apartment, getting the tea would have been a welcomed momentary escape into the kitchen. Instead, I stood and walked four feet to the kitchenette as he watched me the whole way.

I took a mug from next to the sink, filled it with tap water, and stuck it in the microwave.

“So, what do you do around here for fun?” he asked, raising his voice over the hum of the microwave.

I shrugged. “There is a bowling alley about twenty minutes away.”

“You like to bowl?”

“No. Did you mean me specifically? I thought you meant ‘you’ as in ‘you people.’”

“I mean you specifically.”

Anything I said he was going to turn into something we could do together. In a different world, maybe even just a different time, I suppose his interest could be welcomed.

“I don’t know. It’s hard to think about now, after Jenny.” I was going to hell for using Jenny’s death as a diversion, but it did the trick.

“I understand,” he said as the microwave went off.

I pulled open a drawer full of ketchup packets and plastic utensils and riffled around for a tea bag.

“Sorry, I can’t find any tea bags. I thought I had a few, but they aren’t in here.” I shut the drawer and looked at him, unsure of what to do next.

“It’s OK. Next time, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

He nodded and smiled without looking directly at me before excusing himself out the front door. Before it closed, I saw what I was too groggy to see when he first got there. The news vans were now parked on my street.

I would listen. I would lie low as instructed. I couldn’t afford to be part of the story. There was too much that I needed to stay hidden.

Chapter Eight
Jenny

THE FALL KICKOFF DANCE was a noble tradition. The school moved the tables out of the cafeteria, hired a DJ, and charged all the eighth and ninth graders twenty-five dollars to occasionally dance, but mostly huddle in groups and whisper rumors about each other.

Jenny stepped through cheap streamers hanging from the doorway onto the tiled floors built to easily mop up the sticky remnants of two hundred teenagers a day. The overhead lights were off, and two spinning lights from the DJ table projected moving color streams over the young faces.

“Jenny!” Mallory screamed across the dance floor. The sea of inferior students parted at the sound of her voice, giving Jenny direct access to join her friends.

“You’re late,” Nora chimed in from behind Mallory.

“Yeah,” Mallory took over. “We had to come in. We couldn’t wait for you outside all night.”

“Sorry,” Jenny said, lacking all sincerity. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really. Laura already called dibs on Josh, so don’t even consider him,” Mallory dictated.

“OK.”

“And Krystal, I really think you should go flirt with Chris Hodges. You two would look good together. He’s tall like you.”

“Chris is so dumb, though,” Krystal protested. “They’re pulling him out of English.”

“So what?” Mallory objected. “You’re not getting married. You just have to get experience and he’s cute enough.”

“What about you?” Jenny asked Mallory, buying time before she inevitably saddled her with a match.

“I’m into older guys. Christine Castleton says there are so many seniors talking about me. Even Kevin Neary.” She beamed.

“I’m into older guys too,” Jenny insisted, hoping there was room for two in that excuse.

“Bullshit,” Mallory scoffed. She had the kind of natural intelligence that would get her far in life without trying and make her unstoppable if she ever did. Everything came easy, which gave her a lot of free time in that mind of hers. Romantically pairing her peers was her current obsession, running scenarios to calculate the most interesting combinations to her and then orchestrating them into existence.

“Don’t be scared, Jenny. Just relax and have a good time. Let’s dance,” she commanded before leading her gaggle to the center of the dance floor.

Mallory and Nora began grinding on each other for the benefit of a group of boys leaning, arms crossed, against the wall. The boys didn’t even pretend to look away as Mallory and Nora rotated between duck faces in their direction and giggling with each other.

Laura and Krystal began their own form of seduction before merging with Mallory and Nora. Jenny tried her best to just sway back and forth, under the radar, praying for a chaperone to bust up this pretend orgy so she could retreat to the snack table, but that wasn’t going to happen. The sorry excuses for chaperones were a group of overachieving high school volunteers, Ms. Willoughby and this girl Karen’s mom, who were selling the tickets out front, and two teachers who must have pulled the short straw. Mr. Cole, the assistant gym teacher, was eating all the snacks, and Mr. Renkin stood guard by the DJ table. He was the only one paying attention to what was happening on the dance floor, but he didn’t seem bothered at all by what was transpiring and wouldn’t be coming to Jenny’s aid anytime soon.

“C’mon, Jenny,” Mallory said, reaching out and pulling her in. Jenny glanced over at the boys, their arms crossed, elbowing each other and smirking. Her eyes met those of a kid named Carter. He was the younger brother of a popular senior and a bit of a ring leader among the ninth grade boys. The unintended eye contact was enough to put the boys on the move.

“Ooo, Carter,” Mallory whispered into Jenny’s ear. Her breath was hot, and Mallory let her lips brush Jenny’s ear before she pulled away. It was an unprecedented intimacy, not for Jenny’s benefit but for those fast approaching. Jenny wanted nothing to do with it. As the girls rotated to welcome the boys, Jenny used that as her escape.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said under her breath as she backed away from her friends and walked out of the cafeteria at a pace just short of a run.

JENNY BURST THROUGH the heavy glass door that led from the back of the cafeteria into a small courtyard where remedial students tended to a small garden as a course of study. She had held her breath as she left the cafeteria, praying a hand wouldn’t grab her by the elbow and yank her back into the pelvis of one of her friends or, worse, Carter. Once the door closed behind her, she let herself breathe, the first gasp of air heavy and overdone. It wasn’t much of a plan. Hide in the courtyard for two hours until it was time to go home? That would raise more questions than if she had just stayed home in the first place.

The anxiety was new for Jenny. Last year she would have craved an event like this. Something changed the day she quit the pageants, the day she watched her mother snap and imprison Benjy in that closet. She could see the fear in his face whenever she closed her eyes, feel his fists pounding against the door whenever she was too still, hear his screams whenever it was too quiet.

Jenny strained to hear the music, heavily muted but still audible in the courtyard if she focused hard enough on it. The grinding anthem transitioned to a slow song, and she was eternally grateful to not be standing in the center of the cafeteria at that moment, watching her protective ring of friends get picked off one at a time until she had nowhere to hide.

Once the slow song hit its second chorus, Jenny figured it was safe to go back inside. Any guy who hadn’t found a partner in the first thirty seconds had surely retreated to his fellow unsuccessful friends. She would take a spot by the snack table, and if she got desperate enough, she’d spill soda down the front of her shirt. Mallory would certainly understand how devastating that would be and excuse her long absence as she ran back to the bathroom.

Jenny grabbed the door handle and yanked it back. Her elbow almost popped as the door budged a centimeter before catching the lock and halting to a stop. Why was the freaking courtyard door locked? It was completely enclosed within the confines of the big brick school. Did they think someone would scale the walls, run across the roof, and rappel down into the courtyard to access the unlocked door?

She didn’t have many options. The music was too loud and the dance floor too far away for anyone to hear her bang on the door. Panic swept through her as she envisioned Linda coming to pick her up, only to find that her daughter was not among the hormonal creatures waiting on the curb. The cops would be called within minutes. Linda would be screaming. Jenny would finally be discovered by FBI helicopters circling the building with massive spotlights. SEAL Team Six would slide down ropes in seconds to scoop Jenny up and return her to the arms of her devoted mother.

Hyperbole maybe, but the panic was there all the same. She scanned her surroundings, setting her sights on a window across the courtyard she prayed would be unlocked. It was dark on that side. The cafeteria lights didn’t stretch much past the door, and with the rest of the school dormant, there wasn’t a lot to guide her way.

She shuffled forward with enough caution to keep her from doing any real damage to herself or the plants, but before she could reach the window, she froze. The volume of the music spiked, and she knew the courtyard door had been opened.

JENNY ROTATED SLOWLY to see who was there. As she turned, she crouched a bit to make herself more invisible in the pitch-black edge of the courtyard.

Ms. Willoughby stumbled forward from the fully lit doorway into the subtler shade of the courtyard. She was playfully fighting the advance as two hands gripping her waist scooted her forward. The hands were Mr. Renkin’s, which was obvious even before his green eyes peered over her shoulder. He kicked a rock over to keep the door from shutting all the way. Not his first rodeo.

Mr. Renkin was a notoriously “cool” teacher, and Jenny loved Ms. Willoughby. All she had to do was step forward into the light and announce her presence. They would ask if she was all right. She would say yes and make some excuse about having asthma or something that didn’t make sense, but they wouldn’t care, and she would scurry back to spill soda on herself. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She watched.

“OK, OK.” Ms. Willoughby smiled, acquiescing to her boyfriend’s insistence on her going toward the nearest wall.

Mr. Renkin swiveled Ms. Willoughby’s body around, guiding her to the side of the courtyard and giving Jenny a view of both their profiles. He leaned in and kissed Ms. Willoughby, their choreography needing work as he pushed her against the wall, the contact separating their lips unexpectedly and leaving them both kissing air for a beat before reconnecting.

Ms. Willoughby wove her hands in between their bodies until she could place both on his chest and push him back. The shove was gentle, and when their lips parted, she was smiling. “We can’t do this here,” she whispered.

Mr. Renkin grinned. His torso pushed back against her hands, which weren’t putting up much of a fight, and kissed her again, this time so intense that it smacked her head back against the brick wall.

Ms. Willoughby winced and pulled her face away while reaching for the point of contact. “Ouch, damn it.”

“Sorry, baby,” Mr. Renkin said while pecking her cheeks with military precision until she recovered, dropping her hand from her head.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “Let’s go back inside. We can finish this at home.”

Mr. Renkin puckered out his lower lip, pouting. She reached her hand to his cheek and gave him a simple kiss, but he took it as a green light and shoved his tongue back into her mouth. Ms. Willoughby practically choked as she pulled her head away.

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “If we get caught out here, we’ll both be fired.”

“I know,” he whispered into her ear before lowering his face to kiss her neck. Ms. Willoughby closed her eyes as her protest waned.

Jenny knew where this was going and knew it was too late to speak up now. She closed her eyes and did her best to stay perfectly still in the crouched position she found herself in.

She tried not to listen.

She tried to put her mind somewhere else.

Then her legs began to shake.

She held her squat for as long as she could, afraid to move, until she lost the battle and shot upright to avoid falling to the ground. She heard the wood chips beneath her crackle and adjust under her shifted weight. She opened her eyes, staring down. Was the sound as loud as she thought? Was it only in her head? There was only one way to know.

Jenny looked up.

Mr. Renkin’s eyes were on her.

Or so she thought at first. Could he see her? She couldn’t tell. He didn’t blink, but he didn’t stop what he was doing either. Jenny could feel her dinner curdling and rising toward her esophagus. She averted her eyes, fighting to keep her food down and her impression of Mr. Renkin somewhat intact.

When they finally left the courtyard, Jenny’s nausea abated, but she was sweating, only in her armpits, not from physical activity or nerves but from the intensity of it all. She felt a sense of power that she couldn’t wrap her head around. She felt older somehow. If Mallory had witnessed that, she would have made such a big deal about it. Jenny wasn’t like that. It was just sex. No big deal, she thought, trying to convince herself of her maturity.

Jenny slapped her palms against the window, said a little prayer, and scooted the glass up, confirming it was unlocked. She wriggled her fingers under the opening and lifted the window just enough to crawl her skinny body through and head back to the dance, where she had a date with a slippery cup of soda.

Chapter Nine
Virginia

I HAD ONE great love in my life. His name was Mark, and I met him when I was thirteen years old. We shared our first kiss when I was fourteen and it was messy. I didn’t know what I was doing; he did. I just tried to keep up. When he pulled away, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I’d never seen a movie where the heroine finally kisses her hero and then projectile vomits. We were special.

As long as we were together, Mark never made me puke again. The first time he reached inside my underwear, I definitely experienced some nausea, but it didn’t last. I’ve tried for years to pretend that my time with Mark was anything but perfect, to move on, to chalk it up as typical first love. I was a teenager, for Christ’s sake. How could it have been real?

It’s hard to explain how he opened me up. I had spent years perfecting my curt-little-bitch demeanor after my mother’s suicide, something my father, in particular, did not enjoy. I was distant and I was difficult. I didn’t even know what I wanted most of the time.

The other girls in my class were equally into Mark and soon forgot about me and my drama. We were at that age when a hot guy, especially one who wouldn’t give you the time of day, was infinitely more interesting than anyone else. I could have shown up with both of my arms missing and the conversation still would have been, “What kind of music do you think he likes?”

I had one class with Mark every day from 10 to 11:15, and it became the only hour of my day that mattered. I watched the other girls fawn over him and I was jealous, but I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t a fawner. The grown woman in me is extremely proud of that little girl, but trust me, at the time, I hated my defiant self. How would Mark ever register my existence?

Well, he did. Slowly over the course of the year, he began to notice the girl who wasn’t noticing him, or so he thought. He chose me. We became infatuated with each other, but we were both too stubborn to say anything.

After nine months of purposefully standing close to each other, brushing against each other when we could, I committed the ultimate feminist sin. I failed a test on purpose and pretended I needed a tutor. Mark was amazing at math. I was a fourteen-year-old girl attracted to a guy’s math ability. That’s how messed up I was. And what’s worse, it worked. Those after-school meetings allowed us the opportunity to finally give in.

It didn’t take long, alone, both of us leaning over the same textbook. Things were happening in my body that I thought I might have to see a doctor about. Puberty, holy shit. Two weeks after my first tutor session, Mark kissed me, and I puked.

The next four years were a perfect blur. When I looked back, I couldn’t even remember things chronologically. All I had were moments that fired at me, unrelenting, until I had to lie down on the floor, close my eyes, and breathe like I was about to give birth.

That didn’t happen as much anymore. I was too numb to let myself feel like that. It had been eight years since the day Mark ended it. He wanted me to go out and experience what life was like without him, to find myself, to be sure of what I wanted. I will never forget the day; it was my eighteenth birthday. Mark Renkin was thirty-two.

If I had to label it, Mark was a pedophile; it was statutory rape. That fucking depressed me. I didn’t like to think about it that way. Pedophiles were gross bald skeeves in vans who raped little kids. Mark played soccer and looked like he could be in commercials. I had tits and pubes already. I’d seen enough TV to know real pedophiles lose interest once that stuff happens. I could tell myself whatever I wanted, but when my almost-fourteen-year-old sister was found raped, I thought of Mark.

He was never violent with me, but when people started asking, “Do you know any grown men who would want to have sex with a child?” I did.

IT WAS A SMALL TOWN. I saw Mark way more than I wanted to, but after years of trying to exchange pleasantries, we had stopped speaking. As soon as I saw him anywhere, I would immediately turn around, walk away, and count to thirty before I could stop and reenter the world.

I hadn’t exchanged a single word with Mark in five years as I approached his front door. He still lived in the same modest house on Sanford Hill that I used to visit for hours after school. It was within a half mile from my own home at the time, but the woods provided enough seclusion for me to feel like I was a world away from my family.

We would sit on his wooden porch swing most nights in the fall. It was my favorite season. He would sit all the way to the right, and I would take up the rest of the swing, leaning against his shoulder. I would cover myself in a warm patchwork blanket and throw a loose corner over Mark’s knees, my arm over his waist, my hand tucked behind his far side.

The swing was still there, but had suffered during the eight winters. The wood was splintered in several spots, and it wavered in the fall breeze as I ascended the steps onto his front porch. The days were growing shorter, and daylight was already scarce by five. I raced over to avoid arriving during the darkness. An afternoon visit somehow seemed more manageable to my psyche.

I stood in front of the door and recited my mantra under my breath: “His loss. His loss. His loss.” It was my depressing chant to create false self-esteem. It had started years ago as a long self-affirming speech that over time was abbreviated to a sort of slogan. I knocked, three solid knocks that stung my knuckles.

I heard movement inside the house, and my heart sank, my pep talk a waste. I wasn’t ready for this. It was too late to run. I could hide, but my car was in the driveway. I heard the lock turning and I thought of my sister. This was about her. I was the only one who would know to ask him these questions. It was not a time to be selfish. This man had made me selfish for eight years.

The door opened and there he stood. Just a man. His green eyes were tired, there was gray in his hair, but otherwise he was just as I’d left him. He squinted at me as if he didn’t believe it.

“Hi,” I said.

He took his arm from the door and shifted his stance. “Virginia,” he stated the obvious. “Hi.”

I waited to be invited in. I ran a million scenarios in my head, but they always started with him inviting me in.

“Can I come in?”

He looked over his shoulder into the house. It was more a gesture than an actual attempt to see anything. He looked back at me, uneasy. “Why don’t we talk out here?” He motioned to the swing, and I felt sick, not that I would throw up but that I might never eat again as long as I live.

I nodded. Power was everything. In that moment, I was Jenny’s great crusader, not a damaged old lover. I took a seat on the left side without thinking. It was muscle memory, I guess. He sat on the right, and we both worked to create as much space between us as possible.

“What’s going on, Ginny?” he asked. I hated when he called me that and he knew it. At least, I thought he knew it. I couldn’t remember if I had ever told him I didn’t like it. In love, I let a lot of things go.

“I …” Crap, I didn’t know where to start. “I … You know about my sister, Jenny?” I barely phrased a question.

“Oh my God, yes, I’m so sorry. I was surprised to see you. I wasn’t even thinking. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you know her?”

“I had her in class this year, but she was quiet and the semester just started. Hunter knew her better than I did.”

Fucking Hunter Willoughby. I hadn’t even thought about it. That’s why I couldn’t go in the house. He was dating fucking Hunter Willoughby. I overheard the news one day about a year ago while I was microwaving a Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit at the gas station. I had abandoned the sandwich and sprinted to my car. I scoured every detail of her limited social media presence until three in the morning. There was no evidence of Mark. It was new. It was fresh. It wasn’t serious. It wouldn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even true. I told myself a lot of things so that I could continue to function.

Hunter was a senior when I was a sophomore. She was some kind of rich, white, small-town goth. She wore thick black eyeliner under her from-a-box black hair dye and drew anarchy symbols with a Sharpie all over her jeans and backpack. She ran with a small group of other seniors who looked down on everyone else because they had transcended to some higher plane of not giving a shit. Mark and I used to make fun of them all the time. I contemplated reminding him of it. Hunter went away to college and came back like she had gone through some sort of Banana Republic brain remapping. The return of her natural blonde hair must have had a memory-wipe effect on Mark. If he forgot all that shit about her, how much had he forgotten about me?

I was spiraling. I couldn’t afford to fixate on his relationship. To go there. I was at his doorstep for a reason. “They think they caught the guy,” I said for a reaction. It wasn’t even true.

Mark’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s great. I didn’t hear anything.”

“They haven’t announced it yet, so keep your trap shut,” I joked, then regretted it. It just came out. I wanted so badly to be cold.

“Is it the guy on the news? The pedophile from the pageants?” He threw the “pedophile” word around a little too easily.

“Yeah, but I’m not so sure. Things don’t add up.” Why was I talking so much?

“So, you’re on the case now?” His sarcasm was insulting. He was trying to assert dominance. To put me in my place. The place I had gladly filled for him in the past.

“She’s my sister, and if I think the killer is still out there, I’m not just going to sit around. Is that OK with you?”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “Of course. It just, I don’t know, doesn’t seem like you.”

“Because you know me so well?”

“I’m not trying to be combative. Why did you even come here?”

“Because she was thirteen, Mark. She was thirteen and she was raped.” I let my voice waver slightly on the word “raped.”

Mark stared forward for a beat, as if trying to follow my logic and make the connection. “What are you trying to say?” His voice lowered, serious, no longer cordial.

“I’m not saying anything. I just know teen girls are your type and maybe you knew Jenny more than you’re saying.”

Mark jumped to his feet, the force causing the swing to jerk me harshly back and forth. He turned to me, one hand in the air to conduct as he spoke. “You’re insane. That’s what this is about? You think I’m some pedophile? Is that really what you think? That I preyed on you? That I prey on and rape little girls?”

I had hit a chord for sure, but I didn’t know what it meant. I looked away. I wanted him to keep talking. I didn’t know if my motivation was for Jenny or myself. I figured it could be for both of us.

He did a slow spin to compose himself, then came back to the swing, stopping the jerking with his feet. He faced me and grabbed my hand, disarming me immediately.

“Ginny, I’m not a monster. I loved you. You have to know that. We were together for four years. You know me.” He stared into my deprived eyes.

Show no reaction, I told myself. I pulled my hand away with just the right speed to prove I was unaffected, a lie.

“I have a girlfriend. She’s thirty. I wasn’t with anyone else after you. You have to believe me. I never even spoke to Jenny outside of class.”

I did believe him. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t a take-no-nonsense cop, or a hard-as-nails private investigator. I was a useless, floundering girl who, at twenty-six, still didn’t refer to herself as a woman. He was the man I had spent my formative years admiring wholeheartedly.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said as I stood. I was gentle. The swing barely moved. My face was showing my entire hand.

“It’s OK. It was nice to see you, to talk to you, even given the circumstances.” He smiled, and I hated him.

“Yeah,” I said, which was more in the affirmative than I would have liked.

I stepped away, and he grabbed my wrist, turning me back. “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m here if you need me.”

I pulled my hand back and walked to my car. He would be there on our swing if I needed him. He would be there, waiting for me to run to him for support, to remind him that after eight years, I still needed him. I couldn’t be that person. I had to be strong. If he wanted to feel needed, Hunter Willoughby could do it. I had bigger fish to fry. I was solving a fucking murder.

Chapter Ten
Jenny

THE SWIMMING HOLE was a twenty-minute walk from school grounds. Jenny wasn’t allowed to go to the swimming hole, but not because of one of Linda’s overbearing phobias, just good parenting. Most kids weren’t allowed to go. There was actually a town ordinance preventing kids under eighteen from swimming there. A rock formation caused the river to pool in one spot, and the rumor around school was it was a hundred feet deep.

Jenny followed JP through the tall grass on a thin path matted down to let them know they were going the right way. The blades tickled her legs, and she couldn’t help but swat at them, just in case there was even a chance it was a bug.

They hadn’t spoken much since they started on their way. Being new to town, JP had just learned about the spot, and his curiosity dwarfed any attempt at patience. They left right after his lunch period. He waited by her locker and extended her the offer to come along. Jenny exhausted a few subtle attempts to decline. She explained they were both under the allowed age, quickly realizing that only fueled his fire. She tried suggesting they wait until after school, but when he showed zero hesitation in going without her, she gave in.

The river became audible at the same point the flat ground turned to a steep decline and the tall grass gave way to a dark dirt, more defined by the thick and mangled roots dipping in and out of it than the trees they belonged to.

Jenny was methodic in her steps, more like sideways shuffles at this point. The last thing she needed was to trip and fall down the hill, rolling by JP like a total spaz. The first time he reached up to take her hand to help her through a spot of loose dirt that he himself had skidded through, she wasn’t sure if she should take it. Would he be more impressed if she waved him off?

“C’mon,” he insisted, in one word convincing her she was over-thinking it.

She didn’t hesitate again to take his hand, three times total before the dirt ended and the smooth surface of the massive rock began. They walked together to the cliff’s edge, laying eyes on the water below. The thin river poured into a still pool, a circumference of roughly fifty feet, before spilling over the back side and continuing on its way.

“It’s pretty cool,” JP announced, bestowing it with the rare approval of a teenager.

“Yeah,” Jenny agreed. It was cool. It was beautiful and quiet, and its perfection was only interrupted by several warning signs threatening all sorts of deathly peril.

JP allowed another second of romantic silence before pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his boots. “It’s gonna be cold as shit,” he said, sliding his socks off as he undid the button on his jeans.

Jenny looked away as he undressed, unsure of the protocol here. She slowly removed her own boots to feign shared enthusiasm.

He was oblivious. Down to just his boxers, JP took two steps backward, rubbing his hands together, and crouching into a runner’s stance. He made eye contact with Jenny, throwing her a wink, before sprinting forward and leaping off the edge.

“Woo-hoo,” he hollered out while midair, waving his arms and legs, reminding Jenny he was just a kid too, before hitting the water and slipping below the surface.

The splash subsided and the water calmed. Jenny slid off her sweatshirt, waiting for him to reappear. It was taking too long. Was he messing with her? She moved as close to the edge as possible, staring down at his point of entry. Her breathing stopped. This was her punishment. Rules weren’t just to ruin her day; they were in place for a reason and now this guy was drowning.

The water began to ripple, and there he was, coming to the surface. She exhaled. She could see the pale skin of his back and the stripes on his boxers, but something wasn’t right. He breached the surface flat and facedown.

Jenny panicked. It might not be as deep as everyone said and he had just jumped right in. Did he break his neck? On instinct she moved to the less severe slope of the rock, sliding on her butt down to the water’s edge. She could feel the sharp rocks stabbing her, but she didn’t slow down. She crawled over the final rock and into the water, deep immediately and the bottom unfathomable to her searching feet.

The second she started splashing toward him, his body moved.

JP rolled onto his back, then upright, taking in a huge breath through his grin.

“I’m touched,” he teased.

“What the heck?” Jenny asked.

“I knew you were gonna be too chickenshit to get in, so I thought I’d give you a little motivation.”

“You’re a jerk,” she said through shortened breaths as she kicked her arms and legs to stay afloat. Relieved and mad, but more relieved.

“Get on your back, you look like you’re going to drown.”

“I’m not going to drown, I’m tired from trying to save your life.” Jenny stopped treading water and swam closer to him. “I would have jumped in. You didn’t have to be an asshole.”

“Forgive me?” he asked, splashing a little water at her.

“Hey!” she yelled, splashing even more back.

They laughed and splashed like two typical teens, short on words and high on hormones. She was convinced the consequences, whatever they might be, would be totally worth it.

JENNY SAT DIRECTLY in the center of the couch. It was a stiff couch. All of the furniture in her house was. Her parents were trying to impress, but she wasn’t sure who. The only houseguest they ever had was Virginia and they couldn’t care less what she thought.

She wondered what her father’s place in New York City looked like. Small. That was the only detail he volunteered freely. So small it barely fit a bed. Just a flophouse for him to sleep. Jenny had never been; neither had her mother. It had been that way since Jenny was born, and it was only as she got older that Jenny started to realize how unusual it was. Occasionally her mother would make vague comments about her and Jenny visiting, but her father would only tolerate it in the abstract. He would reference “perhaps in the fall” or “perhaps in the spring,” whichever “perhaps” was at least three months away. Her mother seemed content just pretending they’d visit. Linda didn’t like being out of her comfort zone. She could keep it together enough to drag Jenny to every hotel ballroom in the Northeast for pageants, but she hated strange crowds and might implode if she ever set foot in Times Square. The city was Dad’s thing.

Her father pulled his Mercedes out of the driveway before sunrise every Monday and returned the following Friday night so late it was technically Saturday morning. Most of his coworkers worked six to seven days a week, but he worked seventeen hours a day, five days a week, so that he could spend the weekends with his family.

He stood before Jenny, rubbing his jaw, preparing his words. Linda sat on the edge of the chair to the right of the couch, her hands folded across her flawless white blouse.

“I want to know where you went,” he finally spoke.

The school had called Linda when Jenny left school to go to the swimming hole. Jenny had anticipated the call, but didn’t care. She was desperate for independence. She crossed her arms and leaned back, defiant.

“Please just tell him,” said Linda.

“Nowhere,” said Jenny.

“Nowhere?” he repeated.

“I didn’t feel well, so I left.”

Linda perked up. “Are you OK? You didn’t tell me.”

“She isn’t sick, Linda. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Jenny. Do you think I’ve been too lenient with you?” He stared hard at her.

“No,” she said, looking away.

“I think maybe I have. I let you walk away from the pageants. That was a mistake. I know something unfortunate happened to you, but it’s not an excuse to waste your life.”

“Nothing happened to me.” Jenny shot forward. “Mom is a lunatic.” She flopped back down, recrossing her arms and pouting.

Linda sighed.

“So, what’s your plan now?” he asked. “To be a degenerate like your sister? Isn’t it obvious? It’s right in your face what this behavior leads to.”

“I’m thirteen. I just want to go to school. Isn’t that enough?”

“You don’t want to go to school. You want to skip school.”

“It was one time. I won’t do it again.”

“I don’t go through all of this …” he said, waving his arms to encompass this, “so that you can just be a waste. Things won’t just work out because you’re special. You’re not special. No one is special. People work for what they achieve. We’re nipping it in the bud before it goes too far. Do you know what happens to little girls with no plan, no motivation, no goals?” he asked.

“They die?” Jenny spat back.

Her father whipped his face toward her, finger pointed. “Don’t you ever take that tone with me, do you understand?” His finger remained pointed at her, teeth clenched. This was how he spoke to Virginia, not her. She felt her lip quivering.

“I’m sorry,” she said as tears started to run down her face.

“You’re going to see the guidance counselor again, figure out something to do with yourself. You don’t have to do pageants, but you aren’t going to embarrass yourself.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, stealing his attention.

Linda used the opportunity to move to Jenny on the couch, throwing her arms around her. “It’s OK. You just lost your way a little bit. We’ll figure this out and you’ll be just perfect again.” She rocked Jenny in her arms as the young girl sobbed.

Her father slipped the phone back into his pocket, seeing the tears pouring from his daughter’s face. He allowed Linda to continue to bear the brunt of the consoling, but rested his palm on the back of Jenny’s head. “You don’t need to be upset, honey. I’m sorry I raised my voice.”

Jenny heard his words, but they didn’t help. The tone of his voice was going to stick with her. She was sick of being compared to her sister, judged like somehow all the strikes Virginia had against her were on Jenny too. People talk about the pressure to live up to the firstborn; no one says anything about how hard it can be to live down to one.

JENNY STAYED IN HER ROOM the rest of the weekend, only emerging for the bathroom and meals she was ordered to attend. With no phone and no computer to entertain her, she managed to finish her homework for the week. She had spent the last twenty-four hours reading about World War I and photosynthesis and felt no more prepared for the world.

At thirteen, she was so far away from having any control over her life. Thoughts flooded her brain until she worried her ears might start bleeding. Could she sit in this room until she turned eighteen? And then what? College? Would her parents pay for an out-of-state school? Somewhere far away that they couldn’t drive to? She doubted it. She needed legal and financial freedom, two things she couldn’t even imagine on the horizon. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pound her fists against the door.

A KNOCK WOKE JENNY from her nap around six on Sunday night. She walked to the door, opening it a crack. It was Virginia, dressed in baggy clothes that looked comfortable but unflattering. Jenny could never understand her sister. She just did nothing for no reason. She wasn’t too stupid to have a real job. She wasn’t too ugly to have a boyfriend. She wasn’t too boring to have friends. She simply existed. It was maddening.

Jenny opened the door the rest of the way and went back to her bed. “What do you want?” she asked, flopping back down.

“Sunday dinner,” said Virginia.

The two sisters didn’t agree on much, but in recent months Jenny had developed a similar distaste for the formal family affair.

“Tell them I’m sick.”

“No way. With two victims, their powers are dulled. If you leave me alone, it will be too strong. I will be destroyed,” said Virginia. There was her sense of humor. Humor that could get her friends. Why didn’t she have any friends?

Jenny laughed. “I think I’m going to get it worse than you. They’ve been lecturing me all weekend.”

Virginia perked up at this. She closed the bedroom door behind her and took a seat in a white wooden chair next to Jenny’s vanity table. “What did you do?”

“Skipped some classes at school,” Jenny said, and shrugged.

“What for?”

“For fun. I don’t know. Whatever.”

“That does sound fun.”

“My mom says you quit another job.”

“I bet she did.”

“Why did you quit?” Jenny pressed.

Virginia just shrugged.

“What do you do all day?” Jenny asked, rolling to her side and propping her head on her hand like they were two girls at a slumber party.

“What’s with all the questions? You sound like Linda and Dad.”

“Just curious,” said Jenny. “Can I ask you something?” She sat back up and crossed her legs underneath her.

“You just asked me like fifty things,” said Virginia.

“Yeah, but you aren’t answering any of them.”

“Fine, what?”

“Were you always like this?” asked Jenny, keeping it vague and not sure what clarification to provide even if she wanted to.

Virginia tilted her head, staring at Jenny, as if debating whether or not to take offense.

“I didn’t mean it, like, mean,” Jenny clarified.

“Well, as long as you didn’t mean it like mean,” Virginia mocked her sister.

“Never mind,” Jenny grumbled, knowing better than to try to scratch the surface with Virginia. If it was some sort of genetic adult-onset dystopian misery, Jenny would just have to deal with it. Symptoms were already presenting themselves.

Jenny rolled off the bed and past Virginia. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Eleven
Virginia

I HAD SOLVED zero murders since I stormed off Mark’s porch. I watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU, but they were useless. The reality I had to face was, if Mark wasn’t involved in Jenny’s murder, did I really care who did it?

Yes. I could care about this. Even if it was rooted in some sick obsession with proving Linda and my father and the whole damn town wrong. The crusade could be noble regardless.

I didn’t even know where to start. It seemed going outside would be productive. I decided to drive to the gas station in town and fill my tank. Having a full gas tank, instead of coasting around on fumes like usual, would make me feel adult and responsible.

It takes a long time to fill a whole tank, even in a crappy little car. I stood there holding the pump, watching cars drive by, feeling too exposed. I don’t know where I found the ego to think people would want to stop and bother me, but the mind can do crazy things.

After a parade of old cars similar to my own passed by, I saw one hit the blinker. I knew this car. A silver Mercedes that belonged to my father. Even in this tiny town, the odds of being there at the same time as him were so low that the coincidence felt exceptionally cruel.

I could have stopped the pump and left with half a tank, failing at my very first mission, but I didn’t. Instead, I ran through the entire conversation in my mind. A back-and-forth of three to four generic questions would be enough for both of us to pretend our relationship wasn’t complete garbage. The tank would certainly be full by then, a signal that we were fated to end the conversation there, and it would be over. I swallowed and relaxed my shoulders. Easy breezy.

His car slowed at the entrance and we made eye contact. I want to say I think we made eye contact, but I know we did. Then he killed the blinker and accelerated. He kept driving in some world where he had convinced himself I hadn’t noticed. It felt hypocritical to fault him for something I had considered doing only two seconds earlier, but he was the parent. It stung. I won’t say it hurt—I was too numb to him for that—but there was still a sting to it. A feeling of worthlessness crept up from not very deep, if I’m being honest. Rationally, I didn’t blame him. Our interactions sucked; talking with him wasn’t my preferred hobby either, but just … what a dick.

The gas pump clicked. There. That would have been it, the extent of the conversation. I returned the pump to its home and screwed the gas cap back on.

“Virginia?”

I heard my name coming from behind like a mallet to the back of the head. I turned to see the detective. Holden? Colton? Something I couldn’t remember.

“Hi,” I said, racing around the car to get to the driver’s side door.

“How are—?”

The door sealed out the sound of his voice. I think the timing was gray enough where maybe I hadn’t heard him attempt to extend the interaction. Didn’t matter much. I turned the key and put the car in drive.

I pulled out into the street, admiring my full tank and seamless escape. My escape from social interaction. Though the detective was probably the exact person I should be talking to. Distracted by my father being King of the Assholes, I forgot the whole reason I’d left the house in the first place was to try to figure out more about Jenny.

I turned my car around in a convenient driveway and headed back into town toward the police station, convinced that if I saw that silver Mercedes on the way, I was going to ram it off the road with some sort of ’80s action catchphrase like “Ignore this, bitch.”

Chapter Twelve
Jenny

SUNDAY DINNER wasn’t as bad as Jenny had anticipated. She didn’t realize her parents would never be willing to let anyone know Jenny had done something wrong, not even Virginia. They grilled Virginia on her recent unemployment while her sister shot Jenny dirty looks.

Jenny retreated to her room not long after Virginia left. Things felt weird with her parents. Sunday nights she used to curl up on the couch with her mother and watch a movie they could both agree on. Her father would sit in the chair with a book, uninterested but present. It was hard to explain, but Jenny always felt a little extra special to them after an evening with Virginia.

She didn’t feel special tonight. Her father had yelled at her. She just wished she could have it both ways. She wished she could break the rules without disappointing her parents. Unfortunately, these things were mutually exclusive, and she had to decide which path she preferred.

Jenny crawled onto her bed with a magazine she had already read and leafed through the pages as if a new picture or article would appear. She had no TV in her room. She had no cell phone. Her room was supposed to be a sanctuary, but without stimulation, it was suffocating. She was almost fourteen; she wasn’t going to sit on the floor playing with stuffed animals. It started to feel calculated. Her parents did this on purpose. They weren’t letting her grow up.

A knock at the door startled Jenny and felt too on the nose. As she sat on her bed, stewing over how her parents treated her like a child, there was her mother, at the door and ready to smother away any notions of independent thinking.

Another knock.

Jenny flipped the magazine to the next page, waiting for her mother to lose patience and just barge in.

Only she didn’t.

Jenny could hear footsteps, soft on the carpet in the hallway but recognizable. She placed the magazine down, the abnormality piquing her interest. Maybe she was being too hard on her mother. Jenny was the one who had quit the pageants. She had changed their dynamic. She could be more tolerant of her mother. Give her the time to adapt. Her mother was sensitive, emotional, and prone to overreaction, but they could find balance. Linda was already improving if she was willing to walk away when Jenny didn’t answer the door.

She slid off the bed and made her way across the room. She would poke her head out and tell her mother good night, rewarding her for allowing Jenny some space. She opened the door and looked down the hall, but it wasn’t her mother who had been knocking.

“Dad?”

Her father turned around to face his daughter, tentatively, and seeming like he had already mentally committed to her not opening the door.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she lied, not wanting to admit she was just in there being a brat. “It’s OK, though.”

“I was just going to let you know that I am heading back to work tonight.”

“OK,” she said. It wasn’t uncommon for him to leave late Sunday night instead of Monday morning. Jenny noticed it always correlated with a particularly stressful weekend. Usually Linda or Virginia was to blame. She was pretty sure it was her this time. He had never felt the need to personally notify her before. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head but keeping his distance.

“OK,” she said, hoping he would elaborate a bit, but at least he hadn’t said yes. “I’m going to see Ms. Willoughby again,” she offered, to seal the deal. “The guidance counselor,” she clarified.

“That’s good.” He adjusted his stance a bit, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m trying to do things differently with you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, knowing full well he meant he didn’t want her to be like her sister.

“I’m not going to let things get out of hand. Do you understand? You have a lot of potential. I don’t want you to throw it away.”

“I’m not, Dad,” she spat back in kind to what she felt was at least an insult and at most a threat.

“Watch the attitude,” he barked.

“It’s not attitude. I just want you to trust me and stop treating me like I’m a freaking baby.”

“If you don’t want me to treat you like a child, you need to stop acting like one.”

“OK, whatever you say. You’re always right. You’re the best dad who ever existed,” she scoffed, not sure exactly why the whole interaction was making her so angry.

The door to her parents’ bedroom opened, and out came Linda to insert herself. “Is everything OK? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jenny muttered.

“Calvin?” Linda looked to her husband, eyes glazed over from the post-dinner glasses of wine.

“Everything is fine. Go back to bed.”

“Why don’t you stay tonight? It’s already so late,” she suggested.

“No, we talked about this. Don’t even start.”

Linda’s head fell to the side as if there might be a little more protest left in her, but she couldn’t find the strength and just slunk back inside the bedroom. It was gross to watch, and Jenny felt disgusted by both of them.

“Bye, Dad,” she said, stepping back into her own room and shutting the door. He wouldn’t come in for the last word. She knew he regretted knocking in the first place.

LINDA’S BEDROOM DOOR had been closed for over an hour when Jenny cracked her own door open. She hadn’t seen JP all weekend. She had been too scared to try to sneak out while her father was home, but now he was gone, and after their little interaction, she felt even less motivated to do as she was told.

She tiptoed down the stairs, the ritual almost second nature by now. She reached the bottom and went right for the lamp on the end table, no need to feel her way around anymore. As soon as the room lit up, her senses were heightened and she noticed it right away: The door to the alcohol cabinet was wide-open. Someone was in the house.

Jenny turned the light back off to hide in the darkness. She crept toward the kitchen, feeling the floor turn from carpet to tile under her feet. She paused again for any sounds. Silence.

As she reached the kitchen island, halfway to the garage door, she noticed the bottle of bourbon that had assaulted her nasal cavity the first night she snuck out. Things weren’t adding up, but time wasn’t on her side. Getting out of the house was her only concern.

She reached the door to the garage, and as she grabbed for the handle, the light over the oven switched on. Jenny whipped around to see Linda revealed under the pointed yellow glow. It wasn’t an intruder, but her mother, looking like a stranger. Mascara ran down her red face as she stood holding a glass of the brown liquor.

“Mom?”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere.”

The lie seemed to cause Linda physical pain. She recoiled into herself, relying on the counter to keep her on her feet.

“Mom?” Jenny asked, taking careful steps toward her.

“Did I do this to you?” Linda whined, alcohol robbing her of any dignity.

“Everything is OK,” Jenny argued, reaching a hand to her mother’s shoulder.

The touch triggered Linda, who regained her strength and lunged toward her daughter, grabbing her by both arms. “Tell me where you’re going! Are you doing drugs? Are you having sex?” She shook her daughter for an answer.

“No, Mom, I promise. Please stop.” Jenny was tearing up now. An uncontrollable reaction to being violently shaken.

Linda’s eyes widened in a moment of brief clarity, and she released Jenny’s arms, horrified at what she was doing, and collapsed back against the counter.

Jenny retreated one step at a time until she felt the door, reaching behind her back and sliding her fingers around the knob.

“Mommy needs you to be a good girl,” Linda pleaded. “You are being a very, very bad girl.”

Her mother had devolved into something infantile, a behavior scarier in that moment than any physical harm she could do. Jenny returned to her first plan, yanked the door open, and bolted.

“Jenny!” her mother yelled into the night, watching her daughter sprint down the driveway where she could find cover just beyond the jurisdiction of the house lights. “Come back! I’m sorry!” Her screams faded away with every stride Jenny took.

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