33
In the days and weeks following the discovery of Izzie’s body, I became obsessed with her murder. I devoured the local newspaper and news. I asked questions to anyone who would listen. I not only inhaled the gossip, I sought it out.
I would learn the details, in fits and starts, over the next weeks and months. With every discovery I made, I became aware that there had been clues all along. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed them. I hadn’t listened well enough. I’d been too preoccupied with my own life, my own problems, with Gavin. I wished I’d been more present for Izzie. If I had, perhaps she’d still be alive. I dug obsessively into every conversation we’d ever had for hints of who could have possibly done this. I desperately wanted to help with the investigation.
Izzie was found by a group of three young girls exploring the woods. Apparently they were blueberry picking. She’d been dead for a while, and the discovery was a gruesome one. Rumor was that the girls would need therapy to deal with the aftermath. The body was badly decomposed and Izzie was apparently identified through dental records.
Detectives were called in to gather evidence and interview witnesses; family and friends of Izzie’s. A post-mortem examination by a medical pathologist indicated that Izzie died of strangulation. Her body had been found about three kilometers from her home near the abandoned treehouse. Years ago, when the treehouse was first discovered, it had been a popular hangout for us kids. No one knew how it came to be, who it belonged to. But in recent years, it had become a much less popular place since it was so far, hidden deep in the woods. Apparently, the police discovered two sleeping bags, a flashlight and a cooler of food in the treehouse, a half-eaten tin of Pringles and an almost empty large bottle of orange Crush, Izzie’s favorite. The tree house was taped off to the public and investigated thoroughly.
It took them a while to interview me because Izzie and I hadn’t been friends for a long time. I assumed they were busy interviewing immediate family and closer friends such as Kelly and Karla. I was nervous when the two detectives settled in at our small kitchen table. The taller man was dark and went by the name of Thompson, and the other was portly and redheaded. He went by MacMillan, and I assumed he was of Irish descent. My brothers were asked to leave the room, and only my father stayed. These investigators were not the original officers I’d met. These ones were dressed in suits and were more intimating, a little more clever. I had absolutely nothing to hide, but that didn’t keep my legs from trembling under the table.
Standard questions were asked, such as the nature of our friendship and the reason for our breakup. The latter part made me very nervous. I was careful not to mention a certain solitary strange man, also known as the love of my life. Then, as I feared and expected, our memorable scuffle on the bus was mentioned, and questions about Gavin Foster were asked.
“Multiple witnesses mentioned the altercation you had with Izzie Reed on the school bus back in June of last year,” Detective Thompson said, and my breath hitched.
I feigned ignorance. “Altercation?”
He smiled kindly. “Or fight, if you prefer. You and Izzie had a fight on the bus, right? You remember?”
“Yes.” Of course I remembered. It was the day my relationship with one of the two most important people in my life ended.
“In said fight… or conversation,” he went on. “Izzie mentioned Gavin Foster.”
My heart was in my throat. I waited eagerly for his next words.
“She implied that she was having a sexual relationship—”
“She wasn’t,” I was quick to say.
“How do you know that, Miss Griffin?” Detective Thompson asked, flipping through his notebook. “You apparently said that she was jealous because Gavin Foster liked you more than her, and then she replied that she’d been with him too. Her exact words were ‘Been there, done that. He wasn’t even good,’ according to witnesses.”
“I just know. She was trying to get a rise out of me, to make me jealous. I… I…” I was at a loss. Of course I didn’t know it for a fact. But I knew it in my heart. How could I have I possibly explained this to the detectives. “She lied.”
Both detectives nodded. “Uh-huh…” Detective Thompson muttered. “I see.” He scribbled some notes in his notepad, and Detective MacMillan fetched a folder from his briefcase. My heart hammered, threatening to burst out of my ribcage. I didn’t like this line of questioning at all. I knew exactly where it was heading.
“What is the nature of your relationship with Gavin Foster, Miss Griffin?” he asked, and the expression he wore told me he suspected the truth.
“I… we… we’re friends,” I replied. It wasn’t a straight-out lie. Wewerefriends.
“Are you more than friends?” he asked.
I knew it would be wrong to lie, especially to police officers. I reluctantly told the truth. “We were only friends until recently,” I told them. “On my eighteenth birthday, we became more than friends. We’re now in a serious relationship.”
They both nodded, and Detective Thompson scribbled again in his notebook.
“He was never in a relationship of any kind with Izzie,” I added. “They barely knew each other. She had a crush on him when she first met him, but he wasn’t interested.”
They both studied me for a beat, and I knew exactly what they were thinking. Why would a healthy hot-blooded man be into little old me and not the gorgeous Izzie Reed? I knew they’d seen a photo of her. That picture was everywhere when she was missing, her eleventh grade photo; shiny blonde hair tossed over her perky bosom, blue eyes shining, and a flirtatious playful smile. They probably suspected that Gavin dipped his pen in both of our inks.
But I knew I was the only bottle he ever opened.
They left me with a smile. As soon as they were gone, my dad was in my face. “I knew it,” he scoffed. “I knew it!”
I sat still, readying myself for the onslaught. He had had a beer or two and he wasn’t quite drunk yet, but I knew it was coming regardless.
“I knew you were fucking the pervert,” he went on. “I bet you lied too, not until your eighteenth birthday, my ass.”
“I was telling the truth,” I insisted. “Gavin wouldn’t touch me until I was eighteen.”
