“No, she already knows that. Everyone does. But the folks are a little iffy about us dating anyone at all. Ever since Jazzy met a guy online and invited him over and he wound up being a forty-year-old loser.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“Yep. She lost her phone for a year after that. Since then, it hasn’t been easy for either of us to date. But everyone in school knows that we’re together. He comes to my games, and I already asked him to prom. So I think this one has sticking power. I just have to break it to my parents slowly, and then it’ll be all right.” Connor pushes away from the table and carries our empty bowls to the sink. “I’ve got to jet. I’m supposed to be at the field in fifteen.”
“Football practice?”
He shakes his head. “Baseball with some buddies. Just a friendly game.”
“Have fun,” I say before going to Jasmine’s room.
Dan raps his knuckles on the door a few minutes later to tell me he’s heading out. I thank him for letting me use the truck and then listen to the sound of the front door creaking open and slamming closed.
Then silence.
I miss the silence. Gran and I could go a whole day without saying a single word to each other. We both liked our space.
I flop onto my bed, my mind once again returning to my childhood home. It didn’t look anything like it once did. Back then, it was warm, cozy, and full of love. Now it’s a cold shell, a place of despair.
Rolling over, I reach under the bed and pull out my suitcase. I unzip it, then feel inside and grab the one thing I didn’t take out of it while I was unpacking. It’s a large, square scrapbook with photos from my childhood and other little mementos. A bright red lock of my baby hair. Drawings I did when I was little. A hand-drawn map of all my birdhouses. A Mother’s Day card I made for my mom. I’ve always had this book; I think Gran put it together for me after Mom died so I wouldn’t forget what she looked like.
I turn the pages, looking at my mother—holding me as a baby, taking my hand during my first shaky steps, running with me down the dirt path as I learned to ride a bike. And my heart aches, because while I might know these angles of her face well,a two-dimensional photo does not a whole person make. I’m missing so much. Not only that, but some of the photos are awkwardly shaped, not any sort of standard size. There are shadows of another person that suggest someone was cropped out of them.
I don’t need to guess who.
Gran should’ve known better, though. You can crop a person out of a photograph, but that doesn’t expel him from your life. If only it were that easy.
I tuck the scrapbook into the zippered pocket of the suitcase and shove it back under the bed. Then I grab my phone and GoogleFree the Sparrows, the site Zed told me about. The first search result is:An online forum dedicated to finding the truth about the Gabriel Thorn murders.
Bingo.
I click on it and find a very active forum, with threads like Theories and Speculation, Gabrielle Thorn Sightings, Latest Thorn News, Victim Information, and on and on.
In the top corner of the site, it says:RainKing, ILuvGabriel, Tom89, and 179 other users currently online.
Wow, that many people are still actively involved in researching the case?
I gulp. If the world will never get past it, then how am I supposed to?
I should probably close out of it, but I can’t help myself. I click on Gabrielle Thorn Sightings.
Then I scroll down and find hundreds of entries. I’ve been everywhere from Niagara Falls to the Great Wall of China. I click on the most recent post:
^Hey guys. I’m pretty sure I saw her, right in Starling, when I stopped there with my gf to check out the cabin.
My spine straightens and my heart nearly stops.
^She was working the frozen yogurt counter. Had a name tag that said Dara. Tried to get her to admit it, but she said she had no clue what I was talking about.
^I took a photo. WDYT?
I scroll down to a photo of a bleached-blond girl who looks nothing like me. Thank God. But if thereareinternet sleuths trolling around Starling, trying to uncover me, how long do I have before someone decides to putmeunder the magnifying glass?
The thought makes me shiver.
I close the page and click on the victim heading. A second later, six beautiful smiling faces stare back at me.
My throat burns. These are the innocent lives my father took. I bite my lip, hard, as I study their appearance. There’s no rhyme or reason as to why he pickedthesesix. They have varying hair colors, ages, body types. My gaze is drawn to the last victim, Leah Devereaux, a pretty brunette who reminds me of my own mother. It’s the way her lips curve with the merest hint of a smile, as if she has a secret. Mom was guarded about her smiles too. Now I know why, I guess.
