And, of course, the necklace. I’d seen this photo enough times to know that some sort of digital editing had been done to make it stand out even more—that little silver cross dangling from a thin chain. It rested against her chest, right above the collar of her lavender T-shirt. That stupid necklace. It wasn’t even the one from the crime scene. Thefamousnecklace. But people see this photo as evidence. It makes them feel sure they know who Sarah was.
Here’s the thing, though: She’d only worn the necklace on class photo day because her grandmother had given it to her for her birthday, and her mom thought it would be nice to have it in the picture. Sarah almost didn’t do it—for the simple, silly reason that she liked gold jewelry more than silver—but in the end, she wanted to make her grandmother happy.
I wish she’d taken it off. If she hadn’t worn it, then …
But I’m letting myself off the hook too easy.
Because she did wear it. And now everyone knows her as Sarah McHale, the Girl with the Cross Necklace. Everyone believes she’s something she wasn’t. That she died for something when she didn’t. But that necklace isn’t to blame.
I am.
I scrolled past the picture, guilt already creeping up from my stomach and into my chest. I couldn’t bring myself to do more than skim the article. My hands were shaking and my eyes kept flitting around the screen, unable to focus on the same spot for more than a few seconds. But I got the gist of it.
Sarah’s parents were going to publish her biography. They had found her old diary and wanted to use excerpts as they told the “inspiring story of their daughter’s refusal to deny her faith, even in the face of death.” The book had sold at auction, to a publisher paying six figures. And there was already interest from Hollywood in adapting Sarah’s story to film.
“It’s been three years since she was taken from us,” Ruth McHale was quoted as saying. “It’s been difficult. Some days, my husband and I have just felt like we couldn’t keep going. But God has stood by us. Lifted us up when we needed Him most. And I know that what He wants is for us to keep Sarah’s memory alive. To make sure no one forgets what a brave girl she was, and how dedicated to her faith. We should all hope to be as strong as Sarah.”
I read that quote over and over, feeling sicker each time. I was feeling too many things at once—anger and sadness and guilt.
And dread.
Because if this was really happening, if there was going to be a book and possibly even a movie, that meant people would be looking at Virgil County again. The massacre would be on the news. The stories would get rehashed and repeated. Everything the world got wrong the first time was going to be pushed to the surface again. As if living with the real memories of that day wasn’t bad enough, the twisted version was going to haunt me, too.
And it would be even worse for Kellie.
I just barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach gave way and the fries I’d eaten on the way home from the woods came back up. I was a fool to think it was safe to grab dinner from a drive-thru, that this might be the first anniversary without vomit. But no. I was three for three.
I flushed the toilet and sat back, leaning my head against the wall as I breathed slowly. Our house is small and the walls are thin, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard Mom’s bedroom door creak open down the hall.
“Lee?” she asked, her voice still slurred with sleep. “Everything okay, baby?”
She wasn’t a light sleeper before the shooting, but since then, every little sound, every sign that something might be wrong, and she’s up. Sometimes, like when I’m having nightmares and she is there to shake me awake, I’m grateful. Usually, though, I’d rather be alone, without the pressure of knowing I’m worrying her.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m okay, Mom. You can go back to bed.”
“All right … Don’t be up too late.”
“I won’t. Good night.”
Her door creaked again, but I didn’t hear it latch, and I knew she was leaving it cracked. She’d be awake until she heard me go to bed.
I sighed and got to my feet. My empty stomach was still churning as I brushed my teeth. I headed down the hallway to my room, where I changed into my comfiest pajamas. Not that it mattered. There would be no rest that night.
I’d been staring at my ceiling for a little over an hour when my phone chimed with a text message.
You awake?
I typed back a quick response. What do you think?
Outside?
Too chilly. You can call though.
A second later, my phone rang.
“Hey,” I said.
“What’re you doing?” Miles mumbled on the other end of the line.
