“Claire.”
“Claire. She befriended her, lured her back to their house, and then—” A sharp knock makes me jump—Ms. Camus’s knuckles against the desk. My cardboard box clatters.
Someone makes a shushing sound. “Did you hear that?” Jenny whispers. “Is she still out there? Should we check?”
“Please.” Mrs. Walsh. “She knows what everyone thinks of her.”
“Maybe we should be more careful.” Ms. Camus. “She has the staff directory. She knows where we live.”
Silence falls over the classroom. And then, all of them burst into laughter. They’re like girls at a slumber party—holding flashlights under their chins and swapping stories about boogeymen that hide at the back of the closet. Except, in this case,I’mthe boogeyman.
Claire.
I slam my shoulder against the front door and step out into the summer heat. The shouting begins the moment the reporters realize it’s me. The weekTo Catch a Killer, the true crime show responsible for my dad’s arrest, premiered, news vans clogged up half the schoolparking lot. Parents draped jackets over their children’s heads as they hurried them through the front doors. It took the police showing up, court order in hand, before they finally moved behind the wire fences.
Digging around in my pockets, I find my keys and press the unlock button. My car beep-beeps from the front of the parking lot. I slide the cardboard box into the trunk before slipping in behind the steering wheel. If I leave now, the news vans will follow me, like floats in a homecoming parade. But if I wait the half hour until dismissal, I might be able to lose them in traffic. Minutes tick by as the pickup line grows longer and longer, and with every car that pulls in front of the school, something builds deep in my chest. It feels like more and more sets of eyes are turned in my direction. I squeeze my own shut, but the moment I do, Mrs. Walsh’s words reverberate through my mind: “She knows what everyone thinks of her.”
That I was the bait. They found a family photo tucked under the sun visor in my dad’s pickup truck. I imagine him flashing it to a girl walking along the side of the road. “I have a daughter about your age. Wouldn’t want her walking home in this weather.” He thumbs the heater up a few notches. “Get in and warm up. We’ll have you home in no time.” He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners, and pulls the latch, swinging the door wide.
My eyes snap open, and I check the clock on the dashboard. 3:15. I twist the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The cars are packed bumper to bumper. I shrink lower in my seat, certain everyone’s staring at me. That they’re all thinking the same thing Mrs. Walsh and Ms. Camus were: thatI’mthe reason those girls are dead.
ThatI’mthe reason Claire’s dead.
My bones start itching under my skin. I can’t stay here. As soon as an SUV inches forward, my foot presses down on the accelerator, and my car speeds toward the pickup line.
A little girl darts into my sightline.
I slam down on the brakes.
I sit there, breath sticking in my chest, as I watch Ava, brand-new markers clutched in her hand, pause in front of my bumper, completely unaware of the fact that I was only half a second away from hitting her. Her mother, however, knows very well what just happened. She stalks up to my car and slams her palm against the hood. “What are you—”
She glares at me through the windshield. When she realizes who I am, all the color drains from her face. “You!” she shouts and turns toward our principal, who’s standing next to the entrance. “Are you going to let her get away with this? She almost killed my daughter!”
The principal hurries down the stairs and takes her elbow, gently steering her back onto the sidewalk with words and gestures that appear conciliatory. Ava follows her mother, but when she catches sight of me behind the steering wheel, she brightens and gives a little wave.
My hand drifts up and gives half a wave back.
I glance out the passenger-side window to find all the cameras aimed at the scene. I don’t even want to think about what headlines are being uploaded to their websites. I inch forward, trapped between two gigantic SUVs, and try to ignore all the parents scowling at me. “Move faster,” I mutter as a father points in my direction, then takes a few aggressive steps forward. “Move faster. Move faster.”
Another parent holds him back as I crawl past, closer to the gates. The news vans are stuck behind the pickup line, just like I’d hoped. When my car crosses the border between the parking lot and the street, a round of applause erupts behind me. This is how my teaching career ends: with parents so glad to see me gone, they give my dismissal a standing ovation. My eyes sting, and the street blurs behind my tears.
Muscle memory guides me into the parking lot of Main Liquor Store—thankfully empty this early in the afternoon. I check to makesure the news vans haven’t caught up, but the road’s empty in both directions. Inside, reusable shopping bags in hand, I hurry past the humming coolers to the boxed wine at the back of the store. I have no idea when I’ll next be able to get out here, which means I need to buy in bulk. I start packing boxes into my shopping bags, shifting them like we’re in a game of Tetris. When both bags are stuffed to the brim, I haul them up onto one shoulder and head for the register. The cashier’s unfamiliar; he must be a new hire.
“Hey,” I say, unloading my purchases onto the counter. I feel the need to cushion the sheer amount of wine with, “Hosting a party tonight.” I offer the cashier a half-smile; he doesn’t smile back. Removing my driver’s license and credit card from my wallet, I slide them across the counter. Still no news vans outside. Good.
I turn back to the cashier. My license and credit card lay, untouched, on the counter.
A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. “I’d like to buy those, please.”
The cashier doesn’t move.
“Is there something wrong with my card?” I grab my credit card and check the expiration date on the back, even though I know it’s still valid.
The cashier doesn’t move.
My throat tightens, but I push my emotions down as far as they can go and say, “I’m sure you already know this, but I’m having a really,reallybad month. A really bad year, actually. So, if you could please just let me make my purchase.” I place both palms on the counter and lean forward. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Lady,” the cashier says. “You need to back right the fuck up, or I’m calling the cops.”
