Page 85 of The Wedding Party

My parents have always been my rocks. They adopted me at such a young age that they could have lied and hid the adoption from me but they didn’t. They told me they wanted me to know everything between us was honest. They wanted me to know that they chose me.

The next assignment was about life with Oliver, to which I wrote:

Heaven. Happiness. Friendship. There is nothing like having a partner you share everything with, good and bad. One of my favorite things was our Sunday cooking days. We are—were—both horrible cooks. But we had fun trying to make a meal together. And we shared a love for wine. Trying them. Drinking them. Collecting them.

I don’t have to leave anything out about Oliver. I loved him. We were perfect together.

The assignments have gotten harder, though. Suddenly Dr. Thompson shifted her tone, telling me to write about how my parents treated me after Eric died. I didn’t fall for her tricks. I simply wrote only a few lines: They were sad. We were sad together. We were all we had left.

My final assignment is to write about everything and anything I can remember from the weekend Oliver died. “Even what people were wearing,” she instructs. “Little details lead to big details.”

I don’t write about dresses and people. Only one person matters, and that is Oliver.

What I write is exactly what I remember:

Oliver is dead.

He was covered in blood. I was covered in blood. I ran. I hid. I was afraid for my life.

Later that day, I meet with Dr. Thompson, who is looking as pretty and perfect as ever as she reads what I’ve written. She glances up at me, shuts my journal, and just studies me. “This isn’t enough.”

“How can you tell me what is or is not enough?”

“You’re not trying to remember,” she accuses.

“I am.”

“What are you hiding from? What were you hiding from that night in the attic?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think,” she commands.

“I have,” I snap. “I am.”

“What were you hiding from then and now?” she challenges yet again.

Tension builds inside me, and I tell myself to control it and myself, to contain the anger she’s stirring inside me, but I can’t seem to do it. Suddenly, I’m standing, shouting at her. “I don’t know!”

The outburst is regrettable, an action she’ll use against me to call me unpredictable, volatile even. “I’m sorry,” I offer quickly. “I’m just frustrated that I can’t remember. It’s taking a toll.”

She slowly pushes to her feet and says, “That’s enough for now. We’ll meet again this evening.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

ANDI

I wake at 6:00 a.m., after sleeping two hours, to a call from Natalie. “We’re putting off the funeral because we don’t want that killer bitch present, but we can’t disinvite her, either. In other words, we need you to hurry up and do your job and make an arrest.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

“I’m serious. Another week has passed with inaction. Arrest that bitch.”

By the time we hang up, I’m fairly certain the only reason Carrie’s alive is because Natalie can’t get to her. Maybe that should make me look at Natalie like a killer with a motive. I don’t. And we’ve managed to find a few witnesses who placed her in the gym at the times she said she was as well.

Our stalker was ruled a nonthreat by Marcus, but we continue to follow up on leads, conducting new interviews and looking for the weapon. At this point, Carrie will be cleared for conversations in the next twenty-four hours, and once I’ve had the caffeine to stomach her, I call Ms. Littleton to set up my interview.

“Not yet,” she pushes back.