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She just stares at me, and in that stare, I know what she’s thinking. What she’s already decided. That I did this. I helped kill this girl.
The male officer continues his droning report. “Witnesses place the four teenage girls at that Starbucks until nine thirty p.m. They can identify all four girls. They saw them climb into a car and leave together. That same car was seen parked near the beach an hour later.”
“But I wasn’t with them. They dropped me off at home.” I turn to my mother one last time. “Mom, please. You must have heard me come in. Or Dad did. Or one of the neighbors.”
“I told you not to hang out with those girls. I told you they would get you into trouble.”
“I wasn’t there!” My voice rises to a wail. “I swear it. I was here, in my bed!”
Mom turns to the officers. “My daughter was not responsible for this poor girl’s death.”
My breath catches, heart fluttering with hope.
Mom continues, “My daughter is a follower, not a leader. She’s easily led. Easily manipulated. If she was there, it was as an observer only.”
I stare at her, open mouthed. “Mom?”
“We’re going to need to take your daughter down to the station for further questioning,” the male officer says.
“Of course.” Mom rises. “I presume I should contact our lawyer?”
“Mom?”
“We aren’t quite at that point yet,” the female officer says. “But yes, that is your right.”
She walks past me. Straight past me, her gaze ahead, as tears pour down my cheeks, and I’m left whispering, “Mom?” like a little girl, as she continues on into the next room.
I bolt awake, my face damp with tears. That last moment—the one when my mother gave up on me for good—lingers, making me struggle for breath.
I’d been accused of helping murder a girl, and nothing I said or did ever convinced my mother that I hadn’t been there. Even when the police declined to press charges, it hadn’t helped. They’d decided against charging any of us. Not enough evidence. In other words, they didn’t believe I was home in my bed; they were convinced all four of us did it but just couldn’t prove anything. That condemned us as much as an actual conviction. To the community—to the entire city—we were killers. Mean girls turned murderers.
My so-called friends didn’t help. They sure as hell weren’t going to say I hadn’t been there if it meant admitting they had. Nope. According to them, we all left that coffee shop together, and we’d been dropped off one by one, starting with me. Sure, they texted Jasmine, but they never actually went to the pier. That was the prank—to have her show up alone. Having a bit of fun at her expense, and we were all in on it. Hell, I gave them the name of her crush, didn’t I?
Two of my friends’ families moved away within a month. The third one went to live with her grandmother. That left me to stand trial in the court of public opinion. To be the target for other bullies. To be kicked out of every school club on the vaguest of excuses. To become the most hated girl in town. That’s when I started noticing a kid following me around. A thin-faced girl of about ten. Jasmine’s sister. Stalking me. Staring at me. Leaving notes wherever I might find them.
I know what you did.
I hope you die.
I hope someone holds you under the water until you drown.
I fell apart, and Aaron swooped in as my savior. The one who understood. The one who knew I hadn’t been there that night. The one who believed me.
Three months later, I took that stack of notes from Jasmine’s sister, and I burned them. Then I shoved everything I owned into my dad’s biggest suitcase, and I walked out the door and climbed into the cab Aaron had called for me, a cab that would take me to the bus station, onto a bus that would take me to him.
What resurrected that nightmare tonight? Is it because I’m thinking of using Daisy to escape Liam? Does she remind me of Jasmine in some way? I suppose, subconsciously, I’m feeling guilty. I can’t, though. Jasmine died, and that wasn’t my fault. Daisy can look after herself. I have no reason to feel guilty.
No reason at all.
