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“Hey, everything okay?” Sarah, the woman who has sat beside me all semester asks. “I saw on the news this morning that Corbin Smith was taken into custody for collusion in hiding facts pertinent to the missing child case. I can’t even wrap my head around all of this. You must be spinning over it still too, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s—uh—it’s keeping me up at night. But I don’t know anything more than you do so it’s just one surprise after another right now,” I say, smiling as I tap the eraser of my pencil against the desk.
“Do you think the parents had something to do with their missing kid?” she pries, like many of us here unintentionally do.
“I have no clue.” I redirect my gaze toward the front of the classroom, knowing she will read my cue.
“Please place your phones on silent mode or turn them off and put them away,” the professor drawls, reciting the same thing he says anytime he’s passing out an exam.
I take my phone out of my bag to make sure the volume is silenced, finding that Liam still hasn’t responded. I know he must be at work now and likely was when I first messaged, too.We haven’t exchanged messages during the school day before, so I should stop thinking something has happened until I have a reason to do so. With confirmation that my phone is on silent mode, I return it to my bag and rest my arms back on the shallow desktop in front of me.
My hand cramps from writing. This professor is the only one in the school who still avoids the use of laptops or any technologically advanced device for test taking. There were so many open-ended questions that I haven’t the slightest idea how I did. I place the test down on his lectern and silently hope he isn’t teaching any of the classes I need to take next semester.
The classroom became a dungeon as the clouds swept in midway through the test. It might have rained too. But the sun is peeking through the clouds and causing a strong glare against the windows of the exit doors. I can finally breathe now that my finals are over.
I press on the metal bar along the door, listening to the clunk as I step outside into the wet air. “Haley Vaughn, do you have a moment?”
“Haley Vaughn, would you mind answering a couple of questions for us?”
“Excuse me, Miss Vaughn, Channel Four here—we’ve just come to learn that Corbin Smith has been taken into custody for involvement with his missing daughter.”
I hold my hand above my eyes to block out the sun, finding at least a dozen reporters encircling the cement path that leads to the student parking. Are they allowed on campus?
I wish I hadn’t stopped for a moment to regain my bearings because they’ve taken the opportunity to move in closer like starving beasts staring at the only prey nearby.
“No, I—how did you find me here?”
“Your roommate said you weren’t home when we knocked on your door. Can you?—”
“Did my roommate tell you where I was?” I continue questioning them, ignoring their pursuit.
No one answers me. Willa wouldn’t do that to me, would she?
“Miss Vaughn,” another reporter shouts. “Corbin Smith appears to be quite troubled. Can you tell us if you felt threatened at all by him the night you were babysitting their children? Is that where all your bruising came from?”
I should have expected this would somehow be turned on me again. Even with the presented evidence, I’m still on the hook. Why just Corbin? Lara was clearly involved in their verbal exchange at the shore last night.
“No, I’m not sure when, why, or how for anything you’re asking,” I reply as I chug forward. I know they won’t just give up. They’ll follow me until I reach my car and then they’ll know what I drive if they don’t already know. I’m sure they do.
“Do you think their daughter, Fallon, is still alive?”
“I don’t know anything more than you do,” I say sharply.
They’re like piranhas and won’t stop until they suck me dry.
“Haley, is it true your townhome, the one your family owned, burnt down thirteen years ago, killing Lara Smith’s sister?”
The question sucks the air out of my body and replaces any last bit of warmth with ice, freezing me to the core. This story isn’t private. It was very public, and I’ve experienced this bombardment from the media before.
Just keep walking. I don’t have to answer anything. There is so much I’d like to say.
“Did your family stay in contact with the Hoyt family after they lost one of their children in the fire?”
“Haley,” a female voice shouts from behind, “could you tell us a little bit about Kyle Williams. Were you two in a committed relationship when he passed away?”
My throat tightens and I can’t swallow against the thick of my tongue. I don’t understand how these reporters live with the guilt weighing down their shoulders. Kyle has nothing to do with my home that burnt down thirteen years ago, and I had nothing to do with his accident.
My tunnel vision is closing in around me as I cross the street to the parking lot. A blaring honk howls from my right side. It’s like the scream of someone burning to death, a sound I wish I could forget. I gasp and clutch my chest as I trip over my feet, stumbling forward onto the road.
