Lucy
“What are you doing? Get back home.”
“I can’t let you go over there alone,” she says, her voice breathless.
“What are you talking about?” I shake my head but keep pedaling.
“Erica’s pregnant,” Frankie says, the words clipped and foreign coming from her. “She’s been hooking up with Trevor for weeks. It’s his.”
My brakes screech to a halt. “What?” The sound comes out of me like a puff of air. “No, she’s not. What are you talking about?”
“I found a sonogram in her purse.”
“It could be nothing. A printout. Her cousin’s….” My voice is weak, and Frankie’s looking at me like I just said the dumbest thing on the planet because even though Frankie’s only fifteen, we both know there’s only one reason to carry around a sonogram: because it’s yours.
Frankie shakes her head. “She left me this note yesterday when she was at the house.” Frankie pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket and hands it to me.
I unfold it slowly, but when I do, the words are a shock: Stop looking, Frankie, or someone will get hurt.
The letters are all wrong, though, blocky like stencils, not at all like Erica’s slanted handwriting. “I don’t know what this is, but she didn’t write it,” I say.
“But—”
“It’s probably nothing. A joke,” I say, gripping my handlebars tight. Yet even as I say the words, I don’t know if they’re true. After all, she’s my best friend, and according to Frankie, she just spent the past few weeks lying to me about the biggest thing in her world.
Frankie swallows. “What if this isn’t even about Trevor, though? What if this means she hurt Billy and she wants me to stop investigating?”
A nervous hum fills my stomach. “Then you need to turn around and let me figure out what’s going on.”
“No,” Frankie says. “I’m coming with you, and you can’t change my mind. Let’s go before Mom and Dad find out.”
There’s no use in arguing with Frankie, not now, and so we ride the rest of the way in silence until we arrive at Erica’s house, a beautiful gray-shingled estate set back from the road up a quarter-mile-long driveway.
I’ve been here hundreds of times, maybe thousands.
Know every peony bush and hydrangea, can pinpoint the cherry tree that blossoms every April for three weeks exactly, and the familiarity of it always sets me at ease, especially because her parents are rarely home.
Coming here usually means uninterrupted TV time and junk food and sleepovers in her enormous feather bed.
But now my stomach has twisted itself into a knot, and I have no idea what I’ll find today, who I’ll find.
Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long. Erica’s sitting on a bench swing hanging from the ceiling of her wraparound porch.
Her knees are tucked up under her chin, and her arms are wrapped around her legs.
When she hears us drop our bikes, she looks up, her face stained with tears, registering Frankie beside me.
“I told you to come alone,” she says, warbling.
“Is it true?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. “Are you pregnant? Are you okay?”
Erica folds her bottom lip into her mouth and glances up like she’s trying to hold back tears. Her shoulders shake, and my stomach drops to the floor. It’s true. And she’s not okay.
I take the steps up to the porch two at a time and sit beside her, wrapping my arms around her.
As soon as her head hits my shoulder, she begins to sob, and I glare at Frankie, standing on the grass.
Who cares about a stupid anonymous note?
How could this girl, my best friend, ever harm a single person?
Can’t Frankie see she is in pain, not dangerous?
“I’m here for you,” I whisper. “Whatever you need.”
“Don’t say that,” Erica says, her words wet, punctuated by hiccups.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I plead. “Tell me.”
Erica lifts her face and searches mine, her gaze desperate.
She opens her mouth, and just when I expect her to say something, to offer an explanation as to why I needed to rush over here, we’re interrupted by the wailing of sirens, of tires spitting up gravel, and I look up to see two cop cars flying down her driveway headed right to us.
Erica’s eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open.
“What’s going on?” Frankie asks, fear rising in her voice. “What’s happening?”
“Erica?” I ask, leaning away from her.
She grips my arms, her face frantic.
“Did you hurt Billy?” I ask, panic in my throat.
She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, and then she looks at me, and says, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Erica Richardson? We’re taking you in. Now.” Detective Hampton trots toward us, handcuffs dangling from two fingers.
Erica stands, tears falling down her face. “I’m sorry,” she says to me. “I’m so sorry.”
Frankie looks at me with wide eyes, and I have no idea what to say, no idea what’s going on, can only watch as Hampton peels Erica’s fingers off the porch railing one by one, not sure who my best friend is anymore.