Chapter Seventeen #2
“Heather was always an outsider. The girls at Poison Wood were mostly from Louisiana, a few from Texas, a couple from Arkansas. But Heather had come from California. Even so, she and I sort of connected since neither of us had a mom. We were in a study group with another girl, Lisbeth Warrington.” I pause, take another sip.
“I kept our friendship a secret from the other girls.”
Erin looks back in her notes, then looks up at me. “I’d like to talk about Lisbeth and Halloween. There are a lot of rumors swirling around what happened that night. Can we talk about that?”
I nod. “I wasn’t egging Heather on to push Lisbeth.
” I study the trembling wine glass in my hand.
“I mean, I’m not a saint, but I didn’t do that.
I liked Lisbeth. And so did Heather.” I look back up.
“Lisbeth was a quiet girl. She wasn’t loud like the rest of us.
Girls threatened suicide all the time at Poison Wood, like it was nothing.
But Heather came to me one day and said Lisbeth didn’t want to be here anymore, and Heather was worried she wasn’t just talking about Poison Wood.
” I shift on the sofa and exhale. “When Lisbeth ran to the graveyard the night we were going to prank the seniors, Heather gave me a look, and we just knew. I was screaming for Heather to go after her. I kept yelling ‘Get up there,’ but I meant in order to stop Lisbeth, not push her.”
Erin tries to touch my arm, but I move it away from her.
She pulls her hand back. “That must have been a horrible night.”
“It was,” I say. “And worst of all is Heather did climb up behind Lisbeth but was too late. Lisbeth fell from that limb, but when everyone looked up, Heather was clinging to the same branch and it looked like she’d pushed Lisbeth.
I don’t know if Lisbeth slipped or jumped or what. But Heather was only trying to help.”
Erin nods and says, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” She flips ahead in her notebook. “So Thanksgiving. You, Summer, Katrina, and Heather were the only students at the school during the break, correct?”
“Yes,” I say, thankful to move on.
“Can you confirm who among the staff was there?”
“Johnny Adair, of course. Martha Lee, the cook. And Barbara O’Connor.”
Erin looks up from her notebook. “What can you tell me about Barbara O’Connor?”
I lean forward. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
No way. Just curious does not play into this conversation.
“I know she has a daughter, Grace Atchison, who is a nurse here in Riverbend.” I point to Erin’s phone.
“It’s in the notes I sent you. Anyway, we all avoided B.O.
, our nickname for her, as much as possible.
She’d tell us she was our friend, but we knew better.
She ratted us out all the time to Crowley, but that Thanksgiving, Crowley wasn’t there anymore and she had been promoted to headmistress of the school. ”
“Crowley,” Erin says. “The one who was fired?”
“That’s the one.” I take a sip from my wine and set it back on the table. “You need to look into him.”
“Oh, I have,” Erin says.
“Who all have you talked to?” I say.
“So far, Summer Chamberlain, Katrina Donovan, and you.”
Good God, this woman works fast. Has she even slept since this story blew up? The pain that splits through my head feels like a bolt of lightning.
I rub my hands on my black skirt and stand up. “I think I need to be done for now.”
Erin stands too. “I understand. But one more thing,” she says.
I meet her gaze. “What?”
“Had you girls been drinking the night Heather ran off and Johnny came to the school covered in blood?”
I have all the police reports from that night, and I don’t remember ever seeing a note about us being drunk.
“Yes,” I say. “But I know what I saw that night.”
“You know what you think you saw.” Her face soft, not accusing. “You also said at the time that you saw Johnny running in those woods.”
“I did.” I tell myself to turn away from this woman and start walking toward the elevator, but her next statement stops me.
“I have a source,” she says, “that tells me Johnny Adair was nowhere near that property when you said you saw him in the woods. He came up after the fact. Wrong place, wrong time. Got pigeonholed into making a confession. Have you seen the confession? It’s shocking.”
“I think we’re done for now,” I say. Erin starts to speak, and I hold up my hand. “I’m done.”
“Thank you for your time,” she says.
I gather my tote and force myself to walk, not run, to the elevator.
Carl walks with me and hands me my large suitcase he brought from Miami.
I roll it into the elevator. “Call me,” I say before the door shuts.
I exit the elevator back on the ground floor, and as soon as I step off, I feel as if my legs are going to collapse.
Could I have been wrong about Johnny? About the timing?
The answer comes in swiftly. Of course I could be wrong.
I was stoned and drunk. I was seventeen.
He very well could have walked into a scene after it unfolded.
If so, what the hell happened in that cottage?
I step down into the lobby. The bar has thinned out. No more bachelor party. But my friend from the airport is still there. He smiles when I sit at the bar.
“Another Macallan please,” I say to the blond bartender. “A little heavier pour this time,” I add. She obliges, and I take two giant sips.
“Hey.”
I look up from my drink.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Glad the douchebags left,” he says.
I laugh. “Amen.” I finish off my glass and wave my hand at the bartender. She walks over and refills it.
He eyes my large suitcase. “You leaving?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, fine,” he says, setting his drink down. “I’m stalking you.”
I frown, and his smile falters. “That came out sounding really creepy, didn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“Can I try again?”
I debate which look I’m going to give him, the one that will send him packing very quickly or the one that will do the opposite. Before I can decide he moves to the stool next to me.
“Bold move,” I say as he sits.
“You strike me as the type to like bold.”
If he recognizes me, he’s not showing it. “You have no idea what my type is,” I say.
“I hope you’re wrong.”
I sip my drink. “I’m rarely wrong. What’s your name?” I add.
“Grant.”
I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Grant.”
“And you are?”
“Trouble,” I say.
He laughs again, and I know I’m not going home anytime soon.
“You don’t look like trouble,” he says.
I sip my drink. “Just wait.”
He holds his glass up, and I clink mine against it. Maybe this shit show of a day can be salvaged after all.