Read Between the Lies

Prologue

The cops arrive in the middle of precalculus.

My eyes are riveted on them as they speak to Mrs. Woods at the door.

Mrs. Woods turns to look over her shoulder, and her eyes land immediately on mine.

My stomach twists painfully. Are they here for me?

Then she looks at Haven and nods at her. We have been summoned.

Whispers rake through the classroom as Haven and I stand up and walk toward the door. I keep my eyes down, fear jolting through my veins.

We’re led down the hallway, our footsteps painfully loud in the silence.

I can hear every single sound—my own breathing, the jangling of the cops’ equipment, their heavy footsteps.

I sneak glances at them, my terror growing with every detail I take in about them. They’re so tall, so large, so present.

Our principal, Ms. James, is waiting outside her office. She nods grimly at the cops, then gestures at me and Haven. “Come inside, girls.”

By now, I’m so scared that when I’m offered a chair, I practically collapse into it. In my mind, a single thought repeats itself: What’re they going to say? What’re they going to say?

The cops settle down across from us. One of them clears her throat. Her gaze is steady as she leans forward and says, “Danielle Wilder was found dead this morning.”

Next to me, Haven gasps. My mouth is open, my face frozen.

“We’re here to talk to you girls,” the officer continues, “because we were told you were her closest friends.”

At this, I blurt out, “I’m her best friend.

” It strikes me, then, what a ridiculous thing it is to say.

How childish and stupid. I’m her best friend, as though I were a kid.

Then it hits me that Dani and I were best friends when we were kids, and the thought of her back then, her hair always done up in French braids, stabs through my mind, and I burst into tears.

“She can’t be dead,” I sob. It sounds like a whine, a plea.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the officer says. The kindness in her voice only makes me cry harder.

“What happened?” Haven says. Her voice is shrill, so unlike her.

“Well, that’s what we’re here to figure out.” The officer’s gaze ping-pongs back and forth between me and Haven. “Was Danielle struggling with anything? Did she mention to you girls anything to do with her mental health, maybe feelings of depression or anxiety?”

Now, both Haven and I are staring at her with open confusion. “Wait,” Haven says slowly. “Are you saying . . . she killed herself?” Her voice breaks then, and she covers her mouth.

“We’re trying to determine the cause of death,” the officer says. “Is there anything you can tell us that might help us understand how this happened?”

I look down at my hands through a blur of tears.

Then I glance at Haven, who is crying, too, now, and a wave of virulent hatred surges through my entire being.

It’s all her fault. If she hadn’t been such a cruel bully, none of this would’ve happened.

I want to jump and scream it out loud, point my finger at Haven and tell everyone what she’s really like.

But when the officer repeats the question, the words refuse to come out of my mouth.

They catch in my throat like a fish bone.

And I can’t say anything, not even a word, because Haven is right next to me, and I am terrified of what she might do if I tell them the truth.