Chapter 11
CHAPTER
Ivy’s house sits just a few yards away. Her address wasn’t hard to find.
I did a quick Google search of her name again last night, and any crazy person could find her—perhaps she did.
Me. A woman who works for CPS should be more careful.
I’m sure people aren’t too happy when she removes their kids.
The lights are all off, which means she’s probably not awake yet, which is good.
I want to see what she’s up to these days, from the start.
Sure, I could go knock on the door. But I’ve already spoken to her once, and she denied being behind the story.
I need to watch her, see who she spends time with, where she goes when she thinks no one is paying attention.
And her guard will be lower if she doesn’t know I’m here in Louisiana.
Though the way Mom gossips, and given her obsession with going to church, maybe the point is moot.
Maybe the whole town already knows of my arrival. I frown, considering that possibility.
Twenty minutes later, a light turns on. I jot down the time in the notes on my phone.
I don’t even know why I do it. But there’s so much going on in my head, I don’t want to forget any details.
An hour passes, and Ivy makes her way to her car, parked haphazardly in the grass.
Why is that a thing here? Parking on the lawn.
There’s another car in the driveway, I assume her husband’s.
Why not park behind him or in the street?
I attempt to take a gulp of my now-empty coffee.
Being here has me on edge. If I’m honest, it reminds me of who I used to be, and I don’t like it.
I earned who I am today and everything I have.
I worked hard to put this life behind me—graduating at the top of my class, getting a job doing something I love, dating on my own terms. I like my new life.
I don’t want whatever’s going on—whoever knows —to threaten that.
When Ivy pulls out of the grass in her minivan, I count to ten, then follow.
It’s not a simple drive to work. No, she stops at a little coffee hut first, and I consider pulling in behind her and ordering a quick cup for myself.
But I don’t want to lose her. Instead, I circle the block once, then trail her as she goes toward the outskirts of town, where a Walmart has opened alongside a strip mall.
She goes into the shopping center first, and I slip from my car, keeping a safe distance as I skulk in behind her.
But she only buys diapers—a small package of them.
Which makes me wonder if money’s tight. I don’t know much about babies, but I would think that—like most things—the larger the quantity, the cheaper the per-unit cost. When she goes to the checkout, fluorescent lighting illuminates her dark roots.
She’s in need of some time at the salon, another hint that maybe money’s an issue.
Maybe there’s a financial goal here? Is she Hannah and looking for a payout to keep quiet?
Another angle to consider. Though what is she waiting for, if that’s her game?
I slip back outside while she’s still checking out and walk to my car, parked a few rows over from hers. The morning is damp, humid. The moisture is inescapable, and I huff out a breath. Louisiana is, for many reasons, claustrophobic.
Her last stop is the CPS office. She parks at the back of the lot, despite the fact that the sun is only now fully up, and walks in with her nose in her phone, not even glancing around. That wouldn’t fly in New York. Was I once so trusting? Maybe it’s okay in small-town life.
This might take a long time—hours, even—so I pop some Advil for my back, pull out my laptop, tap it to life, and get to work on the chapters my students have submitted.
I’ve been avoiding them for obvious reasons, but their next rounds are due soon, and I owe them feedback.
I work on one that seems to be an attempt to bring vampire romance back, adding a few suggestions here and there, recommending they make it fresh, not a repeat of what’s already been done, and then I blow out a breath and force myself to open the file I’ve been avoiding.
Hannah’s story.
Whoever “Hannah” really is.
Around me, the parking lot slowly fills up, but the chapters suck me in as I reread them.
Hannah is either a good writer or the scenes are vivid because I already know the story.
I leave comments about a few minor things—staying in a particular tense, removing filler words that aren’t necessary. But then I get an idea.
What about adding a plotline about a friend Jocelyn confides in about her relationship with her teacher? That would help develop your character beyond her interaction with Mr. Sawyer.
I type the comment and my heart races faster as I reread it. I add, Let’s call her Lizzie as a placeholder. Lizzie could appear as a friend . . . I taste blood as I bite down and continue, Later she could turn out to have a greater role in the story .
Not the sort of advice I give, usually. My writing students need to choose their own plotlines, develop their own characters.
But this person isn’t a normal student—they’re messing with me.
So I’ll mess with them back. Let them know that I know .
A smirk plays on my lips as I imagine them—whoever they are .
. . Sam? Ivy? My own freaking mother?—reading the notes and realizing their game has just been taken up a notch.
A rap at the window jolts me from my thoughts. I look up, expecting to see Ivy staring down at me with surprise in her eyes. But instead, I see a face I’d hoped not to run into again.
Wendell Unger. Chief Wendell Unger.
Is he following me? He must be. I know this town is small, but twice in as many days?
I slap my laptop shut and creak down the window a bit.
My heart thumps away in my chest, nerves telling me this can’t be a coincidence.
Why didn’t I pay more attention to my rearview mirror?
I’d been so focused on following, I didn’t consider being followed .
Does he know? Oh God, a thought smacks me in the face—and it’s not the first time I’ve considered it.
What if he’s working with Sam? Some kind of multistate investigation.
That happens, right? Though I doubt the detective in New York would be sleeping with the suspect . . .
“Good morning, Ms. Davis.”
“Hello, Chief Unger.”
“May I”—he gestures to the car—“inquire what you’re doing camped out in a parking lot? Again?”
I point at the laptop. “Getting some work done while I wait on a friend. How about you?”
“I frequent the CPS office, unfortunately. Nature of the job.” He presses his lips together. “Why are you waitin’ out here?”
My gaze drifts toward the front of the building. “Umm . . . I came to visit a friend, but she’s out of the office. Figured I’d wait for her here so I’m not in the way inside.”
“Mrs. Ivy Leighton?”
How the hell does he know? “Um, yes. Ivy.” I try not to let him see that I’m rattled. Maybe in a town this small, there aren’t many people who work at CPS. Maybe he knows we’re about the same age, maybe—
“Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Davis. You two were thick as thieves back in the day. Inseparable. It’s a small town, not like your big city. We know who’s friends with who around here.”
I give him a smile that feels forced. “Of course. You have a very good memory.” I’m ready to end this conversation.
I don’t want to answer any other questions, not without a lawyer present.
But I forgot another thing about small towns—how chatty everyone is.
And how everyone expects you to be chatty right back.
Chief Unger doesn’t take the hint as I shift my laptop, look around anywhere but at him.
Instead, he leans against the car, tosses his keys into the air, and catches them, like he’s got all the time in the world.
My stomach swims. Is he being friendly, or is he messing with me, trying to make me nervous on purpose?
“So, whatta ya do for work up in that big city, anyway?”
“I’m a teacher, a professor.”
“That so? What subject?” He straightens, pulls a circular disc of chewing tobacco from his pocket, and opens it.
The pungent smell wafts to my nose, and I feel like I could gag. My stomach is shaky already. “English. Creative writing.”
“Huh,” he says, and his brow furrows like—like something .
Like that piece of information is interesting.
But English is a boring subject to most people; rarely does anyone find it interesting that I teach it.
Most think of grammar rules or overly long books from the last century that are difficult to read.
“Well, best be heading out. Good to see you again.” Chief Unger smacks a hand on the side of the car and crosses the parking lot back to his cruiser. I watch him go, but not before he glances back my way and squints, as though I said something interesting, something he’s going to remember .
Before I can think it through, I’m turning the car on, shifting into drive, and heading back toward Mom’s.
What the hell am I doing? Stalking my ex–best friend.
Taunting whoever this is via Microsoft Word comments.
Coming home to Louisiana, where nothing good ever happened to me.
Where, likely, nothing good ever will happen to me.