Chapter 42
CHAPTER
T he days pass in a blur, one after another.
Mr. Sawyer died from asphyxiation .
The morning after Noah caught me in his house, I woke to an envelope slipped under my door.
Inside was a death certificate. His death certificate.
An original, with a raised county seal. Of course, Noah could’ve made it.
Technology is pretty advanced these days.
But it looked pretty damn real. Even the envelope it was tucked into had the county seal and return address.
I unfold the thick paper sitting on the kitchen table for the millionth time, and my eyes drop right to the bottom.
Cause of death: Asphyxiation by strangulation
Ivy and I were both too terrified to go near a dead body, but it sure looked like Mr. Sawyer was dead.
There was so much blood around his head.
And we were in the room for a long time, trying to make sure we’d wiped down anything I’d touched and making it look like a robbery.
He’d never moved. But I suppose it was possible he was only unconscious.
Though if I didn’t kill Mr. Sawyer that night, who did?
And if I’m innocent, why would someone be haunting me with those chapters? Who haunts a victim ?
I pace my mother’s house day and night, subsisting on coffee and wine.
But sometimes it’s wine for breakfast and coffee late into the evening as I wander aimlessly, trying to figure out how all of it, how any of it, makes any goddamn sense.
I ignore the phone calls that come in, don’t even consider checking my email.
The rest of the world can fuck off.
In the good moments, I manage to stuff knickknacks in boxes to take to Goodwill and separate tattered clothing to go to the dump.
But mostly, I stare off into space, thinking—thinking of Noah, his wide eyes, swearing up and down he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Letting me destroy his house to search for evidence.
Why did he let me do that? Has he cleaned it up?
And the Polaroids, those sick-in-the-head photographs .
. . I should have taken them. Should have burned them to protect the other the girls, to protect me.
I could go back, find an unlocked door when he’s not home, break a window if I have to, and take them, if he hasn’t hidden them again.
There’s a reckless desire to send the photos of the other girls to the police, to tell them what he did, to sully Damon Sawyer’s name forever so he’s not remembered as the honored schoolteacher anymore.
But those women have been through enough.
It’s Thursday—or maybe Friday? I don’t know—when a knock comes at the door. It’s not the first knock this week. Sometimes casseroles are left on the doorstep from Mom’s church friends, all of which go uneaten. Because I have no appetite at all.
I stop halfway through the kitchen, a coffee mug in one hand, an empty wineglass in the other.
I’m trying to decide which to fill next.
Or if I should instead heat up some food.
My stomach feels queasy from all the alcohol and caffeine, but it’s been that way for days.
I’m almost used to it. Is this how Mom felt all the time?
I look at the door. Maybe whoever is knocking has some fresh food, and I won’t even have to turn the oven on.
When the knock comes a second time, I set down the cups and peer through the curtain.
There’s a man. He’s wearing a suit, with his back to the door, looking out at the driveway. It doesn’t look like Noah, but I can’t be certain it’s not. So I step back from the window and yell, “Can I help you?”
“Hi. Umm . . . I’m looking for Elizabeth Davis? I’m an attorney. I did some work for her mother.”
I’ve grown suspicious of everything and anything, so I go back to the window and look again. The man is facing forward now, hands in his pockets, no casserole. Not Noah. Probably not from the church, either.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Okay, I’m coming.” I take a minute and attempt to pat down my hair, straighten my disheveled clothing, but I’m a wreck inside and out.
He smiles when I open the door. “Hello. I’m Dennis Freeby. Are you Elizabeth?”
I nod.
He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a business card, passes it to me. “May I come in?”
I examine it, yet still hesitate. The house behind me is even worse than when I arrived. It’s a goddamn mess.
“I’ve tried calling. Left a few messages. I prepared your mother’s will and have a few things to go over with you. It won’t take too long, and then I’ll take my leave. Promise.” He smiles.
I’m still wary, but I sigh, open the door wider, and take a step back to let him in. It’s best I get this over with anyway. When I do leave Louisiana, I’m never coming back.
“Sorry for the mess,” I say. “I’ve been having a hard time lately.”
“Of course. I understand. Loss does that.” He peers around, and I clear off a seat covered by knickknacks at the kitchen table.
“Sorry. I’m sorting through things.”
He smiles as he sits. “No worries. You should see the piles in my office, and I don’t have an excuse.”
I take the seat opposite him and fold my hands to stop myself from fidgeting.
“So, like I said, your mother left a will, along with a few requests.”
“Requests?”
He unzips his leather briefcase and pulls out a file, flips it open, and extends a small stack of papers to me.
“This is your copy of Ms. Davis’s last will and testament.
You’re welcome to follow along, but I’ll list the main points.
” He turns a page, settles glasses on the bridge of his nose, and begins.
“Your mother left her house and car to Saint Matthew’s Church, but with specific instructions that you can use them as long as needed to grieve and clean them out. ”
At least one thing in my life is reliable—my mother giving me work and leaving me with absolutely nothing in return. But that’s fine. I don’t want anything; the fewer ties to Minton Parish, the better. If I could wipe my memory clean of it all and move on, I would.
“Your mother would like any clothing in good condition donated to Christ House Thrift Shop.” He continues on, listing out the particulars of what my mother wanted after her death—people to contact, where other donations should be made, even how she would like her ashes handled.
She wants them spread on a beach, the one we went to once that I have warm memories of.
Memories I’d started to doubt were real. That makes my heart squeeze.
After another ten minutes, the attorney wraps up by reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a sealed envelope. I eye it warily but extend my hand and accept it.
“What’s this?”
“Your mother wanted me to give you this letter. I don’t know the contents. It’s just for you. She also asked me to urge you to go to confession.”
I snort-laugh. “Of course she did.”
To his credit, Mr. Freeby doesn’t react. Just gives me a polite smile, stands, thanks me for my time, and shows himself out.
I breathe a little easier once the door is locked and I’m alone again.
But his visit is a wake-up call. I take a long look around the house.
At the rate I’m going, I’ll be here forever.
And that’s the last thing I want. I need to get more organized.
It’s time I pull my shit together. Hell, I may never know some answers—like who’s been sending the chapters.
It could be it’s Noah, and he’s a very good liar, or someone else entirely.
Either way, I need to let go, move on, and put the past behind me, even when others try to stop me from doing that.
I look down at the envelope still in my hand.
There’s no time to start like the present.
Whatever my mother had to say is the past, not my future.
The last thing I need is to read a posthumous lecture on going to church and asking God for forgiveness for my sins—sins I don’t even think I committed anymore.
So I toss the envelope where it belongs: in the trash can.