7
After knocking on Adam’s door and getting no response again, I walk home and spend my time scrolling social media like a true winner.
As soon as I click on one post about Kennedy, another half dozen related posts pop onto my feed.
Then I see a new post by Lydia Costas, time-stamped ten minutes ago, this one decidedly darker than the first.
The caption accompanies a photo of Lydia and Kennedy as grade school students with matching pigtails:
To the person who did this, I know who you are. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops have enough evidence to pull you in. I hope you get everything you deserve
An electric buzz rushes through me, and my spine stiffens. Who is she talking about?
Apparently, the rest of Lydia’s followers have the same question, because already, the post has forty-nine comments.
STACYDORMER: ??
LYDIACOSTAS: my lips are sealed
SAGEWHEELER: who are you talking about?
TELLISON: put this psycho on blast, Lyds
THEREALDEALNEIL: @Lydiacostas yeah this freak doesn’t deserve to stay anonymous
But Lydia hasn’t replied to anyone apart from Stacy. I have to assume one more attempt to get her attention in the comments will go unnoticed and that her DMs are likely flooded.
Still, I have to find out what she knows. If she saw whoever was out in the woods with Kennedy—if it’s the same person who stole Bram’s hoodie—then she has to go to the cops with what she knows.
Maybe there’s a less direct way to go about this.
Lydia and I have never really been friends, but as of the election two weeks ago, she’s on the student council with me.
And in a school the size of ours, everyone knows everyone.
We’ve been at the same parties, in the same classes over the years.
Once we were partnered up for an English project, and we hit it off pretty well.
She came over to my house a few times and even stayed late for pizza and a movie.
As soon as the project was turned in, though, we went our separate ways again.
She’d find it strange if I suddenly reached out to check on her.
I go to Lydia’s profile and scroll past the Kennedy posts, past her cheerleading headshot, pausing on a post from last week of Lydia holding a black kitten. The post is a slideshow, so I swipe to the second photo of a whole litter nestled on a blanket. There’s a caption:
Aren’t they adorable? Message if interested
A plan forms, along with a little knot of guilt. The timing would be insensitive—bordering on callous—but it’s the only play I’ve got. I click on her DMs and type Hey Lydia, do you still have any kittens for sale?
Then I head to the kitchen to figure out dinner.
Dad should be home soon. It’s not like I’m expected to cook every night, but he appreciates it.
And I did have the whole day off. I root around in the cupboard for something easy to whip up.
Mom used to make the most amazing lasagna from scratch.
I can barely remember how it tasted, those rich flavors, the intoxicating scent of the kitchen as she cooked.
I’m sure that, like my other memories of her, that dish will eventually fade into oblivion.
I’m dumping a box of rotini into boiling water when my phone dings. It’s an Instagram notification. I open the app to find a reply from Lydia. You can come by tomorrow morning around 9
Another message pops up from her. 43 Farrow Lane
I start to wonder if I missed a message about school being cancelled again, and then I remember that tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll be there
* * *
Lydia lives in a modest farmhouse off a narrow, unpaved road I was expecting something bigger and newer, probably because she was Kennedy’s friend and the Russo home is second in size only to the Abbott mansion.
Dad let me borrow his car for the morning, which I park on the weed-lined road outside the property.
I take the dirt path up to the house. Passing a warped porch swing, I reach for the doorbell.
But Lydia opens the door before I can ring it.
“It’s broken,” she says in a rough voice, like she cheered too hard on the field.
Except there was no cheer practice, I remind myself, no Friday night game.
It’s more likely she’s been crying. She pushes through a ripped screen door to join me, wearing a matching green sweatsuit.
Her dark brown hair is tied up in a messy bun. “The kittens are in the barn anyway.”
“Oh,” I say, my gaze veering to the building with the weathered red paint, some twenty yards away.
In the sunlight, I notice that Lydia, queen of the perfect cat-eye flick, is bare faced, her eyes red and swollen, nose raw and angry.
I already regret coming here under false pretenses.
I nearly apologize and tell her I’ve changed my mind when she brushes past me, leading the way across the weeds. “You like chickens?” she asks.
“Like for eating?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, and I smile disarmingly. “Kidding. Who doesn’t like chickens?”
“We’ve got brand-new chicks. Want to see ’em?”
Somehow, this is not at all what I was expecting. “Definitely.”
She leads me inside the barn, and we pass the horse stables to where little peeping sounds emerge from a brooder set up on a folding table in the corner.
“Want to hold one?” she offers.
“Sure.” It’s not my first time holding a newborn chick. Even so, I feel nervous when Lydia places the delicate, fuzzy animal in my cupped hands. “It’s so cute. Are these for sale too?” I ask, even though Dad would think I’ve lost my mind.
“Nah, we’re keeping these little guys. What you’re looking for is over this way.” She tips her head to the adjacent corner. Then she gingerly scoops the chick from my hands and places him back in the brooder.
I amble over to the large playpen structure housing the kittens. The mother cat is there, sleeping as the two kittens romp and roam around. “Just two, then?”
“The rest were snatched right up.” She gazes down on them admiringly. “Think I’ll keep whichever one you don’t pick.”
“Right.” It just so happens that I have a slight cat allergy, so I will not be leaving here with a kitten. I’ll have to tell her that the kittens and I didn’t connect or something.
“You grab the orange one,” Lydia says. “I sort of named him Tangerine already, but you can change it, obviously. I’ll carry this one,” she says, grabbing the calico kitten, “and we can do a little meet and greet out in the grass.”
“Sounds good,” I say, leaning down to lift the skittish kitten.
When I finally wrangle it, Lydia has the calico one cradled to her chest, and I follow her, trying desperately not to lose the little orange ball of energy.
“I think Fireball might be a more apt name for this guy,” I say as Lydia settles in a shady spot.
She smiles and strokes the back of the calico kitten’s neck. “That’s a good one. This is Cal, which I know isn’t very original. I try not to get too attached. But I plan to change the name of whichever one stays with me”—her voice breaks, and she clears it—“to Kennedy.”
My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry, Lydia.”
“Thanks,” she says, nestling her cheek against the kitten’s fur.
“You know what…I shouldn’t have come here today.” I start to get up but lose my grasp on the orange kitten, who leaps free onto the grass. “Not with everything you’re going through. I can come back—”
“It’s fine.” Lydia motions for me to sit back down.
“This is all I’ve been doing since I got the news anyway.
The kittens and chicks are my therapy.” For a moment, we both sit and watch the orange cat—who’s looking more and more like a Fireball—raise a tiny paw to bat a dandelion, which subsequently springs back to whack him in the eye.
The glimmer of a smile crosses Lydia’s face. She releases Cal, who pads tentatively over the grass. He only makes it a few steps before Fireball tackles him, the two rolling along like one striped ball of fur.
“You and Kennedy were friends for a long time,” I say.
“Since kindergarten.” The wind whips through the grass, and Lydia wraps her arms around herself. “It’s like losing a sister.”
“Wow,” I say, scooting a little so that my top half is in the shade, my crossed legs in the sun. “Did the cops confirm what actually”—I drop my voice—“happened?”
“Not yet, but there’s a press conference tonight. It’s not like she bludgeoned herself to death.” Lydia’s hand darts to her mouth. “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say how she was killed.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her, trying to hide my horror. “I was there by the woods when they found her, so I…well, I saw her.”
Lydia’s eyes go wide. “You did?”
I nod, and suddenly, I can’t help it. I sneeze. Once, then twice. “Sorry, it’s uh…the pollen this time of year.” Okay, so it’s a big cat allergy.
Lydia nods. “The sunflowers. That’s what always does my mom in.”
“Exactly.” Get back on track. “I caught your post yesterday, when you said you knew who the killer was. Did you see something in the woods?”
She’s silent for an excruciating moment, and I start to wonder if she’s onto me. But then she sighs. “Maybe I was exaggerating when I said I know who they are,” she admits, brushing cat hair off her sweatpants. “Technically, I have it narrowed down to three people.”
My heart drops. “You think it was an Abbott brother.”
“Duh.”
This was a waste of time, a complete dead end. “Because of Mariana’s accident,” I say.
“No.” Lydia looks up at me like I’m an idiot. “Wait, aren’t you friends with them?” The word friends comes out as if she’d said infected or contagious.
“We’re neighbors,” I say to downplay things.
At this, her interest perks up. “Well, did you ever see Kennedy with one of them?”
“With an Abbott brother?” I shake my head. “Never. Why?”
Lydia’s brown eyes narrow, and she leans in conspiratorially. “Because Kennedy was seeing one of the triplets. Secretly.”