Chapter 13
“Ali!” I flush with embarrassment and hurriedly close the door before Fred hears us. “I didn’t see you there.”
“You are in rush to leave?” Ali asks.
Ali Azad holds a gas weed whacker, his shoulders slightly stooped by the weight of it.
Deep inside the house the television is blaring loud enough that I overhear something about a two-point conversion, so it’s safe to assume Fred hasn’t heard us.
I just need to keep it that way. So I greet Ali with an authority like I’m supposed to be here and plant on a forced, wide grin.
“No rush. Are you looking for Fred?”
“Yes. I am returning his whacker of weeds.”
“Oh, Fred’s resting,” I whisper, playing the part well, “but you can put it on the porch and I’ll let him know it’s here.”
“And you are here why?”
I hadn’t expected Ali to be so nosey, but I come up with a decent excuse pretty quickly. “I was just being neighborly and bringing food over for him. Without Ivory here, he’s bound to starve.”
“Maybe I should check on him, yes?”
I really need Ali to move along and not draw attention to the fact that I was inside Fred’s house not bringing him food. “Like I said, he’s resting.”
Undeterred, Ali shifts toward the window next to the door to check for himself. Then an idea forms. “Oh, I meant to tell you I ran into Zala and she mentioned you.”
I’m playing with fire knowing how much Ali likes her, but I have no other choice than to break some hearts in order to save myself.
“She mentioned me?”
“Yes, you! In fact, you should invite her to go with you to this month’s book club. I bet you she’d say yes.”
“You think so?”
That’s all it takes to divert Ali’s attention, and it shockingly works. “Absolutely! I see how she looks at you. Go ask her right now.”
“Thank you, Shari! You good friend!” Ali praises me, and I hate myself for it.
Ali practically skips towards Zala’s house while I slink the opposite way to mine.
My thoughts knot themselves into something tight and suffocating.
I don’t want to believe the worst of Fred, but the way he said he’s taking care of it makes the worst feel like the only possibility.
And on top of that, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter who “it” is, I might be next.
My phone beeps with a text as I’m pushing the planter back in place while searching online for a handyman. I blink at the screen, and when I see the name, my back hits the wall and I slide to the floor.
Ivory.
After calling her phone several times since her disappearance yesterday, with no answer, she’s finally texting me back. Or someone else is texting me from her phone. My thumb hesitates before opening the message, as if the words might explode when I read them:
I know you’re freaking out, but seriously, I’m okay.
Just don’t tell anyone I messaged you. I need space before I totally lose my mind.
When I found out about Fred’s affair, something in me cracked.
I just want him to feel what I felt for once—pain.
So please don’t say anything yet. Not until Fred’s cooked.
Please keep my secret like I’ve always kept yours.
If my heart’s a secret, you’re the keeper.
It must be Ivory, because she’s the only one who knows the secret grief I’ve carried since Stew’s death. And she’s the only one who knows what’s inscribed on our necklaces: If my heart’s a secret, you’re the keeper. She’s alive and safe! Or at least she says she is. That’s what I should focus on.
Relief floods me, but it doesn’t last long.
Instead of settling, it pools in my stomach like something sour.
Because the Ivory I know doesn’t run away, no matter what Freida says about her.
Ivory sulks, she fumes, she rage-cleans her house.
But she doesn’t vanish without telling anyone, especially not me.
And she definitely doesn’t ask me to lie for her.
And since when does Ivory use the word cooked?
I read the message again, waiting for it to feel true. But it doesn’t. Maybe I’m paranoid. With my history, I know I have a habit of catastrophizing. I can admit my mind jumps to danger like it’s a trampoline. But I also know what I heard Fred say:
I’m taking care of it.
Ivory might think she’s teaching him a lesson, but I’m not sure he’s the kind of man who learns. Or forgives. A chilling invisible finger scrapes its way up my vertebrae. My thumbs move before I can talk myself out of it:
I overheard Fred tell someone he’s “taking care of it.” I think he meant you. Please be careful. I need proof that it’s you and that you’re okay.
My heart does a panicky flutter. What if it isn’t her? What if she doesn’t respond? What if she’s already—
There’s another beep, but it’s a photo this time. I open the image of a closeup of Ivory’s necklace, the one that matches mine. It’s dangling in front of a beach with blue ocean in the background surrounded by pale sand and the familiar wooden boardwalk that we’ve spent several girl’s getaways at.
I’m skeptical because the closest beach is half a day’s drive away.
She would have had to drive through the night, then pay cash for a hotel room upon arrival in order to keep the charge off of her credit card.
I mean, it’s possible… but unlikely. Something is wrong.
I feel it in my bones. My body always knows before my brain catches up, like an animal sensing a storm on the horizon.
The rose-colored glasses part of me wants to call the police and show them the text, the photo, the timestamp so the investigation can be closed.
But the darker, more damaged part of me doesn’t want them to stop looking until I see Ivory in the flesh.
Plus, it might be wiser for me to stay as far away from this case as possible.
The memory is still too fresh from when the police locked me up in prison without an ounce of mercy.
Their suspicions, the judgements, the words they didn’t say but thought anyway: unstable, liar, criminal.
I chew the skin around my fingernail, wondering who I could safely show this to. Not Fred—I don’t trust a word out of his mouth. Not the police—not until I have more concrete proof of life.
I’m still sitting on the floor next to the front door when a sharp knock above my head rockets my pulse. I belly crawl into my living room to the window and peel back the curtain a fraction of an inch.
Zala nervously paces across my porch, and parked behind her on the street is the same glossy black car from yesterday. I walk upright like a normal person back to the entryway. Her back stiffens and chin lifts when she sees me.
“Hey, Zala. I thought you didn’t want to take lessons anymore.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t. I’m not here about that.”
“Oh, what are you here for?”
“Can I come in?” She inspects the street and wrings her hands so fervently I worry her fingers might snap. “Just for a minute?”
I hesitate, but Zala looks like she’s about to fall apart on my porch so I step aside. “Sure. Aren’t you going to shut off your car?”
She wrinkles her forehead and looks over her shoulder. “What? No. That’s not mine. I walked here.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
Zala enters quickly, like she’s afraid of being seen. I push the planter in front of the door to keep it closed, but she blocks me with her foot and the door limply swings back open. “I’d prefer it stay open.”
The conversation instantly turns awkward.
“I didn’t know if I should come,” she lets out a shaky breath, “but I figured you deserve to hear it from me.”
“Hear what?”
Zala won’t look at me, and her fingers keep twisting. “Everyone in Doomwood Falls is talking about you.”
They can’t possibly know what I did. That part of my life is dead and buried. Literally.
“What—what are they saying?”
Zala bites her lip. Her eyes dart to the street, then back to me. She looks like she wants to run. “It’s bad,” she says finally. “I can’t believe it’s true. I really can’t. That’s why I needed to ask you in person.”
My skin feels hot. My mouth goes dry. They know. They figured it out. The past has finally found its way back to me. My mind spirals too fast.
“I just need you to tell me the truth.” Zala meets my eyes with a mix of fear and sympathy.
There are so many truths I can’t say, and one truth I can’t afford for anyone to ever find out. Then she hands me a piece of paper with an image on it and I realize everything is about to come undone.