Chapter 14
“What is this?” I ask, but I already know exactly what’s on the page fluttering in my hand as the breeze tears through the gap in the door. A better question would be How did you find this?
Zala hesitates so long I start to wonder if she’ll say nothing at all. Maybe she’ll spare me her interrogation. But then her face goes taut, and she inhales as if bracing herself for a crash.
“Shari,” her voice trembles, “or should I call you Gianna?”
My birth name is a fist to the gut. Congratulations, Zala must have done a deep dive internet search and figured out my real name—Gianna Shari Catalano.
The paper she placed in my hand is a printout of my rap sheet, including my mug shot and conviction details from the Offender Public Information Database.
I figured someone would eventually dig it up, but I didn’t expect it to happen so soon, or for it to be Zala who unearthed it.
I pegged her for a sweet bird-watching lady. I should have given her more credit.
“People are saying—no, this proves you have a criminal record.” Zala keeps going, her words tumbling out faster now, as if she wants to get it over with. “They’re also saying that you… that you have a history of violence.”
Violence. Such a small word for such a big accusation.
I stare at her, my throat closing. I try to speak, but everything jams together in my chest, leaving no room for air or sound.
“And because Ivory is missing,” Zala’s gaze brushes over my face, then shies away, “the neighbors are wondering if maybe you had something to do with it.”
My heart seizes, or at least it feels that way. I hear nothing. Not Zala. Not the hum of the car still idling on my curb. Not the tapping of Zoomie’s paws across the floor as he sleep-chases a rabbit. Just the inside of my skull ringing like a struck bell.
And she’s still talking. “I don’t believe you hurt Ivory, Shari. I can’t. That’s why I came. I needed to hear the truth from you.”
But I can’t answer. I can’t speak. I physically cannot form a single word without incriminating myself.
Instead my breath shudders out as everything hits me at once.
Ivory is the only person in Doomwood Falls who treats me like a sister, not a stranger with a question mark for a past. She’s the one person I would take a bullet for, and yet the town thinks I’m capable of disappearing her.
“Can we sit down in my living room so I can explain?”
“Um,” she edges away from me, and her thick-soled shoes—with extra arch support—scuff against the floor, “I’m not sure how comfortable I am being so far away from the door.”
Wow, I’m right up there with Ted Bundy. Apparently Doomwood Falls clings to gossip like a drowning man clings to driftwood. They love a scandal. They love a villain. And right now I’m the easiest most scandalous villain they’ve ever been handed.
“Does everyone think I’m a monster?” It physically hurts to push the question out over the rock in my throat. “Did you even read my charges and convictions?”
“I did,” she admits. “But I’m assuming there’s more to it than this.”
In a way she’s right. There is a lot more to the story than this single page could ever cover. But that would require a sit-down conversation and half a bottle of wine, and Zala doesn’t even trust me enough to step foot over the threshold of my home.
“There is nothing violent about my crime, Zala. I was charged with embezzling money from my last employer. Which I was wrongfully convicted of, by the way.”
“Doesn’t every criminal say that?” She props her hand on her hip, stares at her feet, and shakes her head.
“My boss framed me, Zala. Luckily the evidence was flimsy, which was why I only served three years.” I point to the sentencing and release dates on the paper to prove my point. “Do you really think I would have gotten out so fast if it was a violent crime?”
She shrugs. “Look, Shari, I want to come to your defense, but it doesn’t look good for you. Ali just told me he saw you over at Ivory’s the day she went missing. According to the timeline, you were the last person to see her alive.”
Damn Ali, now conspiring with Zala all because I played matchmaker! Never again.
“Talk to Freida. In fact, she’s the one who told me her mom used to leave constantly for me time. I promise you I had nothing to do with Ivory disappearing.” Except for the part of setting her world on fire when I told her Fred was cheating. That’s on me.
Maybe if I show Zala the messages from Ivory, this will stop. The rumors will crumble. People will no longer spy on me from their windows. All of this could go away. But if I tell Zala, I betray Ivory. Her last words rebound in my mind: Please keep my secret like I’ve always kept yours.
“So you weren’t seen fighting with Ivory at The Alibi Café?” Zala tilts her head. “Because someone overheard it.”
“Is that someone Wren?”
“Maybe,” Zala admits meekly.
“To clarify, Wren overhead me yelling to Ivory, not at her. I was frustrated about that horrible review online. You know, the one you were tagged in and cancelled your session over?”
There’s a big oops on Zala’s face, because she didn’t expect me to piece together that Wren is the rat or have a reasonable explanation for the fight.
“According to Wr—I mean my source, what you said sounded threatening.”
I laugh, but it comes out a short, strangled sound. “Threatening? You’re going to believe a girl who podcasts about what your junk drawer says about your personality over me, who brought you homemade chicken noodle soup when you had the flu last month?”
“You know how gossip works,” Zala says softly. “One person exaggerates, and then someone else twists it, and by the time it travels around town…” She trails off, giving me a look that says I’m just following orders.
“Exactly! All this crap being said about me is gossip. And Ivory will come home soon. I’m sure she just needed some space.” I try to sound confident. Convincing. But even I don’t believe myself.
Zala narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I just do,” I say weakly.
Zala’s expression shifts from confusion to suspicion. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Her intonation hardens just a little. “Because people are scared. And when people are scared, they look for someone to blame. And right now that someone is you.”
“Because I did time in prison for supposedly stealing money? That’s ridiculous.”
Zala hefts her massive purse off her shoulder and holds it in front of her, digging through it in search of something.
When she finds it, she hands me another piece of paper, this one folded into fours.
I unfold it piece by piece, until I’m staring at a photocopy of a major news headline and a single article, printed slightly off-kilter on the page.
The date typed across the top of the image is from right before my conviction date.
“No, Shari, we’re not scared of you because you stole some money. We’re scared of you because of what happened to your husband.”
Apparently I didn’t bury my past deep enough.