Chapter Thirty-Eight In His Shadow
thirty-eight
In His Shadow
The Shipley house is a war zone. Or rather, a cold war zone.
It’s been days since the dance, but it feels like the fallout is still unfolding.
Jasmine refuses to share a room with me, so she sleeps in the living room now.
She barely looks at me, let alone speaks to me, and the rare times she opens her mouth, it’s to tell her parents she wants me out of the house.
To add insult to Jasmine’s injury, Nikki isn’t allowed over at the house because she attacked me at the dance, and I’m pretty sure Nikki isn’t even talking to Jasmine right now, which only intensifies my cousin’s anger toward me.
“Why does she have to stay here? Send her away! I don’t want her around us!” she snapped last night in the middle of dinner, then ran off before anyone could get a word in.
Dan has tried to smooth things over, but his attempts at mediating only fuel the fire.
“Jaz, please, we’re all family here,” he said this morning at breakfast, his voice strained with exhaustion.
Connor sat silent at the breakfast counter, but at her father’s plea, Jasmine stomped out of the kitchen without a word.
Maggie just seems overwhelmed. She keeps looking at me with pained, pitying eyes, as if she wants to make things better for me but doesn’t know how. It’s rare to see Maggie lacking her self-assurance.
Everywhere I turn, there’s judgment. At school, people avoid me like I’m contagious.
Even the teachers are treating me with an awkward, uncomfortable politeness, like they don’t know what to say.
It doesn’t help that I’m officially Crockett High’s favorite topic, every whispered conversation dying the second I walk by.
To make matters worse, news of my identity has spread beyond Starling.
Zed, the asshole who decided to blow up my life, hasn’t been at school this week.
He’s been making the rounds on all the true-crime shows, bragging about how he’s the one who found Gabrielle Thorn when no one else could, and as much as it infuriates me to think it, he deserves credit for his investigative skills.
“The dude had FBI written all over him,” Zed was boasting in an interview last night.
A network television interview. The guy’s milking his fifteen minutes of fame for all he’s worth.
“And I was, like, why would some random girl be having covert meetups with the FBI? That’s when that first puzzle piece slid into place, and I started digging into Ryan. ”
Turns out, I didn’t convince Zed at all that day when I told him I was meeting my “friend.” He saw me drive away with Agent Foster, put two and two together, and proceeded to unravel the elaborate cover story Maggie and Dan had created for me.
Eventually that led him all the way to Allentown, where he connected Maggie to Gran and then Gran to me.
I don’t know how he did it, but he even tracked down the social worker who handled my case after my parents died.
My juvenile records were sealed, but somehow Logan Zellman was able to find someone to unseal them.
As always, he refuses to reveal his sources, but admitted during his latest interview that sometimes it takes some cash to get people to talk.
Once he had my grandmother’s name, it was easy for him to track down Gran’s storage unit. He paid someone off there too, for access to our unit. Maggie has already unleashed hell on the owner of the storage facility for allowing private documents to get stolen from right under his nose.
With my identity public knowledge, reporters have been contacting the Shipleys with interview requests and demands for quotes.
Podcasters from all over the country keep showing up at school trying to ambush me.
My email address was somehow made public, and now my inbox is jammed with emails from the press, the true-crime community, and general members of the public who feel the need to tell me I’m going to rot in hell for what my father did.
Fun times.
The only people even speaking to me at school are Mar and Ty, and even then, it’s different with them now.
Sometimes I’ll catch Mar eyeing me warily, as if she’s suddenly remembered that my father murdered innocent women.
Neither she nor Ty have broached the subject, though.
Truthfully I think they’re afraid to ask.
Chase texts all the time, but most of his messages sit unanswered on my phone.
He didn’t push me to talk when he drove me home from the dance.
Didn’t demand answers. I appreciate him so much for that.
I keep telling myself I’ll explain it all to him eventually, but the truth is, I’m afraid he’ll judge me too.
Chase’s default mode might be nonjudgmental, but this…
the revelation that my father is a serial killer… it’s too much for anyone to overlook.
I can’t stand the thought of him seeing me differently.
Everett, of course, is radio silent. I haven’t heard a peep from him since that night.
We don’t share any classes this semester, and I haven’t even passed him in the halls.
He’s clearly going out of his way to avoid me, and I heard whispers that he and Chase aren’t speaking to each other either, which stings more than I want to admit.
I blew up everyone’s lives with my mere existence.
The weekend after the dance, the doorbell rings. I’m sprawled on the couch, because I no longer work at the animal shelter. Like a coward, I quit my job—over text. The thought of facing JP, knowing that my identity is now public knowledge, makes me physically ill.
From the hallway, I hear my uncle speaking. “The answer is no, kid. Get off our property or I’m calling the sheriff.”
“C’mon, Mr. Shipley. You know I’m right. She’s got a story the world needs to hear.”
I stiffen at the sound of Zed’s snotty voice.
The nerve of him. Hasn’t he done enough damage to my life?
My anger burns hotter as I listen to Dan try to get rid of Zed. But the relentless jerk stands his ground. He raises his voice, shouting into the house.
“Gabrielle! I know you’re in there! Come out and talk to me! You owe it to the world to tell your story!”
A fury I didn’t know I was capable of boils up inside me. Before I know it, I’m flying onto the porch, facing off with him.
“How dare you? You ruined my life in front of the entire school, and now you’re delusional enough to think I’d sit down for an interview with you?”
His self-satisfied expression barely wavers. No remorse whatsoever for what he’s done. For the way he’s publicly shamed me.
“Look,” he relents, “maybe I went overboard with the whole school reveal, but big productions? That’s my style, Ryan. It’s what keeps people interested.”
“You humiliated me.”
Zed lifts his hands in a half-hearted attempt to placate me. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you. It’s not personal. It’s just…what people expect. They want the story.”
I scoff. “People? You mean your followers, your podcast listeners? You turned my life into clickbait, Zed. You’re an asshole for that.”
“And you’re the daughter of a notorious killer. That’s big news. People want to hear from you—your perspective.”
“Your perspective, you mean. You’ve already decided who I am. And whatever you think I am, whatever story you’ve twisted together about me, it’s all wrong.”
“I’m only trying to find answers.”
“Are you serious?” I take a step forward, my hands clenched into fists.
“You exposed me for views. This isn’t about answers.
If you cared about the truth, you’d be out there looking for the remains of the women my father killed, for ways to help their families—people like Natalie Singh, Benjamin White—not ambushing me on my front porch. ”
For once, Zed seems genuinely taken aback. He stares down at his scuffed Converse sneakers, then sighs. “I may have pushed too far, yeah. But I can’t change that now. And it’s not like the world’s gonna forget about you, Ryan. Better to own the story before someone else spins it.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need life advice from you.”
I’m about to turn on my heel when something occurs to me. I cross my arms, eyeing him in suspicion.
“You did an interview last night where you said you figured out my identity after you saw me with the FBI. Is that actually when you figured it out?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Not before?” I push. “You didn’t know around the time of my father’s suicide? You weren’t the one sending me all those messages?”
“What messages?”
“The ones saying you knew who I was, that you’d expose me if I didn’t stop looking for the bodies.”
His expression is blank. “I legit don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sure about that?”
Zed furrows his brow. “Why would I want to scare you off? I need you to keep looking for the bodies. You find them, I get my scoop. That isn’t the kind of story you sabotage.”
It annoys me that I believe him. He’s right. If the remains are found, it only benefits Free the Sparrows.
“Ryan,” he starts, and for the first time since he got here, he conveys genuine remorse. “I’m sorry for the shit I pulled at the dance. I got carried away.”
“Carried away? You destroyed my life, Zed.” I shake my head in disgust. “Now get the hell off our property.”
At that, I march into the house and slam the door behind me.
Just when I think things can’t get worse, the following morning the doorbell chimes again. This time, I’m the only one home. I debate ignoring it, but something pushes me forward, and I open the door to find Natalie Singh on the porch.
“Hi,” I blurt out, caught completely off guard.
“Hi,” she says. “I think we should talk.”
I manage to nod. “Um, yeah, okay. Would you like to come in?”
She nods back.
I step aside to let her in, then lead her into the living room, where she sits on one end of the couch. I sit on the other, nerves roiling in my stomach. The silence stretches on, and the longer Natalie stays quiet, the more anxious I feel.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she finally asks. She’s neither accusatory nor gentle. Just…neutral. I didn’t expect that.
I swallow, my throat too dry to speak. “My aunt didn’t want me to. She thought it would cause too much of an uproar. And…if I’m being honest, I’m glad she suggested we keep my identity a secret. I didn’t want to be judged for something I didn’t do. I just wanted to live a normal life.”
“Normal?” A trace of something—anger, maybe?—flickers across her face. “Your father is…was…a monster. He killed my mother. He killed your mother. How can your life ever be normal?”
I wring my hands in my lap. “I know. It was selfish. But I didn’t want people to see me as nothing more than his daughter. You’re doing that now, viewing me in relation to him. But I’m not him.”
Her expression softens. “I know you’re not him. But…you understand what it’s like to live in his shadow, don’t you?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“So do I. Every single day since my mother went missing, I’ve lived in the shadow of what your father did. My mother’s gone, and all I have are these missing pieces. It’s like I’m chasing a ghost.”
I bite my lip, the guilt and shame bubbling up inside me. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it up to you.”
“I don’t need you to make it up to me. But you have answers that none of us will ever have, and I think you owe it to us to share them.”
Panic surges through me. “But I don’t. I promise you, Natalie, I don’t know what he did with their bodies.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “What?”
“My father and I spoke to one of the FBI agents on the case. Agent Kulpa. He told us about Gabriel Thorn’s suicide note. About how he asked his daughter to watch over the remains.”
“I have no idea why he wrote that in his letter,” I say weakly. “I don’t know anything.”
“But maybe you do,” she insists. “Maybe you saw something, or heard something, but weren’t able to put the pieces together. Maybe you can piece it together now.”
“I’ve been trying,” I admit. “The FBI convinced me to try hypnosis to see if anything surfaces. I’ve had two sessions so far. It’s not working.”
Her voice becomes wry. “As someone who’s undergone extensive therapy since my mom died, I can assure you that it takes a lot more than two sessions to accomplish anything.”
“What if the hypnosis never works, no matter how many sessions?”
“At least keep trying.” Natalie shakes her head in frustration. “I’m not saying you owe me anything, or any of the other families. But the answers are out there. Don’t you at least owe it to yourself to find them?”
Her words stay with me for the rest of the day. She’s right. Two sessions aren’t enough.
I have to keep trying. For as long as it takes. Because maybe if I can help the families find closure, I’ll finally stop feeling like I’m constantly running from the past.
Maybe I can start forgiving myself too.