Nice Girls(32)

Maybe life had always been like this for DeMaria, her mother floating around her. She couldn’t hide anything without Mrs. Jackson hovering nearby.

Except online, I realized.

Sometimes we hid things that weren’t physical.

But DeMaria’s cell phone had vanished with her. She’d left a chunky gray laptop on her desk, but Mrs. Jackson had been unable to log in. She was saving it for law enforcement to analyze. DeMaria had taken her password with her to the grave.

After another minute, I stood up. I did one last spin around the room.

And I stopped at the nightstand. My eyes fell on the framed photo of DeMaria and Demetrius, Mrs. Jackson’s words ringing in my ears. Demetrius had been the sunshine in DeMaria’s life. If there was anything important in the room, then it would have been him.

I unsnapped the back of the picture frame and opened it up. There was nothing behind the photo.

As I set it back down, I noticed a Bible on the nightstand. The tome was cream-colored, nearly blending into the table. DeMaria had used it as a platform for the picture frame.

With a finger, I traced the soft green vines running around the cream-colored cover, the tiny pink flowers and cherubs woven among them. On the inside cover, there was a little box for DeMaria’s contact information in case she lost it. The handwriting was large and scraggly, written with glittery pink ink. A child’s handwriting. DeMaria had received the Bible years ago.

But the pages looked brand-new. It looked as if she’d barely used it.

There was a slight rattle when I picked up the Bible. I shook it again, listening to the sound.

I checked behind me.

My back turned to the door, I started flipping through the pages, skipping through chunks of the Old Testament. No pages were missing or marked. I flipped through it even faster into the New Testament. And suddenly the pages flipped over a worn crease.

There was a small rectangle carved deep within the bottom of the pages. The rectangle had been roughly cut with either scissors or a knife, the frayed edges of the paper still curling inward. It was a makeshift compartment.

Inside it, DeMaria had stored an orange prescription bottle. The tiny white pills inside looked familiar. By the time I pulled out the bottle, I already knew what it was.

A prescription for escitalopram, a drug meant to balance the serotonin levels in one’s brain. The pharmacy had refilled DeMaria’s prescription on July 5, only a few days before she’d gone missing. Her dosage was forty milligrams per day. It was heavy, about four times higher than my own prescription.

DeMaria Jackson had suffered from major depression and anxiety.

I checked over my shoulder, my hands shaking. Then I quickly put the pills back and closed the Bible. I rearranged the nightstand back to normal.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Jackson was staring out the window, drinking a cup of water. She seemed dazed, turning slowly as I stepped in.

“Thanks for letting me check out her room, Mrs. Jackson,” I mumbled. “I’ll be heading out now.”

“Did you find anything?”

I shook my head.

Mrs. Jackson didn’t react—she’d sensed it already. She led me to the front door. Just as I was stepping out, Mrs. Jackson handed me a scrap of paper.

“You’ll send me a link to the article, right, Maddie?” she asked. “I want to see her story told to the public.”

Maddie Johnson just nodded. It was scary how easy it was to nod and tell her goodbye. I could hear the hard click as Leticia barricaded her door again with the plank of wood.

I slowly walked back to the car. I didn’t know what was worse—that I’d lied to her about being a journalist or that I hadn’t told her about what I’d found.

DeMaria Jackson had changed after her son’s birth. But her son had only been one factor in it. The other was the medication.

And I realized that DeMaria Jackson had been a lot like me. Another sad, angry girl trapped in Liberty Lake.





17




I was winded after the interview. It seemed like the lethargy from Mrs. Jackson’s home had clung onto me. I sped on the highway back up north, my head spinning.

DeMaria Jackson with her messy past.

Demetrius in his little onesie.

Leticia with her light footsteps.

Kevin in his police uniform.

The Bible and the prescription bottle inside.

As soon as I got home, I raced up to my room and closed the blinds shut. Then I curled up in bed and slept.



Dinner was quiet. Dad and I ate in silence as the TV blared in the background. Our days around other people had left us exhausted—Dad, from work; me, from the interview.

I debated having a second helping of mashed potatoes, my mind blank.

Then I heard DeMaria’s name.

I turned to the TV, the dread heavy in my stomach.

The news channel showed a press conference from earlier in the day. Police Chief Todd Johnson spoke at the podium. He was a stout man with brown hair and a peppery mustache.

“We do not believe that Ms. Jackson’s death is in any way connected to the disappearance of Olivia Willand,” said the chief as the cameras flashed. “We have received a few tips concerning both women, but we have cause to believe that these are two isolated incidents. Our investigators are working on Ms. Jackson’s case, but currently the disappearance of Olivia Willand takes full precedence.”