The Last Housewife (12)

A face appeared at the second-floor window. It was a boy’s, pale and stricken. He and I locked eyes—and as soon as we did, he jerked away, the curtains rustling in his wake.

“Make her stop,” Laurel pleaded, but her voice had grown soft. Together, we stood and watched Clem, a tidal wave of anger lashing out against the still and silent house.

I thought of the way Laurel had looked in the basement, like a cornered animal, vibrating with shame. I thought of the detective’s narrowed eyes when we talked back. The surprise on the boy’s face when he looked through the window. I remembered the sight of a school going up in flames, brilliant against the night sky, blazing hotter than the stars, and the faces of all those adults afterward, wary for the first time. All that fear, transferred back where it belonged.

I remembered it and let Clem rage.

I may have even smiled.

***

So which was worse: the way I’d met Laurel, or the way we were saying goodbye?

I dodged cars to cross the street and entered the thicket of trees surrounding the Performing Arts Center, the angular glass building hidden somewhere among them. How would I know the right tree where Laurel had been found?

It turned out I didn’t have to wonder. At the edge of the thicket, with the Performing Arts Center towering in the background, a white cross leaned against the trunk of an old, bent tree, its branches creeping low to the ground. A teddy bear and two bouquets of flowers rested on the grass.

Maybe the students hadn’t brushed Laurel aside, after all.

I walked to the tree and studied it, running a hand over the trunk, letting the rough, coarse bark snag my skin. This was where she’d stood. Where she’d made a hard decision all alone, without Clem or me to stop her.

Or maybe this was where she’d fought for her life, and lost.

I pressed my forehead to the tree, hard enough so the wood bit, and imagined climbing it, whether the bark would be rough enough to slice me. Come back, Laurel. Tell me what happened.

“Excuse me?” came a voice.

I startled back. Behind me stood a girl with strawberry-blond hair, dressed in a forest-green Whitney College hoodie. She looked so young to be a college student.

She thrust a pamphlet at me. Suicide Prevention Hotline, it said.

Her voice was soaked in reassurance. “No matter what you’re feeling, I promise it gets better.”

I stared at her until she staggered back. “No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”

On the way back to the car, I pulled my phone out of my purse and tried to recall a number I hadn’t used in a decade. But it turned out there was no need to worry; it came back to me quickly, as if it had been floating just beneath the surface, waiting.





Chapter Five


Jamie answered warily—then, after a long beat of silence, his voice softened into something lighter, almost hopeful. “Shay?”

The fact that Jamie Knight was on the other end of the line—real, flesh-and-blood Jamie—only truly hit me the moment it became clear I could no longer simply listen to him. That unlike with the podcast, this time I would have to talk back.

“Yes,” I said finally.

“It actually worked,” he breathed.

At least I was used to the sound of his voice in my ear. “I heard your podcast.”

“You’re calling about Laurel’s murder.”

“Her suicide, according to the police.”

“You were friends with her. You were with her the last day I saw you.”

“We were best friends.”

“I’m so sorry, Shay.”

“I know. Thank you.”

There was another stretch of silence, then he said, “I have so many questions, but… Where are you right now?”

I dug my thumbnail into the steering wheel. “Sitting in a parking lot at Whitney.”

He whistled, the sound low and sharp in my ear. “Perfect. Stay in town. I’m on my way.”

“Wait… What do you mean?”

“I’ll take the train from the city and meet you tonight.”

“I’m investigating her death, Jamie.” The statement was blunt, and nothing more than bravado, since I’d had zero luck so far. But still, I felt the urge to stake my claim.

“That’s great,” he said. “We can do it together.”

“I know you’re the journalist, but I’m not going to follow your lead.”

“When have you ever?” Jamie made a noise of amusement. “Look, you can call the shots, as long as you’re okay with me covering the story for the podcast.”

“Not to be glib, but aren’t there more exciting dead women to cover? Women who were definitely murdered?”

He was silent for a moment. “I think your friend was killed, Shay, and the police are withholding information or incompetent. I want to know the truth. I have copies of the police files, you know.”

I did know. It was why I’d called, after all.

“All right,” I agreed. “Meet me for drinks at the River Estate. That’s where I’m staying.”

Jamie whistled again. “Look at you. Shay Evans, all grown up and fancy.”

I chose not to correct him.

***

I was already seated at a table in the hotel’s candlelit restaurant when Jamie walked in. I told my body to stand, but my legs were weak and disobeyed.