You Are Not Alone(100)

The final issue of the school year contains a double-page spread featuring the graduating class with the names of all the students listed.

I begin to tremble as I read through each one.

She wouldn’t have been Ricci back then, but there is no one named Valerie at all.

I search through the faces. But the girl I saw on the theater stage is missing.

Did I imagine seeing her?

Hallucinations don’t begin until after three nights with no sleep. I’m not there yet.

I go back to the first page of the paper, determined to find some trace of Valerie at the school.

When my phone rings, I glance down reflexively. It’s Detective Williams again.

I’m tempted to answer and blurt out what I think I’ve stumbled across, but it would be far better if I can phone her back with hard evidence. I let it go to voice mail.

I consider calling Mossley Prep, but it’s dark out now; past closing time for any high school, and I doubt they’d give me information about a former student anyway.

I’m so close to figuring all of this out.

My phone rings a second later, but this time it’s a number with the Mossley area code. I snatch it up.

It’s Chandler Ferguson, the real estate agent.

“Thank you so much for calling me back!” I blurt. My voice sounds borderline hysterical. “You went to Mossley Prep, right?”

“Yes?” he says, drawing out the word into a question.

“I—I—I’m trying to get some information about one of your former classmates, Valerie Ricci. But she would’ve had a different last name back then. Did you know her?” My words are running into each other.

He pauses.

“I really need to find Valerie,” I whisper. “Please.”

“Excuse me,” a woman says loudly. “I’m waiting for that computer if you’re not using it.”

I step away, leaving my duffel bag on the floor.

“Valerie?” he repeats. It sounds like I’m on a speakerphone in his car; I can hear a tinny echo. I hold my breath.

“If that’s who I’m thinking of, yeah, she went to our school briefly.” He gives a little laugh. “Piece of work, that one.”

My vision swims. The ground tilts beneath me.

Cassandra and Jane didn’t know James. Chandler has just confirmed it was Valerie who had the connection to the murdered man. They probably grew up in the same town. They attended the same high school.

“What do you mean ‘piece of work’?” I gasp.

I feel someone tap me. “Is this yours?” The woman who claimed my computer points at my duffel bag. I scoop it up with my free hand and move away. It’s so noisy in the store that it’s hard to hear Chandler when he asks, “Sorry, who did you say this is?”

“I’m just an old friend of hers.”

I hear him honk and curse softly. “The highway is filled with idiots tonight. Didn’t mean to offend you. Sorry, I didn’t really know Val and I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Now, if you’re interested in buying a house…” He gives a little laugh. I hear the connection click, as if he has an incoming call. “Look, if you really want to find Valerie, I think her mom still works at Ribeye. I’m pretty sure she served me a steak last time I was there. You could ask her.”

“What’s her mom’s name?” I ask urgently.

“Belinda. Gotta run, good luck.”

I stand in the middle of the store, my phone still to my ear, people swirling all around me.

Belinda is Valerie’s mother.

My brain is so jumbled now I almost can’t make the connection. I flip back in my Data Book, which is normally tidy but now has lines slashed through and arrows connecting bits of information. I search for Belinda’s name. You were like a son to me, she wrote on the tribute page.

Were Valerie and James high school sweethearts?

I have to get to Belinda. She’s holding the final puzzle piece.



* * *



“Who did you say you were again?” Belinda asks.

I’ve been pacing the streets, holding my phone, waiting for her to call me back at the end of her shift, as her manager at the steak house promised she would.

It’s almost nine P.M., and fatigue and adrenaline are wreaking havoc on my body. I’m so weak I’m nearly staggering. All I’ve eaten today is a few bites of scrambled eggs, and I’m severely dehydrated. But I can’t stop moving; I feel like I’ll collapse if I do.

“Hi, I’m Lisa Scott, and I went to Mossley Prep with your daughter Valerie,” I say, using the name of the girl who appeared on the theater stage with Valerie. “I’m trying to track her down.…”

“Oh, Valerie’s living in the Big Apple now.”

I grip the phone more tightly. “It’s just that I’m organizing a special memorial for James Anders at our next reunion, and I understand they were friendly.”

Take the bait, I think urgently.

But she doesn’t immediately reply.

“Uh, I was—I’m wondering about Valerie so I can send her an invitation.…”

“Friendly?” Belinda finally responds, sounding surprised. “Valerie wasn’t just friendly with James. I was married to James’s father for a little while. So he was her stepbrother.”