Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
More silence.
My wine is gone, and my eyes stray to the refrigerator, where the rest of the bottle awaits.
“I think . . .” Ivy stops, clears her throat. “I think your imagination is running wild. The details probably aren’t all the same. How can you even remember the specifics when it’s been more than twenty years?”
“Have you forgotten any of them, Ivy?”
“No. But—”
“I’m not imagining anything. Even the names of the characters are the same—Ivy, Mr. Sawyer, Jocelyn, all of it. Someone knows.”
“But that’s impossible.” She sighs. “Wait. Hold on a second.” Again, a child’s voice whines in the background, this time closer. There’s the sound of a door shutting, other noises fading into the background. “If the #MeToo movement showed us anything, it’s that basically all women have been harassed or assaulted or—”
“These chapters have more than that. They have details. A lot of details.”
“But . . . who would do something like this after twenty years? And why? And how would they have found out? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would they enroll in your class and send it as a story? Why not just call the police?”
My mouth goes dry. Her questions are valid, and I do probably sound paranoid. Who would go to all that trouble?
Someone who wants revenge.
The words streak through my mind so fast, I gasp.
“What? What happened?”
“Nothing.” I get to my feet, cross to the kitchen, retrieve the wine bottle from the fridge. It makes a glugging sound as I fill my glass and stare out the window, lost in thought. I’m sure something more is happening here, and I feel the need to convince her.
“It’s not a coincidence,” I say. I’m still staring out the window. But in my mind, I’m picturing something else. Something small that would fit in the palm of my hand, something that my friend wore every day during senior year. “It was the same story, Ivy—not just a student-teacher fantasy that plenty of people probably have. I’m telling you, there were details. Even the . . .” I inhale. “Even the silver pendant he gave Jocelyn.”
It’s her turn to gasp. “Saint Agnes?”
“Yes.” I chew my lip. “Ivy?”
“What?” Her voice sounds distant, like she’s now grappling with what I’ve dealt with for these past weeks.
“Is it you?”
A beat passes.
“What? Why would you ask me that? Why would I do that to you? Do that to us?”
“No one else knew. Who could it be, then?”
“Is it you?” she counters.
“Of course not!”
“Then who the hell is it?” Her voice goes up a notch, filled with fear. “I have as much to lose as you do. I have a family, a life, a career.”
I press my lips together and don’t point out that I have a life and a career, too. And my life isn’t worth less just because I chose to not have a family. “There’s no statute of limitations on mur—” I start to remind her why I’m so freaked out, what’s at stake here. But the word gets stuck in my throat. I can’t say it.
“Oh God.”
“We need to think, Ivy,” I say. “Who else was there?”
“I don’t know.” She’s upset. Even through the phone, I can tell tears have streaked down her cheeks. Ivy was the last person I really cared about, really loved, and it makes my chest clench to hurt her.
“What about Wendell Unger?” I say. “Is he still around?”
“The police chief?”
“He investigated what happened. Maybe he found something we don’t know about?”
“They never even questioned us twenty years ago. And why would the chief of police not arrest you, not arrest us? Instead, he pretends to be a student? That makes no sense.”
She has a point. “You never told anyone? At all?”
Silence. A silence that means something. Anxiety spirals through me. Anger, too. We promised. We swore up and down we’d never tell a soul.
“Who?” I demand before she can answer. “Who did you tell?”
Ivy’s shuddering breath comes through the line. “I told Father Preston. Not details! I just . . . I confessed my sins a year later.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? Why would you do that, Ivy? It’s our lives!” I clench the phone so hard the plastic shifts. I bang my fist on the table, making the wineglass jump, creating tiny ripples in the liquid. Then I’m on my feet again, pacing. “What did you say? What did you tell him?”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t tell him who or any details of what happened—just that . . . that a friend of mine had done something bad, and I’d helped cover it up. I didn’t even say why we did it.”
I scrub my hand over my face and force slow, deep breaths. She didn’t tell him details. That’s good. That means he doesn’t really know, right?
“Did you mention the Saint Agnes pendant? Jocelyn? Mr. Sawyer?”