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)
I unfold the thick paper sitting on the kitchen table for the millionth time, and my eyes drop right to the bottom.
Cause of death: Asphyxiation by strangulation
Ivy and I were both too terrified to go near a dead body, but it sure looked like Mr. Sawyer was dead. There was so much blood around his head. And we were in the room for a long time, trying to make sure we’d wiped down anything I’d touched and making it look like a robbery. He’d never moved. But I suppose it was possible he was only unconscious. Though if I didn’t kill Mr. Sawyer that night, who did? And if I’m innocent, why would someone be haunting me with those chapters? Who haunts a victim?
I pace my mother’s house day and night, subsisting on coffee and wine. But sometimes it’s wine for breakfast and coffee late into the evening as I wander aimlessly, trying to figure out how all of it, how any of it, makes any goddamn sense. I ignore the phone calls that come in, don’t even consider checking my email.
The rest of the world can fuck off.
In the good moments, I manage to stuff knickknacks in boxes to take to Goodwill and separate tattered clothing to go to the dump. But mostly, I stare off into space, thinking—thinking of Noah, his wide eyes, swearing up and down he didn’t know what I was talking about. Letting me destroy his house to search for evidence. Why did he let me do that? Has he cleaned it up?
And the Polaroids, those sick-in-the-head photographs . . . I should have taken them. Should have burned them to protect the other the girls, to protect me. I could go back, find an unlocked door when he’s not home, break a window if I have to, and take them, if he hasn’t hidden them again. There’s a reckless desire to send the photos of the other girls to the police, to tell them what he did, to sully Damon Sawyer’s name forever so he’s not remembered as the honored schoolteacher anymore. But those women have been through enough.
It’s Thursday—or maybe Friday? I don’t know—when a knock comes at the door. It’s not the first knock this week. Sometimes casseroles are left on the doorstep from Mom’s church friends, all of which go uneaten. Because I have no appetite at all.
I stop halfway through the kitchen, a coffee mug in one hand, an empty wineglass in the other. I’m trying to decide which to fill next. Or if I should instead heat up some food. My stomach feels queasy from all the alcohol and caffeine, but it’s been that way for days. I’m almost used to it. Is this how Mom felt all the time? I look at the door. Maybe whoever is knocking has some fresh food, and I won’t even have to turn the oven on.
When the knock comes a second time, I set down the cups and peer through the curtain.
There’s a man. He’s wearing a suit, with his back to the door, looking out at the driveway. It doesn’t look like Noah, but I can’t be certain it’s not. So I step back from the window and yell, “Can I help you?”
“Hi. Umm . . . I’m looking for Elizabeth Davis? I’m an attorney. I did some work for her mother.”
I’ve grown suspicious of everything and anything, so I go back to the window and look again. The man is facing forward now, hands in his pockets, no casserole. Not Noah. Probably not from the church, either.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Okay, I’m coming.” I take a minute and attempt to pat down my hair, straighten my disheveled clothing, but I’m a wreck inside and out.
He smiles when I open the door. “Hello. I’m Dennis Freeby. Are you Elizabeth?”
I nod.
He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a business card, passes it to me. “May I come in?”
I examine it, yet still hesitate. The house behind me is even worse than when I arrived. It’s a goddamn mess.
“I’ve tried calling. Left a few messages. I prepared your mother’s will and have a few things to go over with you. It won’t take too long, and then I’ll take my leave. Promise.” He smiles.
I’m still wary, but I sigh, open the door wider, and take a step back to let him in. It’s best I get this over with anyway. When I do leave Louisiana, I’m never coming back.
“Sorry for the mess,” I say. “I’ve been having a hard time lately.”
“Of course. I understand. Loss does that.” He peers around, and I clear off a seat covered by knickknacks at the kitchen table.
“Sorry. I’m sorting through things.”
He smiles as he sits. “No worries. You should see the piles in my office, and I don’t have an excuse.”