My gut clenches so tight it’s painful, but I force myself to keep watching.
It’s only going to get worse.
The host begins in a deep, somber voice. “Ava Morales was a junior at Oak Hill High in Towson, Maryland—a good student, pretty and vivacious, from a family with deep ties to the community. James Bates was several years older, with a far more mysterious—and unsettling—background.”
More photographs appear—one of our school sealed off with yellow police tape and several from Coach’s funeral—as the host describes the crime scene and interviews the lead detective from the case.
I recoil a moment later when a familiar face pops onto the screen. It’s Brittany. She must have had plastic surgery. Her lips were never that full when she was young. She looks almost exactly like her mother. Apple from the tree, I think, remembering the line I’d written in my journal.
The host lobs her a question—“Can you tell us about Ava Morales?”—and Brittany is off and running, talking about how we’d been besties since we were seven, and how she was present the night I met James at the restaurant where he worked.
“I knew something was wrong with him right away,” Brittany confides. “All of us girls thought so.”
“But not Ava?” prompts the host.
Brittany shakes her head vigorously, her big gold hoop earrings smacking her rosy cheeks. “I guess being in love can make people stupid.”
My hands curl into fists. They don’t relax until Brittany’s vapid face is off the screen.
James’s mother declined to be interviewed, the host somberly reports. So did my father and Timmy.
I begin to pace, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen. I know what is coming next. I read about it during one of my online searches long ago. It was a good thing the library had a little trash can by the computer station because I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time to throw up.
“James Bates’s stepfather could not be interviewed.” A meaningful pause. “He was beaten to death six months before the Oak Hill High murder.”
A photograph of James’s stepfather appears on the screen. He was a medium-sized man with blond hair and a hard line for a mouth. “Troy Ganske was attacked with a blunt object one night as he worked alone in his garage, changing the tire on his car. Authorities suspect the murder weapon was a lug nut wrench found next to the body, but no one was ever charged in the crime.”
Then: “The weapon was wiped clean of fingerprints.”
I begin to hyperventilate. I blindly fumble for the pause button on the remote control.
My instincts are screaming at me to run, like I have so many times before.
I pinch the inside of my wrist as hard as I can. The sharp burst of pain distracts me enough to interrupt the surge of panic.
“We’re safe.” I say the words aloud.
But I don’t believe it. I haven’t believed it for one single day of the past twenty-four years.
I walk to the kitchen cupboard and pull out the bottle of Russian vodka I bought last year. I pour a shot and drink it down in one swallow, the burn racing down my throat. My heartbeat finally slows.
I pick up the remote again and force myself to press play.
There’s more background on Coach Franklin’s life. He receives accolades from our former school principal and from his brother, who talks about what a great guitar player Coach was. An old video of Coach strumming the Eric Clapton song “Bad Love” plays. “Your love will keep me alive,” Coach sings.
The video fades into blackness and is replaced by one of James.
He is seated in a courtroom, wearing a suit and tie I didn’t know he possessed, beside a man who must be his lawyer.
“Daniel Franklin’s battered body was found by a night janitor who arrived at the school shortly after the attack. He was barely clinging to life and was taken to Mercy Hospital by ambulance. A short while later, an officer on routine patrol spotted a black Corvette idling in front of a closed restaurant. Upon approaching the driver, the officer noticed blood on his sleeve that was later identified as belonging to Daniel Franklin. James Bates was captured at 12:15 a.m.”
Fifteen minutes past our meeting time of midnight.
James was caught while waiting for me.
The video camera recording of the courtroom shows nineteen-year-old James standing up. The judge asks the jury if they have reached a verdict.
“We have, your honor.” The jury forewoman says, her voice sounding far away and tinny.
The camera zooms in on James’s face as the verdict is read. “We the jury find the defendant, James Andrew Bates, guilty on the charge of murder in the first degree.”
James doesn’t break down or say a word. He doesn’t move a muscle.
A jump cut to a photograph of me alone on the front steps of Oak Hill High, holding a copy of Romeo and Juliet. I remember that day. I didn’t want to eat in the lunchroom, so I took my Diet Coke and peanut butter sandwich and went outside to read a few pages. One of the student photographers who worked for our school paper must have snapped the shot without me noticing.
A voice-over with Coach singing the lyrics from another line in Clapton’s song plays: “No more bad love…”
The host appears back on the screen. “Ava Morales’s blue Dodge Dart was discovered in the parking lot of a Denny’s restaurant the day after the attack. She has never been located.”
Brittany is back. “I know, deep in my heart, that James killed Ava.” Brittany’s eyes well up. “And I swear to you, he killed my cat, too. A neighbor saw his car on my street the night Smokey disappeared.”
She uses her fingertips to swipe beneath her eyes. “James is a psycho. Everyone knows he murdered his stepfather and Coach.”
The host interjects: “Bates was never charged or convicted of killing his stepfather.”
“Oh, come on. That’s only because there wasn’t enough evidence and James claimed he was asleep in the house. And why wouldn’t Ava come home if she was alive? I’m telling you, James killed her and hid her body somewhere it could never be found.”
“That’s one theory. Another is that Ava was an accomplice.”
The former lead detective on the case replaces Brittany on camera. The printed words below him identify him as a retired homicide detective.
“Ava Morales had a motive. She was angry. She was cut from the Poms squad that very afternoon. Daniel Franklin had humiliated her. He emailed the other members of the team to deliver the news just hours before he was attacked.”
The host frowns. “It seems like a big leap to say a teenage girl would kill her coach over something like that.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t have help.”
“Could someone as young as Ava really go into hiding for this long?”
The retired detective shrugs. “Sure. People do it all the time. Back then, it was a lot easier to evade. We didn’t have facial recognition devices. Surveillance cameras were much rarer. Do you know how many people are missing in this country alone?”
“Hundreds?” the host guesses.
“Thousands.”
The host nods somberly. “If Ava Morales is out there somewhere, here is what she might look like today.”
An age-progression photo of me comes onto the screen. My hair is much longer than I currently wear it, and my face is fuller. It doesn’t look too much like me, I tell myself.