“Like what?” Maisie asked.
“We’ve both been called crazy,” I told her. “And blamed for things we didn’t do. Neither of our stories is as simple as it’s been made out to be.”
“So, what’s your real story?” Maisie asked.
She was waiting for my answer when loud pounding on the front door made both of us jump. We sat in silence, our eyes focused on the same spot, hoping whoever it was would go away. The pounding began again, only this time louder.
“I’m really sorry. I have to get that.” Maisie groaned as if she were faced with a terrible chore. “He’ll wake my mom if I don’t. Go out the back door. You shouldn’t be here for this. I’ll come find you later.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“The neighbor,” she said. “I’ve been expecting him to turn up all morning.”
“Nolan?” I asked.
“No, his father.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured me. “Trust me—you don’t want Gavin Turner to know that we’re friends. It could make life difficult for you.”
As she headed for the front door, I made a move for the rear exit. But I didn’t leave. I wasn’t going to abandon her to face a grown man on her own.
“Hello, Mr. Turner,” I heard her say in a voice that was dripping with sarcasm.
“May I speak to your mother?” Gavin replied coldly. He obviously didn’t have any desire to talk to Maisie.
“She’s asleep,” Maisie announced. “How may I help you?”
“I came to ask if either of you know anything about the incident last night.”
“I know it woke me up,” Maisie said. “Sounded like quite a party.”
“Do you have any idea who might have been responsible?” Gavin asked.
“Goodness.” I imagined Maisie batting her eyelashes theatrically as she said it. “It could have been half the people in town. I’m not sure if you know this, but your son doesn’t have many friends.”
An awkward pause followed. I would have given anything to see Gavin Turner’s face at that moment. “The security footage showed three young men. If I had to guess, I’d say they were your age.”
“And you’re implying what? That I used my womanly wiles to have them trash your house?” Maisie sneered.
“I’m not implying anything of the sort,” he spat. “I’m trying to protect my son. There was a young woman there last night as well. She could have been injured.”
“Yes, but fortunately someone threw rocks at your house before anything happened.”
“Miss Wilson, I’m not sure what you have against my son, but—”
Maisie cut him off with a bitter laugh. “Stop right there. You’ve got to be out of your mind. You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Gavin said. “Do you realize who I am?”
“If you think I’m scared of your money like everyone else in this town, you’ve got another thing coming. You don’t belong here. It’s time for you and your family to pack your bags. In the meantime, get the fuck off my porch,” Maisie said. “Before I have my ‘boyfriends’ come back and drag you off.”
As soon as I heard the front door slam, I slipped out the back.
I slunk away from the house, careful not to be seen. I was disappointed in Maisie and ashamed of myself. I’d assumed she was like me—an ordinary person trapped in a terrible tale. But after eavesdropping on her conversation, I was no longer sure who she was. She obviously knew more about the incident at Nolan’s than she’d let on. I’d been willing to tell her what had happened to me in New York, but she’d kept her own cards close to her chest. I ran back through everything I’d said, wondering just how much I’d revealed.
Even if most of my secrets were safe, it scared me how eager I’d been to share them with a stranger. I don’t think it had ever occurred to me just how lonely I was—how desperately I’d longed for someone who would listen. I should have known better than anyone else that who you tell is just as important as what you tell them. There was only one person I could trust with my story. That’s how I ended up in the cemetery, on a bench by Grace Louth’s empty grave.
I’d read in Grace’s obituary that her parents had built her a marble mausoleum in the style of a Roman temple. There was only one like it in Louth’s graveyard. Peering between the columns, I could see the statue of a girl inside. She was kneeling at the far end of the tomb, her head bowed in sorrow or shame and her face hidden in her hands. The statue was meant to be Grace—but a much younger version. Grace had been eighteen years old when she’d died, but the statue was of a little girl.
I was struck by her outfit—a pinafore dress. It reminded me of the school uniform I’d worn when I was younger—the same uniform I’d been wearing when I’d discovered my father’s dead body. The uniform I had on when I walked past the scene of his death twice a day, five days a week, for four whole years.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about the little girl that I’d been. No one had seen that I was trapped in the worst day of my life. I lived it over and over and over again. If I’d been an adult, I could have escaped from the city and left it all behind. But I was twelve years old. I had nowhere to go. My father had left my mother a fortune to add to the one she already possessed. She had all the money in the world, but she refused to move. A therapist once suggested that it might be better for me if we bought a house on a different street. My mother kept the house and bought a new therapist instead.
Back then, I had the same dream every night. I dreamed about the building where my father had died. As I walked past on my way to school, it would start sinking. Within seconds, the hole would swallow everything around, and I would be standing on the edge of an abyss. I’d look for the bottom, only to realize there wasn’t one. Anything that fell into the hole would keep falling. Then the hole would swallow me, too.
During the day, I was tortured by images I couldn’t bear to describe. They came without warning, and I was powerless to stop them. Then, when I was fifteen, a friend showed up at school with a bottle of pain pills that she’d stolen from her grandmother. A bunch of us swallowed them and went to the park. I didn’t even notice a huge difference at first. The other girls seemed high. I just felt free. That evening, I walked right past the house where my father had died. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until I was at my front door. I’d spent an entire afternoon in the present. Death hadn’t followed me around that day.