everyone tries not to stare. Someone behind me whispers that he’s Sophie’s father. He turns around to face us, his lower lip wobbling, but he composes himself long enough to read a poem he has written.
Almost everyone’s head is down, giving the man his time to mourn, but I’m looking around the room, hoping to spot one of my suspects, to see how they’re reacting to all this.
After the man has finished his poem, an old woman plays a piano in the corner. I mutter something about having to go to the bathroom and manage to edge my way out of our row and through the crowd without sticking my butt in anyone’s face or knocking anyone over.
I duck out a door in the back that leads to a smaller room with a blue couch and an end table loaded with boxes of Kleenex. There’s a pop machine and a water cooler in the corner. Doors on either side of the room lead to the bathrooms. I go to the door marked Ladies and put my ear to the door. I hear a strange sound coming from the ladies’ room—almost like honking.
I twist the knob and push open the door just a crack, enough to peek inside and see who’s making the terrible noise. Crumpled on the floor with a wad of toilet paper woven around her fingers, Amber Prescott is falling apart.
I slip into the room and close the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor and sit across from Amber, cross-legged. I don’t say anything, don’t even look at her. I just sit and breathe. And wait.
Amber stops crying long enough to recognize who’s in the room with her, but then she continues on, louder than ever. In her place, I would have shouted to get the hell out. I don’t do anything but let her raw emotion wash over me. Though it seems like she’s truly devastated, I can’t help but wonder how much of what I’m seeing is guilt. Guilt for destroying her best friend.
Just when I start to think about going to get her a cup of water, she stops crying. She uses the toilet paper to clean up the mascara that’s run all over her face. I stand up and turn on the water for her, then step out of the way so she can wash her face.
She doesn’t say anything to me, just gives me this kind of grateful look before she unlocks the door and slinks out. When she leaves, I glance in the mirror, at the girl with the pink pigtails tied with black ribbons, and all I feel is shame. Amber may have ruined Sophie, but I stood by and let her. I knew Amber and Mattie were planning something horrible, and I didn’t do one damn thing to stop them.
As I open the door to leave, I notice something silver shining on the floor. I stoop down and realize it’s a tiny diamond earring—the kind that Amber always wears. I scoop it up and hurry out of the bathroom to see if I can catch her, but I don’t see her anywhere. I tuck the earring into my pocket.
The funeral has ended, and people have formed small clusters around the lobby.
I spot Mattie in a huddle of cheerleaders doing some sort of group hug, but I don’t see Rollins anywhere, so I go outside. Just as I’d guessed, Rollins is standing several yards away from the funeral home, a cigarette tucked discreetly behind his back.
“Everyone’s saying Sophie was pregnant,” Rollins says, taking a quick drag and then hiding the cigarette again.
I sigh. “Yeah. The officer mentioned something about it yesterday.”
“You have any idea who the father could be?” Rollins releases a puff of smoke.
“I have a few theories,” I reply. “The front-runner is Scotch Becker.”
Rollins drops the cigarette and grinds it into the cement with the heel of his boot. “Scum.”
“Pretty much.”
A hand on my back makes me jump. Turning, I see Mattie’s teary face.
“You ready to go?” I ask. Earlier, Mattie had cried that she didn’t want to go to the burial. She didn’t want to see Sophie’s casket lowered into the ground. I can’t say I blame her.
“Actually,” she says, “I think I’m going to stay. Sam can give me a ride.” She glances
Almost everyone’s head is down, giving the man his time to mourn, but I’m looking around the room, hoping to spot one of my suspects, to see how they’re reacting to all this.
After the man has finished his poem, an old woman plays a piano in the corner. I mutter something about having to go to the bathroom and manage to edge my way out of our row and through the crowd without sticking my butt in anyone’s face or knocking anyone over.
I duck out a door in the back that leads to a smaller room with a blue couch and an end table loaded with boxes of Kleenex. There’s a pop machine and a water cooler in the corner. Doors on either side of the room lead to the bathrooms. I go to the door marked Ladies and put my ear to the door. I hear a strange sound coming from the ladies’ room—almost like honking.
I twist the knob and push open the door just a crack, enough to peek inside and see who’s making the terrible noise. Crumpled on the floor with a wad of toilet paper woven around her fingers, Amber Prescott is falling apart.
I slip into the room and close the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor and sit across from Amber, cross-legged. I don’t say anything, don’t even look at her. I just sit and breathe. And wait.
Amber stops crying long enough to recognize who’s in the room with her, but then she continues on, louder than ever. In her place, I would have shouted to get the hell out. I don’t do anything but let her raw emotion wash over me. Though it seems like she’s truly devastated, I can’t help but wonder how much of what I’m seeing is guilt. Guilt for destroying her best friend.
Just when I start to think about going to get her a cup of water, she stops crying. She uses the toilet paper to clean up the mascara that’s run all over her face. I stand up and turn on the water for her, then step out of the way so she can wash her face.
She doesn’t say anything to me, just gives me this kind of grateful look before she unlocks the door and slinks out. When she leaves, I glance in the mirror, at the girl with the pink pigtails tied with black ribbons, and all I feel is shame. Amber may have ruined Sophie, but I stood by and let her. I knew Amber and Mattie were planning something horrible, and I didn’t do one damn thing to stop them.
As I open the door to leave, I notice something silver shining on the floor. I stoop down and realize it’s a tiny diamond earring—the kind that Amber always wears. I scoop it up and hurry out of the bathroom to see if I can catch her, but I don’t see her anywhere. I tuck the earring into my pocket.
The funeral has ended, and people have formed small clusters around the lobby.
I spot Mattie in a huddle of cheerleaders doing some sort of group hug, but I don’t see Rollins anywhere, so I go outside. Just as I’d guessed, Rollins is standing several yards away from the funeral home, a cigarette tucked discreetly behind his back.
“Everyone’s saying Sophie was pregnant,” Rollins says, taking a quick drag and then hiding the cigarette again.
I sigh. “Yeah. The officer mentioned something about it yesterday.”
“You have any idea who the father could be?” Rollins releases a puff of smoke.
“I have a few theories,” I reply. “The front-runner is Scotch Becker.”
Rollins drops the cigarette and grinds it into the cement with the heel of his boot. “Scum.”
“Pretty much.”
A hand on my back makes me jump. Turning, I see Mattie’s teary face.
“You ready to go?” I ask. Earlier, Mattie had cried that she didn’t want to go to the burial. She didn’t want to see Sophie’s casket lowered into the ground. I can’t say I blame her.
“Actually,” she says, “I think I’m going to stay. Sam can give me a ride.” She glances
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