CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVEINGRID
The air has that charged stillness that comes before a storm, the kind that makes every breath feel heavy in your chest. I lace my shoes tight and run. The gravel pops beneath each step, the rhythm clean enough to cut through the knot of thoughts in my head.
But Ben’s voice follows me:I was scared, Iggy. I was seventeen.
I push my legs harder, like I can outrun my own mind. The wind shifts cold against my damp skin, scattering dry leaves across the pavement ahead of me.
The sky glows yellow, light refracting through clouds heavy with ice, shading the world in strange sepia. I think of all those versions of myself, stacked like camera negatives, one on top of the other. And I wonder what happens to those selves you never get a chance to become.
I know I’m doing it again—playing the game of what-if. Sheryl would tell me not to.What-ifs don’t change anything, Ingrid. They only trap you in the past.
But what if Ben really did ask Kennedy Claire to deliver a message? What if I had met him at the park that night, just the two of us, away from the eyes of our parents, the whispers of the town? What if he had told me, way back then, that he was innocent?
My breath rasps in my throat as I keep the clipped pace. Would I have believed him?
I know the answer before my other foot even hits the ground. Mychest tightens, shame and longing rising together. Of course I would have believed him.
By the time I make it back to the house, my legs feel like rubber bands pulled too tight. The run hasn’t cleared my head—it’s only left me raw and gasping. I bend forward on the porch, hands braced to my knees, dragging air into my lungs. The screen door rattles when I pull it open.
Inside, the heat makes the air heavy. I toe off my shoes and pad to the kitchen, yank a glass from the cabinet, and fill it at the tap. The first swallow is ice cold, painful going down, but it cuts through the dryness in my throat. I press the glass against my forehead, condensation slick against my skin.
The house smells faintly of coffee and the lavender detergent Mom insists on, even now, even sick. That normalcy presses against the storm inside me, almost unbearable.
I lean against the counter, glass sweating in my hand, trying to sort it: Where did Izzy go that day? And if Ben didn’t kill her, then who would have wanted her dead?
The screen door rattles again, followed by the thud of boots across the floorboards. Dad’s voice carries from the entry, steady and practical as always. He steps into the kitchen, pulling off a pair of gardening gloves.
“Air’s dropping fast,” he says. “This storm’s got real teeth.”
“Dad,” I ask, dropping into a seat at the kitchen table. “Do you think it could have been anyone else?”
He takes the seat across from me. “No, honey. They found your letterman jacket with Izzy. It’s her, sweetheart.”
“No, I mean…” I swallow, because I know it will sound crazy when I say it out loud. But I can’t stop the sprinting of my mind. “Could anyone have done this other than Ben?”
Dad is quiet. He sighs in light frustration, like he hates that all this pain has been dragged back up. “That’s doubtful, given everything we know,” he says, measured as always. “But we’ll know more soon. Sheriff Ryan called earlier. He said they’ve got warrants.They’ll be tearing through Ben’s and Abel’s trailers tomorrow, looking for anything that ties them to Izzy.”
He says it like he believes this will all be settled soon enough, like the case will be closed, and we’ll have some semblance of justice. But what could they possibly hope to find after all this time?
We have Izzy now, and I guess that’s all that really matters. That we don’t have to wonder anymore. About that, at least.
My eyes fall on a photo that has hung on the wall for as long as I can remember. Dad, much younger than I am now, holding one of us in each arm, fresh out of a bath. We are wrapped in fluffy towels. Izzy’s tiny foot pokes out, her toenails painted green—the only way to tell us apart.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIXCAT
It’s 3AMand I’ve just dumped sweet-and-sour sauce over stale rice from the takeout I ordered more than seven hours ago. I shovel it into my mouth without looking, my eyes locked to the screen, and the plastic fork squeaks against Styrofoam. The kitchen is dark, and the dark is a blanket covering me, the screen of the trail cam illuminating my hands, my face.
After I cracked the bedroom door to make sure Olivia was asleep—her breath slow, her chest rising steadily—I slipped out, crossed the yard like a thief, the air so clammy it stuck to my skin. A fine mist slicked the concrete, making the sidewalk gleam under the porch light. Beyond it, the earth was soft and wet. I picked my way between roots and low brush until I found the trail camera, cold and fogged with condensation where I’d strapped it near The Hollow. When I came back inside, the heater blasted dry warmth into my face, making my skin sting as it thawed.
Now, I’m pressing the hard plastic button on the camera to skim quickly through hours of footage. Forward. Back. Pause. Rewind. Again. Again.
The screen shows trees, shadows, empty water, but in my head the scaffolding falls. The metallic groan. The shriek of lights. Olivia’s body caught beneath it. Glass raining down, opening her soft skin before her pearly bones snap like brittle birch tree branches. My stomach lurches and I force my mind back to the footage.
My eyes ache, but I can’t stop, not until I find what I’m looking for.
And then I do. My pulse quickens. It’s all right here. Clear as day.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Olivia’s voice sends my hand slapping across the camera’s screen as I fumble for the off switch.