One year gone a novel, p.31
One Year Gone: A Novel, page 31
I say nothing.
“You almost found me that night, too, you know. I was hiding behind the couch. I was so certain I was screwed. But then the cops showed up and you rushed outside, and I managed to slip out the back.”
“You took the bottle of wine, didn’t you?”
She lowers her eyes, looks almost ashamed of herself.
“I’d noticed all the empty bottles in the recycling, and I figured, well, you drank a lot. And, like, there was no guarantee you would find the note anytime soon, or at all, so . . .”
“You wanted me to feel like I was going crazy. There was only one bottle in the fridge, so of course I would know if it went missing. And then, when I said something to the police, they would think I was losing it.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Moore, really I am. But I had to protect my brother. I had to protect my family.”
“Kenny searched the backyard that night,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her.
“Yeah, he found me out there. He tried to make me give him back the key, but I told him no, and he grabbed my arm real tight and told me not to disrespect him or he’d go straight to Joe. I looked him right in the eye and told him that if he did, I’d tell Joe how he tried to feel me up the night he took me home. Kenny realized it would be my word against his, so he let me go.”
I glance at the front door. My car isn’t here. My phone is dead. My closest neighbor is a half mile away.
“Do you understand?” Catherine says. Her face is awash with emotion, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Understand what?”
“How it was an accident. How everything was never supposed to spiral out of control like this. I mean, my dad is probably going to go to prison, right?”
“I don’t know, Catherine. Probably.”
“But he didn’t do anything! You . . . you’re Wyn’s mom. You could explain just how good a person I am to the police. Make them see that it wasn’t really my fault. That my dad didn’t know. That my brother wasn’t involved.”
I glance again at the front door. I wonder if I started to walk to it now how Catherine would react.
“Ms. Moore, please, won’t you help me?”
I look at her again. There are even more tears in her eyes. Part of me wants to feel sorry for her, but another part can’t get past the fact she’s responsible for my daughter’s death.
“You sent Aaron to the house that day, didn’t you?”
“I’d seen you and Mr. Hayden at school earlier in the day. I knew the only reason you’d come was because you must have found the note. Plus, I saw Mr. Murphy leave the office, and he was all upset. But he was still teaching later that day, so I told Aaron that we needed to shift the focus now to Sean Heller. He didn’t want to at first—he was still pretty rattled after you basically accused him of forcing himself on Wyn—but I finally convinced him. I mean, if you think about it, it mostly was Sean’s fault. If he hadn’t been chasing her through the woods that night, I never would have accidentally hit her.”
I start to take a step toward the front door, but as soon as I do, Catherine moves in that direction as well.
“Ms. Moore, please. I’m begging you.”
Something suddenly occurs to me, and I say, “You brought Kenny to the bar that night.”
She lowers her eyes, again looking ashamed.
“I did. After that night when he grabbed my arm, I . . . well, he needed to be taught a lesson. On a hunch I found him on one of the dating apps. I started messaging back and forth with him. Talked him into coming to the Wonderwall that night. That’s why I stayed so late. I wanted to make sure he learned his lesson.”
She takes another step closer. Realizes that she’s still fidgeting with the key. Sets it down on the counter, right next to a vase.
“Wyn’s song—the one she was going to sing at the pep rally—is called ‘Her Dark Secret.’ Did you know that? It’s kind of a love song. About a girl in love with her friend but not having the heart to tell her. About a girl knowing just how awful her friend’s boyfriend is but not having the heart to tell her. And then how the boyfriend ended up killing the friend, and how the girl realized that in many ways she was responsible. Because she hadn’t told her friend the truth, both about her feelings and how much of a monster the boyfriend truly was. It’s such a heartbreaking song. It was on Wyn’s phone. I guess she was going to upload it to the internet. That’s why Sean chased after her. I managed to send the file to my phone before we deactivated all her social media accounts. Truthfully, I had always thought she was talented. I’ve listened to the song about a hundred times in the past year. It’s honestly one of the best songs I’ve ever heard.”
“That sounds amazing, Catherine. I’d love to hear it.”
“I want you to hear it. I want everyone to hear it. It’s such an amazing song. But . . . but you have to help me first. Help me and my family.”
I shake my head slowly.
“No, Catherine.”
Her face drops, and she practically wails, “What? Why not?”
“My daughter is dead, Catherine. It may have been an accident, but people covered it up, and those people need to be held accountable.”
She just stares back at me, crestfallen. No, not crestfallen—devastated. I’ve never seen someone so crushed. Again, part of me wants to feel sorry for her, while another part knows better.
“I think you should leave now, Catherine. Go home to your mother. I’m sure she’s worried sick wondering where you are.”
Catherine doesn’t move. Just keeps standing there, staring back at me. Then, little by little, her expression changes.
“I . . . I apologized to you. I told you everything. Things that . . . that nobody else knows.”
Something in her expression shifts, an intensity flashing in her eyes. Suddenly I remember sitting across the table from Chad Murphy at school last year, how he’d looked trapped like a cornered animal.
And what does a cornered animal do when it feels threatened?
Whatever it takes to survive.
I quickly scan the living room, looking for something to protect me if and when the time comes. My eyes fall on the fire poker standing in the tray by the fireplace.
“Don’t,” Catherine says, her tone hard. “Don’t . . . don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Her hands are trembling at her sides, tears in her eyes again.
“I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to help me. But you . . . you’re not giving me a choice. I’m sorry.”
Before I have a chance to pivot toward the fireplace, she grabs the vase off the counter and throws it at my head. I duck, and it shatters against the wall behind me. I jump over the easy chair and lunge for the fire poker. Catherine moves faster, shoving me to the floor. When I look up, she has the poker and is raising it above her head.
“Why couldn’t you just let it go?”
I scramble to my feet as she swings the poker. I can just hear the tip whoosh over the back of my head.
“I apologized.”
She swings the poker again, this time wildly.
“It was an accident!”
Again she swings the poker as she advances, backing me toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I can barricade myself in one of the rooms, but with the dead iPhone, there’s no way I can call for help.
Except . . .
“The cameras, Catherine. They’re still on. They’ve been on this entire time. Whatever you do to me, the police will see everything.”
Catherine pauses. But only for a moment. Then, her face red, she issues a guttural cry as she rushes forward.
I turn away. Not to the right, which would direct me toward my room. But to the left, toward Bronwyn’s room.
I don’t have time to hit the light switch. It’s much too dark in here, which may play to my advantage. But before I can take another step forward, Catherine swings the poker again, and this time it connects with my side.
Fortunately, the rake part of the poker is on the outside, so nothing breaks skin.
My arm comes down on the poker, and I try to pull it away, but Catherine grunts and tries to yank it from me, and then barrels forward to knock me off my feet.
We both hit the floor. I’m on the carpet, my arms outstretched. Bronwyn’s desk is right next to us. I’m trying to reach behind the desk, right where I left—
Catherine hasn’t let go of the poker, and she moves forward on her knees.
I reach farther, and yes, there it is, the wine bottle. My fingers curl around the neck, squeeze it tight.
“I’m sorry, too, Catherine,” I whisper.
And swing the bottle at her head.
EPILOGUE
Nobody just disappears.
Not like in movies. Or on TV. Or in books.
People can’t just one day up and vanish. Life isn’t an elaborate magic trick. There is no magician standing in the wings whose fingertips are so powerful they can make a person disappear with one simple snap.
Your father didn’t disappear. At least not entirely. You eventually found him. It took the help of a private investigator, but you proved that he hadn’t simply vanished.
Just like how you proved your daughter didn’t vanish.
That was a bit trickier. Took a lot more work. And a lot of people suffered. Many were put in prison, where they belong.
Some of those involved received harsher sentences than others. Other people—like the spouses and children—have suffered in different ways.
Part of you feels bad, but another part doesn’t. That part just feels tired. Exhausted. Glad that the entire thing is finally over.
Your daughter didn’t just disappear. She was killed.
But you found her. At least there’s that. They dug up the car with her body in the trunk. You’d considered having her buried, but where were you going to bury her? Bowden no longer felt like home. So you decided to have her cremated. That way you can keep her with you wherever you go.
It’s been several months, and you’re finally ready to leave town. You’ve sold the Wonderwall. You’ve sold the house.
You don’t quite know where you’re going to go just yet, but you need to leave. Every day you spend in town is a reminder of what happened. How this was the place where you lost your daughter.
What few items you’ve decided to keep are loaded in the trailer hitched to your car. Everything else will be given away.
It’s the first day of summer, and you decide to check the backyard one last time.
You stand on the patio and feel the light breeze on your face. The sky is clear, only a few clouds hanging around in all that deep blue like splotches on an artist’s canvas.
You close your eyes and draw in a deep breath.
This is it, you tell yourself. This will be the last time you ever step foot in this town.
Then you open your eyes and freeze in place.
On the patio railing, right in front of you, is a butterfly. It’s the first one you’ve seen in over a year. The first one you’ve seen since your daughter went missing.
Its coloring is violet. Not quite onyx but close enough that you find yourself smiling.
You don’t move. Don’t do anything that will spook the ethereal creature. You just stand there, watching it as its wing slowly pulse.
You whisper, “I heard your song. The one you recorded that night. It’s beautiful. Heartbreaking. You were so talented, and I should have told you that every day. And . . . well, I uploaded the song a few months back. It went viral. The last I checked there have been over five million views on YouTube. Everyone loves it.”
The butterfly’s wings continue to pulse.
“I am so sorry for what happened. But I hope you’re at peace now. I hope wherever you are, you’re happy.”
The butterfly still doesn’t move.
“I miss you so much. I love you . . . Wyn.”
The butterfly’s wings pulse again, just a bit, and then it takes flight.
And as it does—as it lifts into the air and disappears into the summer breeze—you remember that day many years ago in Washington, DC. How you’d been so focused on your argument with Joe that you both didn’t realize your daughter had gone missing. How you’d looked everywhere, calling her name, rushing through the crowd. And how you eventually found her, standing near a tree. How you’d dropped to your knees and taken her into your arms and told her that you’d been so scared and that she should never do anything like that ever again. And how your daughter, barely fazed, simply smiled at you and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. I wasn’t scared. I knew you would find me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my editor, Alicia Clancy, for guiding me in the right direction. To everyone at Lake Union, especially Gabe Dumpit. To David Downing, for his sharp eye, and to Maya Davis, for her insightful comments. To John Cashman, Kelli Owen, and Adam Perry for their feedback on early drafts. To Tess Callero, for her unending enthusiasm and support. And, as always, to Holly.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Avery Bishop is the pseudonym for a USA Today bestselling author of more than a dozen novels.
Avery Bishop, One Year Gone: A Novel
