to know the truth.
“What did you do?”
She takes a second to answer.
“Amber sent it to the football team.”
I cover my eyes. That’s what Scotch and his buddy must have been looking at on the bleachers—a picture of Sophie’s naked body. Shit. I can’t think of a more terrible thing to do to a girl with body issues.
“I tried to stop her. I really did. But you know Amber.”
Oh, Sophie. Poor Sophie.
So that was their big plan, the one Amber was plotting in the locker room, the one intended to take Sophie down a notch. Now the scene in Sophie’s bedroom—her sobbing, her mother desperately trying to comfort her— makes heartbreaking sense. But, even so, I know Sophie didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.
“Do you think . . . Do you think that’s why . . .” Mattie’s voice breaks.
I pull Mattie closer. “That had nothing to do with her death.”
“But,” Mattie says, her voice no more than a ghost of a sound, “I heard there was a note. She said, ‘I don’t deserve this.’ What else could she have been talking about?”
The memory of the letter comes rushing back. Why did the killer leave that note? Just to make the suicide scenario more believable? What made him—or her—choose that exact phrasing?
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to think of a plausible explanation to give Mattie, one that doesn’t involve a psycho slaughtering her best friend. “Maybe she was just talking about her life .”
I wish I could tell her that Sophie’s death wasn’t the result of a stupid prank. But, to do that, I would have to explain how I knew, and even in Mattie’s state, I don’t think she’d believe me.
Mattie eases back onto her pillow and yanks her pink bedspread over her head. Light from the streetlamp sneaks through the slats in her venetian blinds. I rise and pull them closed. On my way out of her room, I see the little sheep night-light she’s had since she was a baby. I flip it on and leave the door open.
I wash four caffeine pills down with a swallow of Mountain Dew even though my hands are shaking and spots bounce across my field of vision. It’s the only way to stay alert, to avoid the vulnerability that comes with sleepiness.
My psychology textbook is open on my bed, but I’m not able to focus on the various theories of motivation. Sophie’s glassy stare keeps coming back to haunt me. Every few minutes, I relive the terror of the night before.
The terror of seeing Sophie Jacobs dead.
I hear something snap outside, and my blood runs cold. Could it be the killer? Did they realize I’d witnessed their dirty deed and come to get rid of me? I roll off my bed and crawl over to the window. I muster every ounce of courage I possess and peek out into the dark yard. There’s nothing but the usual shadows twitching in the night.
Exhaling, I lower my blinds and return to my bed.
I tap my highlighter against the textbook and realize I’ve got to be more proactive. If I’m not going to tell the police what I saw, I have to figure out who killed Sophie Jacobs—and why. I rack my brain, reviewing every murder mystery I’ve ever seen on TV.
What does the hero usually do?
It seems the only place to start is to list the prime suspects. I grab my notebook and turn to a new page. Somehow, writing my thoughts down makes me feel more productive. Now. Where to start?
Well, there’s Amber. Supposedly one of Sophie’s best friends, she’s definitely proven in the last couple of days that she has no loyalty whatsoever. And it was so weird, how she fled the house this afternoon without saying a word. I jot her name down. I’m pretty sure she was jealous of Sophie—if not for her closeness with my sister, then definitely for the attention she was getting from Scotch, one of the most popular guys in school.
Ahhh, Scotch. I write down his name and underline it twice. Would-be date rapist and all-around asshole. But what motive would he have for killing Sophie?
The pieces of the
“What did you do?”
She takes a second to answer.
“Amber sent it to the football team.”
I cover my eyes. That’s what Scotch and his buddy must have been looking at on the bleachers—a picture of Sophie’s naked body. Shit. I can’t think of a more terrible thing to do to a girl with body issues.
“I tried to stop her. I really did. But you know Amber.”
Oh, Sophie. Poor Sophie.
So that was their big plan, the one Amber was plotting in the locker room, the one intended to take Sophie down a notch. Now the scene in Sophie’s bedroom—her sobbing, her mother desperately trying to comfort her— makes heartbreaking sense. But, even so, I know Sophie didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.
“Do you think . . . Do you think that’s why . . .” Mattie’s voice breaks.
I pull Mattie closer. “That had nothing to do with her death.”
“But,” Mattie says, her voice no more than a ghost of a sound, “I heard there was a note. She said, ‘I don’t deserve this.’ What else could she have been talking about?”
The memory of the letter comes rushing back. Why did the killer leave that note? Just to make the suicide scenario more believable? What made him—or her—choose that exact phrasing?
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to think of a plausible explanation to give Mattie, one that doesn’t involve a psycho slaughtering her best friend. “Maybe she was just talking about her life .”
I wish I could tell her that Sophie’s death wasn’t the result of a stupid prank. But, to do that, I would have to explain how I knew, and even in Mattie’s state, I don’t think she’d believe me.
Mattie eases back onto her pillow and yanks her pink bedspread over her head. Light from the streetlamp sneaks through the slats in her venetian blinds. I rise and pull them closed. On my way out of her room, I see the little sheep night-light she’s had since she was a baby. I flip it on and leave the door open.
I wash four caffeine pills down with a swallow of Mountain Dew even though my hands are shaking and spots bounce across my field of vision. It’s the only way to stay alert, to avoid the vulnerability that comes with sleepiness.
My psychology textbook is open on my bed, but I’m not able to focus on the various theories of motivation. Sophie’s glassy stare keeps coming back to haunt me. Every few minutes, I relive the terror of the night before.
The terror of seeing Sophie Jacobs dead.
I hear something snap outside, and my blood runs cold. Could it be the killer? Did they realize I’d witnessed their dirty deed and come to get rid of me? I roll off my bed and crawl over to the window. I muster every ounce of courage I possess and peek out into the dark yard. There’s nothing but the usual shadows twitching in the night.
Exhaling, I lower my blinds and return to my bed.
I tap my highlighter against the textbook and realize I’ve got to be more proactive. If I’m not going to tell the police what I saw, I have to figure out who killed Sophie Jacobs—and why. I rack my brain, reviewing every murder mystery I’ve ever seen on TV.
What does the hero usually do?
It seems the only place to start is to list the prime suspects. I grab my notebook and turn to a new page. Somehow, writing my thoughts down makes me feel more productive. Now. Where to start?
Well, there’s Amber. Supposedly one of Sophie’s best friends, she’s definitely proven in the last couple of days that she has no loyalty whatsoever. And it was so weird, how she fled the house this afternoon without saying a word. I jot her name down. I’m pretty sure she was jealous of Sophie—if not for her closeness with my sister, then definitely for the attention she was getting from Scotch, one of the most popular guys in school.
Ahhh, Scotch. I write down his name and underline it twice. Would-be date rapist and all-around asshole. But what motive would he have for killing Sophie?
The pieces of the
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