“Ms. Flynn? This is Dean Barker. Principal Rutger and I have just come from a conversation with the board, and we think it might be best if you keep Scarlett home for the rest of the week.”
Rage flares, incandescent inside her. “And why is that?”
“Well, Ms. Flynn, with Peyton…this is an awful situation. I’m sure you’ve seen the social media feeds. We are doing everything we can to make sure these aren’t just malicious rumors, but it’s not like we can ask the girls to stop posting. If they’ve experienced these…atrocities, they need a safe space to let out their stories. I’m afraid it’s out of our hands. Now that the police are here talking with the students, it’s become too much of a distraction. Let’s just excuse Scarlett from classes for the rest of the week, and we can reassess on Sunday night. All right?”
No. Not all right.
“Don’t you dare even think you can keep my daughter from school. She has every right to be there. Every right to be treated with dignity and respect. How dare you—”
Scarlett wrestles the phone away and pushes Darby lightly toward the kitchen. She raises the phone to her ear.
“Dean Barker? Keep your damn school. I don’t want to come back.”
She ends the call, smiles weakly at her mother, who feels herself turning various shades of red.
“What have you done? Do you know what it takes for you to go to that place? I’ve been killing myself—”
“That ‘place,’ as you call it, is full of snotty bitches, and I’m bored in my classes. I’m better off getting a GED and doing a year at JuCo, then transferring to a four-year school somewhere. It’s not the right environment for me, and now? My God, Mom. Peyton has been harassing the girls there for years. I can’t go back even if I wanted to.”
Darby feels faint. Quite literally, faint.
“We don’t know—”
“Mom, think. If what they’re saying is true, if Peyton assaulted Chastain, if he even looked sideways at one of the golden girls, then it’s all over for me there. And that’s fine. I hate them. I will not miss anything about that school.”
Scarlett marches to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. She offers one to Darby, who accepts gratefully. She is hungry. How is that even possible? Her son might be a murderer, and she’s thinking maybe a BLT will assuage her.
“Apple?” she asks, and Scarlett grabs one, cutting it neatly in half and removing the core, then slicing it into fourths. She takes a slice and hands the rest to Darby. They munch in sync, wash away the sticky sweetness with the water.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy, Scar?”
“What would you have done? Told me that it’s like that in high school, that friends come and go, that I will find my tribe, that I’m smart and beautiful and none of this matters. All things you as my mother have to say so I don’t lock myself in my room and refuse to ever come out again. Trust me, I’ll be better off somewhere else.”
Scarlett sits across from Darby, a small frown on her lovely face. “It’s time, don’t you think? To meet him?
“Meet who?”
“Park Bender. My donor. Our donor.”
Panic blooms inside of Darby. This is exactly what she’s always tried to avoid. “Oh, Scarlett. There’s time for that when we aren’t in the middle of a huge crisis.”
“But what if there’s not? What if we all have some sort of time bomb inside us that’s going to blow and do horrible things to people?”
Darby gives her a level look. “There’s not a time bomb inside you, honey. And I think Park Bender is having a rather bad day. He may not want company. And his poor wife, she looked terrible.”
“She was beautiful, though, wasn’t she?” Scarlett is winding her hair around her fist, then holsters it on top of her head in a messy bun. “So contained. She looked like she hurt, hearing all of those things about her husband. I think it would kill me.”
“When did you get so wise, little girl?”
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Mom. I haven’t been for a long time.”
“Drinking coffee doesn’t make you a grown up, Scarlett. You’re sixteen.”
“And my brother is a serial assaulter and alleged murderer. I think that might give me an edge over some of my peers.”
“We don’t know—”
“Yes, we do. At least, I know what the girls at school are saying is true. Maybe not the details, but after that sleepover, most of them wanted nothing to do with me. I’ve never known why. Now I do.”
Darby is again washed with shame, and something more, something deeper, a guilt that eats her from the inside. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would you be able to do about it? They’re teenage girls. They’re horrid, and mean, and I’m glad we aren’t friends anymore.” There is a bitterness in her daughter’s voice that tears her in two. As her mother, she should be able to fix things. Fix all of this. And she can’t. She’s brought this on them.
“I want to meet him,” Scarlett repeats stubbornly.
“It might not be safe, Scarlett. This man is a stranger to us both, he’s on the police’s radar, and what if he was responsible for that little girl’s disappearance? What kind of mother would I be launching you into his world without knowing if he’s guilty or not?”
“Mom, come on. You’re being paranoid. Besides, you’ll be there with me. I swear, if we get even a hint of weirdo off of him, we’ll bolt.”
Darby blows out a breath. She wants to shut this down before it starts, yet she has to admit, she is curious. Curious to see what of this man helped create her possibly monstrous son.
“We can reach out to Park Bender if you want, but don’t expect anything. And try your brother’s phone again.”
“I just did.” Scarlett flops heavily in the kitchen chair. “Mom, could he really have done these things?”
She sounds like a little girl and Darby so wishes she could just shake her head and deny it is remotely possible, but that is a lie. And she’s not going to lie to Scarlett, ever again.
“Yes. He could have. I’m sick to my soul to even think it, but yes, it’s possible. But let’s pray they are wrong about your brother.”
36
THE WIFE
Perry brings Olivia a glass of water and a painkiller, which she accepts gratefully.
“You should eat something with those. They’ll wreck your stomach.”
“I haven’t been very hungry,” she admits. “Perry. How are we going to fix this? They’re making Park look like some sort of serial killer.”
She knows he hears the question in her statement—There’s no way these things are true, are they? Have I misjudged my husband from the beginning?—because he shakes his head automatically.
“You know he’s not.”
She shifts, adjusting the sling and grimacing slightly.
“Maybe…” she says finally. “I never thought he was that kind of man. His darkness lies elsewhere, and he channels it into his work. That’s why he loves writing so much. He gets all that creepy stuff out of his head and onto the page, and people eat it up. It amazes me how well those books do.”