What I Know
An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense
Miranda Smith
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Some Days Are Dark
Miranda’s Email Sign-Up
Books by Miranda Smith
A Letter from Miranda
Acknowledgements
To Chris. You were right. I love you.
One
Winter 2000
My brother was thirteen the first time he tried to kill me. Before that, there was only violence in an explainable sense. A smack when I stole a fry. A kick when I took away his ball. I never thought much of it, nor did my parents. He wasn’t trying to harm me, I thought. Only retaliate.
He’d broken one of Dad’s guitar strings, and even though he threatened me with his stern, squeaky voice not to tell, I did. Mom and Dad unplugged his Nintendo 64 and sent him to bed.
Hours later, I woke up to a strange smell. Between the darkness and my vision impairment, I couldn’t decipher anything but lights and blurs. When I put my glasses on and focused, I saw the flames climbing the floor-length curtains of my bedroom window. I sat motionless, too scared to move, breathing in the smoke.
Mom and Dad ran into my room seconds later. Mom scooped me up as Dad got a bowl of water and effortlessly extinguished the flames. Perhaps it was scarier to me than it was to them, but I still remember the staccato thumping of Mom’s heart as she held me close.
“No more candles, Della,” Dad howled, out of breath from his speedy rush with the water bowl.
“We’ve told you to blow them out before bed,” Mom said, slightly less angry. Her fingers slid under my frames and wiped the tears off my cheeks.
Perhaps allowing an eleven-year-old to burn candles wasn’t the best parenting decision Mom and Dad made, but it would also prove to be far from their worst.
“I blew them out,” I said. I took a deep breath and clutched the ragged edge of my blanket. “I always blow them out.”
“Obviously you didn’t,” Dad said, shaking the charred fabric.
“I did,” I cried. I knew, knew, knew I did, and even if I didn’t, the three candles I’d bought with my allowance on our last family vacation sat on my dresser, nowhere near the window. One had been moved, away from its mates and near the scorched remains of my curtains.
“You’re lucky Brian came and got us,” Mom said, pressing her cool palms against my cheeks.
And that’s when I saw him, standing in the doorway. His eyes looked through me and everyone else, as always. The sides of his lips flicked upward. My ninety seconds of horror would provide him entertainment for the next month.
“He did this!” I lifted my arm. My fingers, still clutching the blanket, shook the entire cloth as I pointed. “I know he did.”
“Oh, ridiculous,” Mom said.
“He did this because you took his stupid Nintendo,” I cried.
My parents always told Brian to stay away from Dad’s instruments. He never listened. I’d felt a flicker of pride when I discovered one of the strings was broken. Younger siblings are constantly searching for the upper hand, even though I felt guilty when he yelled at Mom and slammed his bedroom door. I knew he’d find a way to get even, but I didn’t expect this.
“I had to potty and smelled something weird,” Brian said. I hadn’t heard him use potty in forever. Usually it was pee or piss, and when he felt particularly dangerous, shit.
“He’s lying,” I screamed, my fear twisting into anger. I attempted to wriggle out of Mom’s lap, but she held tight.
“Enough,” Mom said.
Dad said nothing. Not that night and not the following morning.
Brian went back to his room. Mom and Dad did, too. I cradled myself in bed, unable to sleep. The smell of smoke lingered. I knew what Brian had done and dreaded what he was capable of, perhaps, doing again. No one believed me then, or in the years that followed. No one believed me until it was too late.
Two
Now
Five weeks until summer break. Students think they’re the only ones counting down the days until school is out. Even at the high school level, they don’t recognize their teachers as actual people. They’re lost in the throes of solipsism; I think half the student body believes we teachers only exist within the boundaries of block scheduling.
“Someone’s looking tan,” Marge says as she stands behind me in the employee lounge. When I turn, I see she’s added chunky caramel streaks to her dark, shoulder-length hair since I last saw her. The highlights make her look hip and different, two descriptions Marge is always trying to fit.
“Thanks,” I say, moving so Marge can pour coffee. “Danny and I spent spring break in Hilton Head.”
“Fancy,” she says, pulling back the tab of a miniature creamer and adding the contents to her cup.
“Not really,” I say, flipping hair off my shoulder. I’m constantly finding the balance between telling my co-workers what’s going on in my life and not sounding like a braggart. “We went last minute and only stayed four days.”
That’s the beauty of being working professionals without kids. Danny and I have both the time and money to afford nice things. But instead of buying luxuries, we travel. We crave new places like most people do caffeine.
Marge teaches A.P. Chemistry. She’s single and doesn’t have children either. She might make digs about fancy last-minute trips (I’m married to a doctor, after all), but she enjoys wandering as much as I do. She’ll probably leave Tennessee at the end of May and not return until August.
“How was your break?” I ask. I can tell Marge has spent time
