“This is my proof.”
He slowly takes the paper from my hands. “What is this?”
“Read it,” I say, nodding. “This is what a student turned in today. A student from Zoey’s class.”
He looks at the paper. He sighs heavily, and after a few seconds starts shaking his head. “Dell, what am I even reading?”
“The girl in the purple dress? That’s Darcy. It’s describing the attack.”
“I don’t want to read this,” he says, pushing the paper away. “Why would you let me?”
“You’re sitting here acting like I’m crazy for thinking Zoey is involved. Look at what I got today. Someone wants to mess with me, and it’s more than likely her.”
“I never said you were crazy.” His voice is lighter, and he stares at me honestly. Crazy is a curse word in our house. I spent my whole childhood feeling crazy, like I was the only one who could put together all the disturbing pieces of Brian to see the full picture. “How do you know Zoey wrote the letter?”
“I told you someone shuffled it in with the other essays.”
“And there was no name on it?”
“No.”
“Don’t hate me for this, Dell. But how do you know Zoey wrote it?”
I stare at him, feeling the sudden urge to cry. Earlier, when I thought of Darcy and the pain she experienced that night, I cried from sadness. Now, my tears are arising from a place of anger. I’m livid because I’m confident Zoey did this, and there’s no way to prove I’m right. One… two… three.
“I have a feeling,” I say, finally.
That’s enough for Danny. He’s a practical person, but he trusts my instincts. “Keep an eye on Zoey. You could very well be right,” he says. “I only want to make sure you’re handling this the right way.”
He rubs the skin from my shoulders down to my elbows. After a few strokes, he pulls me in for a hug. He’s trying to mend whatever strings he tore during our debate. He can’t validate my suspicions, or erase Darcy’s pain; a hug is the best he can give.
Sixteen
Now
I arrive at school early on Monday and wait in the parking lot until I see Pam’s dark blue minivan. She often arrives at school early, juggling a slew of different responsibilities. On any given day, I’m performing the same tasks. I’m interacting with students, typing lessons and grading papers. Pam’s schedule differs from one week to the next. One day she could be signing students up for classes, the next day she’s administering the ACT and she might end the week by making a phone call to Child Protective Services about abuse claims.
I’m sure the last thing she wants is to be bombarded before first block begins. She’s probably dreading the arrival of Darcy, which is supposed to be today, even more than I am. At the same time, Pam would want to see this.
Pam gets out of her car, an empty Styrofoam cup falling to the ground as she does. I exit my vehicle, walking straight for her. “You have a second?” I ask.
She’s bent over retrieving the cup. She raises her head, sees me and smiles. “Morning, Della. I wish I could talk, but—”
“It’s really important,” I say, stopping her. I know her morning is busy due to Darcy’s return, but I’ve been holding onto the letter since Friday. I can’t stand one more minute of keeping it to myself.
When we enter the building, I don’t even bother going to my classroom. Instead, I follow Pam to her office. She fiddles with the lock, and I push the door open for her as she puts the items in her hands on the desk.
“So, Della,” she says, staring down at her calendar. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been wanting to speak with you since Friday,” I say. “I didn’t want to bother you over the weekend.”
“It’s no bother, Della,” she says, looking up.
I grab the essay from my bag and pass it over. “You need to read this.”
She takes the paper, flips it over to inspect the empty back. “What is it?” she asks, looking at me.
“A student turned this in on Friday. They included it in a pile of research essays.”
She takes a seat and begins reading. After a few seconds, she covers her mouth, her eyes still studying the page. “You think this is about Darcy?” she asks finally, looking back at me.
“It has to be,” I say. “I mean, look at the details. Her dress. The emphasis on her leg. And what are the odds of receiving something like this a week after the attack?”
“And someone just typed this, printed it off and turned it in with the other essays?”
“Well, you know how it is in the computer lab. Students do their own thing and print their own materials,” I say, regretting I hadn’t been more aware of what students were doing that day. “Whoever wrote this must have printed it off in addition to their essay and slid it in the stack for me to find.”
“Why would someone do this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to brag,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe to mess with me.”
“Do you have any idea who might have written this?” she asks, looking at me with an intense stare.
“I think so,” I say, my pulse quickening as I prepare to drop the name. “Zoey Peterson.”
“Why her?” she asks. “Has she said something about Darcy? Did you see her messing with the essays?”
“I think she might have been the one who hurt Darcy.”
“You think she attacked Darcy?” She acts like she misunderstands. “What makes you think that?”
“There are several reasons I find her suspicious,” I say, knowing I won’t be able to explain all my doubts in such a short amount of time. “Could I speak with you during your planning?”
“Sure,” she says, lifting the paper still in her hand. “May I make a copy of this?”
“Of course.”
“I need to prepare for Darcy’s return. She should be coming to my office any minute,
