I went upstairs. A part of me wished he’d taken the IDs back to campus. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have to go forward. I could just bury my thoughts and label them as just that: thoughts. No proof. But I knew if I did that, girls would continue to go missing. He’d keep hurting people.
And that’s why when I reached into the guitar case lining and pulled out the bundle of IDs, I knew what I had to do.
Forty-Two
Now
My phone rings and I answer. It’s Danny. “How’s it going?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, biting off the end of a chocolate bar. “How’s work been?”
“Ah, exhausting.” He sighs into the phone. I can hear the tiredness in his voice. I pity him, but I need to remain focused. “What are you doing?”
“A bit of this and that,” I say, pulling the lever of the driver’s side chair and leaning back.
“You know the drill,” he says. “I won’t be home until Monday. You think you can stay out of trouble until then?” he asks. I think it’s only partially a joke.
“I’ll try my best. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” he says. The call ends.
I blast the air conditioning. Outside my car, the air is thick and muggy. I feel sorry for all the teenagers with styled hair. It’s bound to frizz with weather like this. Prom has been underway for more than an hour, but there are a few late additions. I watch each person enter, either hooking elbows with their dates or holding their friends’ hands. As predicted, all the dresses are longer and some are puffier. This is their biggest night of the year. Some of them have been planning it for months. Tonight, I’m worried about what Zoey has planned.
Now, it’s ten o’clock, which means the dance is officially over. Many people have already left, but I’m waiting on one in particular: Zoey. Finally, I see her. She’s standing outside the auditorium doors holding a phone to her ear. Her dress reminds me eerily of Darcy’s Spring Fling ensemble; there’s the same silky fabric and slit, but this version is floor-length and black. A silver car slowly makes its way to the front of the pick-up line. Zoey, who is still talking into the phone, bends down and looks through the window. A second later, she opens the door and enters the passenger side of the vehicle. I start my engine and follow the silver car into the street.
Three cars separate me from Zoey, but the single lane street makes it unlikely I’ll lose track of her. After about ten minutes, the direction we’re headed starts to seem familiar. As we move further away from concrete buildings and sidewalks, I realize we are drawing closer to Zoey’s house. It would be the perfect place for a party, or worse. No one is living there, and with Marge out of the way, there is no one to stop her from doing what she pleases on the property.
The silver car leads the way, coursing down the narrow gravel path. The cars in front of me follow, as do the few behind me. I keep driving straight, not wanting anyone to spot me. I slow my speed, trying to count each vehicle. Five, six, seven. Zoey must be hosting the party, controlling the night’s events. Had this been her goal all along? Usurp Darcy’s position as Queen Bee?
I pull to the side of the road, killing the engine. There’s plenty of room for anyone to pass, and if someone spotted my car from this point, they’d probably assume I ran into trouble. I see the lights from Zoey’s house in the distance.
Darcy’s party was broken up by police. Even though the night is barely underway, I know this is my best option for keeping everyone safe. I don’t even have to mention Zoey. All I need to do is make a noise complaint. The likelihood of them finding underage drinkers when they arrive is high. It will cancel whatever events Zoey has planned. I dial 911, provide the address and say loud music is blaring from the property. I’m sure police are on the lookout for rowdy teenagers.
Thirty minutes pass, and the police still haven’t arrived. At least a dozen other cars have, carrying who knows how many boozy youths. I know I should let the police handle Zoey. Like Danny says, I should be thinking about the baby. I can’t be putting myself—and him or her—in dangerous positions. But what if Zoey is already up to something? What if she hurts someone before police arrive? If I can just get my eyes on her, I can protect someone else from getting hurt.
Wet grass tickles my ankles as I exit the vehicle. Under my feet, the ground feels spongey from all the mud. I’m about a half-mile away from Zoey’s house at this point, and there are no longer streetlights lining the road. No one will be able to see me as I approach. I pull up the zipper of my coat and start walking.
Five minutes later, I’m close enough to throw a rock at Zoey’s mailbox. I take a deep breath. It’s foolish for me to be here, not to mention wholly unprofessional. But how many people has Zoey hurt since she’s moved here? Darcy. Ms. Peterson. Marge. In the past, I waited too long to express my concerns, which only led to more bloodshed. I’m not going to wait this time.
I scan my surroundings. I can’t very well walk down the same gravel driveway everyone else is using. In the backyard stands a small gardening shed. I sprint across the yard, hoping no one sees me, and crouch behind it. From here, I can look into the house through a series of windows. There must be over twenty
