“All right,” Macy grunts as she hoists herself through the window as well. “Now the party can start.”
“You girls are insane,” I say, quickly surveying the interior of Heather Kent’s bedroom. “I wasn’t going to break in. All I wanted was a peek through the window.”
Georgie rolls her eyes. “Now that you’re here, have a look around.” She smacks Macy on the arm. “Let’s raid the fridge. I call the cheese and lunch meats.”
Macy ticks her head. “I call the chocolate and cookies.”
“You’re both disgusting,” I whisper as they take off.
The bedroom isn’t all that spacious, but it’s still three times the size of mine. There’s a king-size bed to my right with a pink frilly comforter dotted with unicorns. To each her own I suppose. Along the far wall, three oversized pictures of horses hang in gilded frames. There’s a dresser with jewelry scattered across the top, a few earrings and necklaces. But it’s the vanity in the corner that has my attention, and I quickly make my way over. The vanity itself is white with a large mirror set above it against the wall. But the contents on the surface of the vanity are what feel like pay dirt.
A trio of white candles sits on a flat mirrored base. They’re melted down severely and there’s a minty scent emanating from them. Scattered around the four edges of the vanity are tiny bundles of pale looking weeds held together with bright pink rubber bands. I’m guessing that’s the sage.
Two thick drawers sit under the vanity and I slip the first one open. Nothing but a few stray pens, lip-gloss, and some blank notepads inside. I open the next one and discover a plastic red folder. I pull it out and find it filled with clippings from newspapers. Most of the edges are yellowed and the paper itself feels fragile. I glance at the first headline and gasp.
Bridesmaid Drowns at Seaside Wedding.
I pull my phone out and take a picture of the article.
My God, why would she save these?
I quickly pull out a few other articles, and they’re all about Rachel Hatterman, the poor bridesmaid who passed out in the water and was found dead the next day.
That conversation Jasper and I had with Kendra, the bride, comes back to me. She practically accused Heather of orchestrating that drinking game.
Could Heather have done that in hopes Rachel would wander to the water? Maybe Heather led her to the water?
I’m not a big drinker, but I can imagine it would take a lot to black out. And if she was that wasted, could she really make it across all the beach? Walking in sand is a lot harder than walking on flat land.
I pull another article out and scan over it quickly, hoping against hope it’ll give me a clue. Woman’s Body Washes Up Against Rocks After a Night of Drunken Revelry.
The rocks.
Come to think of it, maybe Heather bashed her over the head with a rock? But why?
Kendra also mentioned that Heather denied knowing Rachel, even though Rachel insisted they were high school friends.
I think it’s clear Heather had something to hide. I wonder if Rachel knew about Heather’s secret? I wonder if it cost the poor girl her life?
I thumb through the rest of the articles and marvel at what lengths Heather went to procure all of these different newspapers. And for goodness’ sake, why?
An article tucked in the back catches my eye. It looks badly yellowed, dating back eleven years.
I do a quick scan of the other articles and they’re all from six years ago.
A loud bang emits from the kitchen, followed by an expletive-riddled tirade coming from Macy, but I’m too absorbed in what’s in my hands to care.
I carefully pull the article from the back.
High School Girl Found Dead at Smuggler’s Cove. Aileen Bradley from Woodley Heights.
“What’s this?” I whisper as I squint to read the faded lettering.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out to see a text from Emmie.
Leave NOW!
“Oh God.” I take a quick picture of the article and work my fastest to get the rest of the clippings back into the folder.
Macy and Georgie run by in a blur before trying to dive out of the window at the very same time.
That last article about the girl in Smuggler’s Cove is still hot in my hand, and I can’t seem to part with it. What if the picture doesn’t come out? What if it’s the missing link to the puzzle that is Heather Kent?”
I fold it up and start to put it into my pocket.
“I shouldn’t do this,” I pant.
A loud snap goes off on the wall to my right as all three pictures fall to the floor at once.
I gasp and bury the article into my pocket like a reflex.
All that talk about ghosts runs through my mind and I quickly shake it away.
“It was probably just Macy and Georgie,” I mutter as I give the vanity one last glance. And then in a moment, the wicks on the three candles begin to spark—as one by one an elongated flame appears.
“Oh my God!” I panic as I blow them out in haste then make a mad dash for the window, and as soon as I spot a handsome man with his arms folded across his chest, I let out a bona fide scream.
Jasper pulls out his badge and holds it up.
“Seaview County Sheriff’s Department.” His voice is deep and somber. “You’re under arrest.”
Chapter 15
“I can’t believe you arrested me.”
“I had to make it look good.” Jasper secures his grip over the steering wheel.
Jasper cuffed me and placed me in the passenger’s side of his truck, much to the delight of the applauding neighbors. But all was not as it had seemed. It wasn’t
