She felt the anxiety begin to build, tried to do what her roommate had said: Deep, slow breaths, redirect your thoughts. Think of something happy. She thought of her house in the fall, the way her mom made soup once a week and decorated with gourds and colorful leaves, lit pumpkin-spice candles, and put out mums on the front porch. In another few weeks her mom would buy their Halloween pumpkin and they would all carve it together, just like always. They would be together, and they would figure things out together. Yes, she had run home to Mommy and Daddy. But isn’t that the place we’re supposed to go when we’re hurt? And she was hurt. She closed her eyes, blocked the memory of the night before, her embarrassing, very public breakdown, her roommate’s hands pulling her up off the ground.
They turned into her neighborhood, and she scooched forward in the seat, her heart picking up speed the closer they got. What would her family say when she just showed up like this, so unexpectedly? They thought she was tucked away in college, happy, making friends, learning her way around the campus, joining clubs, doing exactly as she’d been meant to do. She hadn’t had the heart to tell them any different, keeping what had happened a secret from her family, being the girl they expected her to be instead of the girl she was. But last night she had broken, and then she had run.
She’d charged the plane ticket on her emergency credit card at 4:00 a.m., booking a flight from Birmingham, Alabama, to Raleigh, North Carolina, that would land at 2:00 p.m. that day. Her roommate, a nice girl named Amanda, whom she’d been randomly paired with (what bad luck Amanda had—getting saddled with her), had helped her pack, then drove her the hour to the airport because she had a car. Casey could feel Amanda’s sense of relief swell as they turned into the airport entrance and said their goodbyes. The sky was just starting to lighten as a new day dawned.
“I’ll see you back here once you’ve got yourself sorted out,” Amanda said, giving Casey her best, most affirming smile. Casey had agreed, but only because she was too exhausted to argue. Hungover, she’d bought herself a hot tea and a bagel at one of the airport restaurants, bided her time till she could board the plane, till she could go home. Unable to sleep in her dorm room, she’d slept like a baby on the plane, waking up to the announcement that they were beginning their descent and to return their seats to an upright position.
Now, in front of her house, she swiped her credit card (the emergency one again, because this was an emergency; her parents would know that eventually), added a generous tip, and stepped out of the cab. The driver hopped out, grabbed her luggage from the trunk, and handed the two bags over. Her parents had rented a U-Haul and driven for hours to move her into college, but she was coming home with just two bags. She’d learned what she could live without in the time she’d been away.
“Thank you,” she said to the driver, who grinned back at her and wished her a good day. He hopped back into his cab and pulled away from the curb. She heard music come on inside the cab as he drove off. Then the sound of the music faded completely, leaving her standing on the driveway listening for something—anything—that sounded familiar. It was a weekday, and the neighborhood was typically quiet.
She stood in her driveway looking up the street in the direction they’d come from, then down the street, past her house. Her gaze stopped on the house across the street and seven doors down: her little sister’s best friend’s house. There were police cars parked in front of it, and men in uniform were buzzing around like flies who’d found a picnic. She left her luggage on the drive and walked toward the sight, her curiosity compelling her to investigate and providing an excuse to delay going inside her own house.
As she neared Violet’s house, an officer posted by the mailbox stepped into the street, his arm up like a crossing guard. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you not to come any closer.” He was cute, in a cop sort of way. In her old life, she’d have flirted with him, pushed his buttons just because she could.
He was young and new at this, she could tell. Probably a recent graduate from the police academy. He’d drawn the crap job, guarding access to the house, keeping nosy neighbors at bay. He probably wanted to be inside the house, gathering evidence, guessing at the truth of whatever had happened there, doing the job he’d dreamed of instead of the one he’d been given.
She offered an explanation to try to sound concerned rather than plain old nosy. “I know the people who live here.” She paused to give him a chance to speak, but he said nothing in response. She tried again. “I mean the girl who lives here—she’s a friend of my younger sister.”
He nodded dully, unfazed by her connection. But he didn’t shoo her away, either. She thought of Violet: sweet, soft-spoken, shy Violet, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. She hoped someone hadn’t hurt her.
“Can I ask what happened?”
