The Night Olivia Fell Read online

  “What the actual fuck!” he exploded. “She’s such a liar. I got robbed and the guy pulled a knife on me! Not the other way around.”

  I shook my head, confused. “Why would she lie to me?”

  He shrugged and started walking. I had to hurry to catch up with him. “Because that’s what she does. She does it all the time with my parents. She’s the one who told them I’d been selling pot at school.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “No. Jesus! I smoked pot at home once. She caught me, so she went to my dad and said I’d been selling it. She did it because he’d been spending time with me, redoing the car. She can’t stand anybody else being the center of attention.”

  “Didn’t you tell them the truth?” I asked.

  “Of course! But Madison’s their princess. They believe everything she says.”

  Wanting, no needing, to be the center of attention was Madison’s biggest flaw. He had that right. I twisted the tail of my bracelet, looping the linked silver inside, then outside the bracelet’s circle. I thought back to how pissed off she was that everybody thought her brother was a drug dealer. If she’d lied about it, her plan had backfired.

  I blew out a harsh breath. “I’m sick of being lied to. My mom, Madison. Can’t people just tell the truth?”

  “Hey.” Derek stopped walking. He put his finger under my chin, lifted it so I had to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I upset you. Look, don’t even let Madison get you down. She has some issues because she’s, you know, her. But you’re her best friend, and I know she cares about you. Don’t let what I’ve said get in the way of that.

  “And if it’s any comfort”—he slung an arm around my shoulders—“I will never lie to you.”

  I held his gaze. Suddenly I realized that not once during the entire afternoon had I thought about Kendall or who my dad was or my mom’s lies. He’d done that for me. Helped me forget.

  I swept my eyes across his face, so familiar but so new. His eyes looked even bluer against the black of his clothes. He had a tiny strawberry-shaped scar above his right eyebrow. I imagined pressing my lips against it. I wanted so fiercely to touch him that I was taken aback.

  My eyes drifted shut. I thought for a moment we would kiss but something pinged, startling me. I moved away from him.

  I fumbled awkwardly in my pocket for my phone. It was a Facebook message. I clicked into it.

  “It’s Kendall,” I said. I read out loud: “Hi Olivia. Great to meet you! My dad said he owned a vacation house in Portage Point until he sold it in 1999. That’s where your mom’s from, right?”

  My eyes shot up to Derek’s. “That’s the year I was born,” I said flatly. “He sold the house he owned in the town where I was born, in the year I was born.”

  Derek sucked his breath in sharply. “That’s a lot of coincidences.”

  “Yep.”

  He looked at my face, which suddenly felt like it was made of stone. “I think maybe it’s time you talk to your mom.”

  12

  * * *

  ABI

  november

  A bitter wind flapped at the awning of the Piece of Cake Café. I stared at it from my parking space outside the police station. Across the street, the postman leaned into the wind as he delivered the mail, his body bent as he reached for a mailbox, reminding me that the world continued to turn with insulting haste.

  I don’t know how long passed as I sat there. My mind felt as if it were stuck inside a tumble dryer. My life was so messed up, my heart so broken, my head so muddled that I couldn’t even think straight.

  I rested my head on the steering wheel and squeezed my eyes closed. I needed to organize what I knew, arrange all the clues into straight columns that added up to a logical answer.

  The detectives had proof, indisputable proof, and still they weren’t going to investigate. But why? What wasn’t I seeing?

  My phone rang inside my purse, and I grabbed it. An unidentified number. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I’d found that, like a Pavlovian dog, I now reacted to the sound of my phone with intense fear, as if every call would bring bad news.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Abigail Knight?” The voice was male, gentle and soft-spoken.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Anthony Bryant. I’m a victim advocate with the Seattle Police Department.”

  I flashed back to Sarah telling me this morning she knew people with the SPD who might help me.

  “Oh, right. Hi.” I looked at the police station, distracted, my mind still on what had just happened. “That was fast.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sarah told me you’d call.”

  “Who?”

  “My sister, Sarah. Sarah Cassidy.”

  “Oh, yes. Sarah.” There was a slight pause. “Well, as a victim advocate, my job is to support those affected by crime. What I can do is help provide clarity and answer any questions you have about your daughter’s case. I can also arrange access to a counselor.”

  Rage hit me hard and fast, filling my organs and pulsing along my nerve endings. I’d told Sarah I didn’t want a counselor. I wanted answers!

  “I don’t need a shoulder to cry on,” I said tightly. “I need somebody to help me find out what happened to my daughter. There were bruises on her wrists!”

  “Bruises?”

  “Yes!”

  He paused for a long moment, and I heard papers shuffling. “I’m looking at the police report for your daughter now. Would you be free to meet today to discuss it?”

  My heart leapt and I looked at my watch. He had access to Olivia’s police report. Maybe he could help me after all.

  “I can meet you now,” I said.

  × × ×

  I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and headed toward the café. Decorated with vintage lamps and deep-seated couches, it was one of those indie joints serving organic coffee, homemade sandwiches, vegan muffins, and gluten-free brownies. Although new in town, it had become popular with the yummy-mummy crowd. As I pushed open the door, the scent of cinnamon and sugar, and the hiss of a coffee machine assaulted me.

  The sound of indistinct chatter faded as I entered. Two moms with strollers stopped ordering and exchanged glances. The barista frothing milk stared at me, her mouth open. A girl who’d graduated from Olivia’s school last year was in the corner with her mother. Their eyes landed like hot wax against my face, then slid away.

  A prickly flush crawled up my neck, but I forced myself to the counter and ordered a grilled-cheese sandwich and a black coffee. I wished suddenly I carried a flask of whiskey with me. A shot would go a long way right now.

  I sat beside a window near the door and stared outside as I waited for Anthony, the coffee warming my hands while the cheese in my sandwich cooled and hardened. The hard lines of the maple trees that lined the road stood out like charcoal drawings against the gunmetal-gray sky. Between lingering brown leaves, I could just make out the horizontal expanse of the sea.

  I took the opportunity to e-mail my boss, Malcolm, requesting another two-week leave. He replied almost immediately, saying to take as much time as I needed. I assured him it would just be the two weeks.

  About a half hour later, the door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. The man who entered with it was tall and broad-shouldered, handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way, with a thatch of dark hair that flopped over his eyes and the early workings of a beard on his face. He wore comfortable-looking brown leather shoes, a beige canvas coat. His eyes, when he turned to me, were a wide, earnest green.

  “Miss Knight?” His voice was the same gentle tone I’d heard on the phone.

  “Yes.” I stood and shoved a hand out to shake his. When he clasped mine, his grip was firm and rough with calluses. “Abi. It’s just Abi.”

  He nodded as he settled a black laptop bag on his chair. Then he peeled off his coat and draped it over the back. Underneath he wore navy wool trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt.

  “I�
��m Anthony. Let me grab a coffee, and I’ll be right back. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  I watched him as he ordered. His skin was tan for this time of year, weathered, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. It made the winter green of his eyes even brighter. He looked like a man who’d seen things, done things. There was something about him that seemed inherently kindhearted, and something else . . . fractured.

  Anthony smiled widely at something the barista said. He had deep creases around his mouth, smile lines. He tipped two dollars, which seemed excessive, and waited patiently while the girl talked over the steamer. He listened intently, his body still and calm, until his coffee was ready.

  He took a long sip as he sat down across from me. “Pumpkin latte,” he said. “I’m counting the days till the peppermint mocha comes out. I live on those things all winter.”

  I cringed. Yuck.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “So. You’ve worked with Sarah?” I asked.

  “Sarah? Oh, your sister.” He took a big gulp of his coffee, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the collar of his shirt. “I’ve referred a number of victims and their families to Sarah for counseling. A few years back, my mother—she has Alzheimer’s—went missing. It was terrifying. Sarah stayed out most of the night helping me look for her. She’s great that way.”

  I was taken aback. “Sarah never said.”

  Anthony smiled. “No, she’d never brag. She’s a good egg.”

  He reached for his laptop bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It was the police report and a copy of McNally’s notes. “You mentioned that there were bruises on Olivia’s wrists. I wanted to speak to you about that because it isn’t in the police report.”

  He pushed the papers toward me, and I scanned them.

  “I don’t understand.” I shook my head, feeling dizzy and confused. “They saw them—they said the bruises were from the fall. She had bruises on her wrists. Finger-shaped bruises.”

  “It isn’t here. Did an investigator measure the depth of the bruises?” he asked. “Determine if they were defensive wounds or not?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. But Olivia’s doctor told me Detective Samson took pictures of the bruises on her wrists. Why wouldn’t she include that?”

  “It could just be an accidental oversight. It could be . . .” Anthony looked like he was floundering, groping for a reason. “I don’t know, to be honest. I’ll have a word with one of my contacts and see what I can find out about the detectives. Maybe they’re newbies and need some direction.”

  I told him about the texts from Tyler and the hideous images in her iCloud account.

  “Any idea who might have sent them?” he asked.

  “No. None. Like I told the police, everybody likes Olivia.”

  “Have you asked Tyler why he lied?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him in weeks. But I’m sure it’s just miscommunication. Tyler adores Olivia. He’s broken up about her.”

  Anthony handed me a sheet of paper and a pen.

  “Can you list the names of all the people she knew? It’ll help us know who to talk to.”

  I noticed immediately he’d said “us,” and a wave of relief rushed over me. For the first time, it felt like somebody was on my side in all this. Somebody believed me. I wasn’t alone.

  I wrote down every name I could think of in a neat list. Everybody was a suspect now. But it was a start.

  My phone rang then, and I reached for it. It was Sarah.

  “Abi,” she said in a rush. “I have to leave the hospital—something’s happened at Dylan’s school. He threw a book or something. But my car battery’s dead. Any way you can give me a jump? Brad isn’t answering his phone.”

  I told her I’d be there in a few minutes and hung up. I stood and pulled my coat on.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said to Anthony. “I need to go.”

  “No problem.” He swept the papers into a neat pile. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  × × ×

  Night was settling onto the gray horizon over Puget Sound as I drove home from the hospital. Rain pattered against my car, and I clenched the steering wheel tightly, my wipers clattering as they shoved at the rain. Beyond my windshield, the rain hammered the sea grass into submission. The churning white surf battered the sand along the beach road, foam fanning out from the waves as they crashed into the shore.

  At home, I slammed my car door shut and plodded up the front steps, the freezing air slapping me in the face. Inside I stood motionless in the entryway. The overwhelming anguish I’d been fighting all day climbed up the knobs of my spine.

  I’d tried so hard to keep my daughter safe. I had so many rules: you’re not allowed in a car with friends after dark; never walk on the road. We talked about stranger danger; I signed her up for self-defense classes when she was thirteen. All these rules I’d created for our life, I thought they’d keep her safe.

  I grabbed a bottle of red wine and poured a hefty glass, draining it faster than I should have. I refilled the glass and took it to my living room, setting it on the coffee table just as my house phone rang.

  “Hello, Miss Knight. Kaycee Bright, KOMO News,” came the overly sparkly voice of an eager young reporter. “We’d like to—”

  “No comment!” I roared, and slammed the phone down. The inexorable tide of tears crashed into me, and I crawled onto the couch, grasping my chest as if my heart would break.

  I missed Olivia, her smile, her laughter, her lighthearted chatter. I missed the inside jokes we used to crack, the sound of her voice, the twinkle in her eyes. I felt a giant, all-encompassing yearning guzzling me whole.

  It reminded me of the yearning I’d felt when my mom died.

  I took another long slurp of wine and refilled the glass, anxiety curling inside my body. I drank heavily and deeply as night crashed around the house, dark memories rolling over me. Eventually I slid into a strange, disjointed sleep, my dreams chaotic and colorful, as if my mind were having a lunatic’s house party. I swam toward consciousness, floating in the space between thoughts and dreams.

  I looked down at my pajamas, and they were the purple princess ones I had when I was six. An icy wind blew up the bottom, chilling my legs as I stood on the roof next to my mom.

  The air smelled electric. The clouds frothed angry and gray, and a fork of lightning illuminated the sky in the distance. I counted the way Sarah had taught me, reaching five before a violent clap of thunder vibrated along the gutters.

  Mom wrapped her arms around me, her eyes glinting like wet pebbles. I could feel the warmth of her skin through her thin shirt.

  “If you jump you’ll be able to fly!” she hissed, her breath hot against my ear.

  She tugged me toward the edge, and I peered down to the front yard, where dead leaves cartwheeled across our patch of grass.

  Something horrible and scary scratched at the back of my throat and my tummy felt like I’d been whirling too fast on the merry-go-round. It was so far down. I didn’t think I could actually fly. But I really wanted Mom to be happy.

  The first drops of rain splattered against my bare arms, and my pajamas swirled around my ankles.

  Over the edge of the gutter, I could see Sarah pulling up in her battered old green Gremlin. She jumped out and started waving her arms like crazy windmills. Her words were ripped away by the wind.

  “Fly, Abi!” Mom screamed. “Fly!”

  I took a tiny step closer to the edge, and then another, but suddenly Sarah was there, wrenching me backward—

  I jolted awake, my mouth wine-dry, my neck aching from sleeping on the couch. A feeling huddled in my chest, something like fear but also a deep longing and a desperate sadness, all at the same time. The dream was still hanging around me, caught in the damp blanket tangled around my body.

  A rustling sound startled me and I froze, listening to the noises of the darkened livi
ng room—the ticking of the clock, the hum of heat through the vents—my whole body tense and tingling.

  Eventually I sat up and threw the blanket off, looking to where the sound had come from. A white piece of paper had been pushed under my front door. I padded across the room in my bare feet, my neck aching and my head thumping. I picked it up and read the small, printed words:

  They were told to stop investigating.

  13

  * * *

  ABI

  november

  I didn’t fall asleep the rest of the night. Instead, I stayed up making lists: of people Olivia knew, of who the baby’s father might be, of who might want to hurt her. I wanted answers. Clarity. But there was none. As dawn broke over the horizon, the feelings inside me felt too big to turn off.

  I paced the kitchen floor, the note clutched in my hand.

  They were told to stop investigating.

  I walked past the mirror in the living room and caught sight of my reflection. I looked terrible, blond hair stringy and dark with oil, skin yellow and jaundiced, my eyes bloodshot, from lack of sleep or too much alcohol, I wasn’t sure. My clavicles jutted out of my chest like little elbows. I looked disgusting.

  Why had the detectives been told to stop investigating? And by whom? And who’d left me that note? I glanced at the clock, but it was only 6 a.m. I couldn’t call Anthony yet.

  I dropped the note on the dining room table, my hands shaking, and headed for the shower. Stripping off my clothes and turning the temperature up as high as I could stand, I stepped into the water, directing the spray onto the knots along my shoulders. I let the water scald my skin until I felt faint and had to get out.

  After that, I forced myself to eat breakfast. The stale Cheerios slid down my throat and plopped into the wine that still pooled in my stomach. I nearly retched but managed to hold it down. I needed my strength.