All Eyes on Her

by L. E. Flynn

  Things would get better when Mark went back to school. Tabby would go back to normal. Maybe they would break up, and maybe they wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t be all she thought about.

  “You’re my only friend, you know,” Tabby says now. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  I return her hug, hoping she doesn’t feel the tension coiled in my shoulders. Because I have a feeling that without me, things would be a whole lot easier for her.

  SHARP EDGES CRIME—

  CUT TO THE TRUTH!

  September 24, 2019

  Tabitha Cousins: Good girl gone bad?

  By Oberon Halton

  The internet is buzzing about Tabitha Cousins, the 17-year-old arrested for the murder of her boyfriend after a hiking accident. Now wherever you look, there’s someone saying something new about Tabby, as she’s known to family and friends. A source close to her revealed exclusively to me that Tabby was having doubts about her relationship, but didn’t know how to end it.

  “She was scared of what he might do,” said the source, who asked not to be identified.

  This presents an interesting dichotomy. Tabby’s case has proved especially polarizing in the media, gaining recent traction on big news sites. A Facebook group that now has nearly 40,000 members is called the Tabby Cats. But a rival group, Remember Mark Forrester, is full of people who claim Tabby wanted him dead. A lot of commenters are comparing Tabby’s case to that of Amanda Knox. On one website, she was given the nickname “Blue-Eyed Boyfriend Killer,” which seems to have stuck.

  Readers have asked me what I think, and honestly, I’m torn here. I’m new to the scene and it means a lot that you trust my opinion. At first I looked at Tabby and thought: guilty, guilty, guilty. Then I started thinking more about it. Recent speculation that it may have been a suicide pact gone wrong actually holds weight with me. Maybe Mark went through with it, and she backed out. I definitely think she knows more than she’s saying, but maybe because she’s protecting him.

  My DMs are open to discuss, and feel free to leave a comment or reach out to me if you know anything about this case.

  COMMENTS

  PenIsABitch Suicide pact? Hell yes. I said that from the start. It’s only a matter of time until they find her backpack.

  Ares: She’s protecting somebody, but it’s not Mark. No way did that girl do it alone.

  23

  LOU

  LATELY HIS SWEETHEART sounds more like he’s talking to a small child. A small, stupid child. I’m not sure what changed between us, besides his ex popping up in, like, every news article ever, even though she hasn’t officially been arrested yet. (I keep waiting for that one!)

  It’s not easy being Beck Rutherford’s girlfriend. Not most of the time. Not when he asks you to do things you sometimes don’t want to do. (No, not like that, you perv.) I mean—ride on the back of his bike without a helmet. Go for walks at 2 a.m., which requires sneaking out of the house. My mom caught me once, and now she thinks I need to see someone to talk about all the feelings I’m experiencing. My mom’s big on feelings, which I guess makes sense, since she listens to other people’s for a living.

  You’ve probably seen Beck’s name tossed around online. It’s super frustrating. I don’t even know if he has seen it, since he doesn’t have social media (or much in the way of social skills, ha). He deleted his Facebook account after he and Tabby broke up.

  He’s not great at responding to my messages. I think I already said that, right? Well, today has been even worse. I can’t get in touch with him at all, and he never came over last night like he was supposed to. I don’t think boys understand sometimes what we go through to get ourselves ready. Like me. Every time I get that text, you around, I take a shower. I shave everywhere. I rub on the body lotion I know he likes. I put on my makeup, even though I took it off to go to bed. Then I respond. I’m here!

  (The exclamation mark is a bit much, right? My friend Tessa says exclamation marks are desperate. But Tessa has also been with the same boring boyfriend for four years and has only ever been in the missionary position.)

  I’m stewing about it after school when the doorbell rings, and I know it must be Beck, here in broad daylight for once. Except when I open the door wearing just a tank top and my underwear, I realize it’s not Beck. It’s a policeman, a young one. His eyes go big, then back to normal as I hide behind the door.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Louisa Chamberlain?”

  “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  Except I already know, don’t I? It must be something to do with Tabby. I knew they’d get to me eventually. They’ve already talked to a bunch of other people. Elle, Bridget, Beck (although good luck getting him to talk about that), even Mr. Mancini.

  “Is your mother home, Miss Chamberlain?”

  Well. I’m not expecting that. First of all, my mother is always at work, and also, this better not be the Guy. The one from her girls’ weekend. He has had so many different faces in my head. Ugly, handsome, bearded, blue-eyed, tall, squat. She never said his name, just refers to him as her mistake, like another possession she owns. I hate picturing it. My mother, drunk at a bar, probably screaming along to some terrible song from a band she saw in concert in the nineties, before I came along and made her practical. My mother, flirting with some guy, any guy who gave her a compliment and bought her a drink. My mother, going home with him.

  “She’s not home,” I say flatly. “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer. He’s way too young for my mom, but maybe that’s her type. Maybe any guy who isn’t my dad is her type.

  “Actually, we wanted to speak with you as well. Regarding Beck Rutherford.”

  A flush starts at my neck, which I know already looks blotchy, because that’s where I wear my emotions, in the space along my collarbone. Stress, embarrassment, lust, anxiety. All red and covered in welts—the world’s ugliest necklace.

  “What about him?”

  He reaches into his pocket, hands me his card. “Give me a call when it’s a good time for you. There are just a couple questions I have.”

  I take the card. I realize he doesn’t want to come in, because I’m a teenage girl in my underwear, and also because he doesn’t need to come in. I did nothing wrong.

  I tell him I’ll call him (I won’t) and shut the door. From the window, I watch him walk away. He has no swagger at all. His card says his name is Detective Blake Stewart. I forgot to see if he had a wedding band on, or maybe I didn’t forget, because it doesn’t matter. A little piece of metal does nothing.

  I go back upstairs and open my laptop. I used to just check the Tribune for updates on Tabby’s case, but now her face is everywhere else, too. Perez Hilton made her into a meme. I can’t help but think she’d love the attention.

  Then I found Sharp Edges Crime. Don’t ask me how. But now it’s, like, my new obsession. That sounds awful, but isn’t everything about this story?

  There was a new post yesterday. Good girl gone bad? Like she’s an overripe avocado. Have you read it? It’s actually pretty good journalism.

  I refresh the page, read the new comments. Tabby defenders. Gross.

  Don’t believe what you read. Don’t believe what you see. Every time they show her leaving her lawyer’s office or whatever, she’s all buttoned up and big-eyed. (How do they know where she’s going to be all the time? Who are they, exactly? She’s orchestrating this entire thing, I’m telling you.)

  She’s their darling. They’re determined to prove she didn’t do it. Remember what she told the Tribune? She was scared.

  So scared. So scared that she bothered to put on her fake eyelashes. And they all fell for it. Her tears, the way her hands shook. She loves this, becoming infamous. Her Insta, before it got taken down, was public, all super-filtered selfies and those Marilyn Monroe quotes every basic bitch loves to plaster over their lives. If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.

&n
bsp; But now, the truth is coming out. Now, they found a backpack and all those nasty texts, and it’s only a matter of time until they find the next bombshell. And all I want to say is I told you so.

  Text messages from Tabitha Cousins to Mark Forrester,

  October 24–25, 2018

  PEOPLE.COM

  September 26, 2019

  Girl, 17, only suspect in Princeton student’s murder

  By Talia Sims

  The death of a promising young man, which rocked the community of Coldcliff, Colorado, is now shaping into a murder investigation. On August 16, Tabitha Marie Cousins, 17, and her boyfriend, Mark Forrester, 20, were hiking to a lookout point known as the Split. Cousins told police that Forrester lost his footing and fell over the edge, and that she could barely find her own way back out of the woods, as the couple had hiked to see the sunset but ended up out after dark.

  However, when a backpack filled with rocks was found in Claymore Creek by police divers, Cousins was questioned by police and is now the only suspect in her former boyfriend’s death. She maintains her innocence. A statement by her lawyer said that Cousins had no knowledge of the contents of the backpack, or why Forrester got so close to the edge.

  A police search of the text message history between Cousins and Forrester, who had been dating for approximately one year, revealed a tumultuous relationship, with jealousy and accusations coming from Cousins. Sources close to the couple say that in the months leading up to Forrester’s death, things seemed better between them, when Forrester was home in Coldcliff for his summer break from Princeton.

  “They literally seemed perfect,” said a source, who requested to not be identified. “You’d never guess there was anything wrong.”

  Police are continuing their investigation, with District Attorney Anthony Paxton stating there is sufficient evidence to prove Cousins is guilty.

  Forrester was due to enter his third undergraduate year at Princeton. He planned to take the LSAT exam that fall, his brother said. Friends describe Forrester as studious, loyal, and generous.

  “He’d give anything to you,” said Forrester’s best friend, Keegan Leach, 20, also of Coldcliff. “The guy would give you the shirt off his back, even if you’d just met. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  In addition to his academic achievements, Forrester was a gifted swimmer, receiving several scholarship offers before turning them down to attend Princeton, his father’s alma mater. He swam competitively for Princeton, earning NCAA championships in his freshman and sophomore years. He was heavily favored to win the 100-meter freestyle in this year’s event, but failed to advance to the finals.

  “The stress got to him,” said a teammate who wished to remain anonymous. “It’s true, what everyone is saying. It was her. Always on him. I knew there was something wrong.”

  Cousins, a high school senior, has been called the “Blue-Eyed Boyfriend Killer” as media scrutiny increases around her. She is expected in court next week to hear the charges against her.

  COMMENTS

  Kiley_R_Loves_B: omg she totally did it, look at that pic of her. she looks sooo guilty

  XmanCometh: Because she’s wearing makeup? How can you tell if someone is guilty from a photo?

  MsPenn: I tried to look up her Instagram but it’s gone, so is his. I’m so curious about what happened. Girls don’t just kill their boyfriends. He must have done something to deserve it.

  Swifty01: One does not simply go hiking with a backpack full of rocks.

  HeadPerson: She goes to my high school!!!! And I know at least 5 people who slept with her

  BeeYoTiful: Maybe he killed himself? Just because they had angry text messages doesn’t make her a murderer. I mean if the cops found what my hubs and I sent each other they’d probably lock us both up.

  Kenn-A-D: I used to know this girl. She definitely did it.

  24

  LOU

  I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT. She made People! Not just, like, if you scroll way down the site either. There’s her face, right there, the biggest of the crime stories.

  Do you get it now, why I think she planned it this way? No publicity is bad publicity, right? And that girl wants to be famous. She wants people to stare. And she wants them to talk. I’ve known it ever since A Streetcar Named Desire.

  I find Beck today during my spare period, under the bleachers. He’s smoking again. He doesn’t try to hide it.

  “I’m not going to kiss you if you taste like ashes,” I say.

  “I never asked you to.” He taps his foot. That’s new. He’s—I don’t know. Nervous?

  I linger back. “You know, you’re killing me right now. In a secondhand kind of way.”

  He cocks his head. “Sweetheart, nobody made you stand this close.”

  “You’re an asshole. Are you not going to say anything about the article? I know you saw it. Do you believe it now? She’s guilty, Beck. They must have something on her.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe they just hope they do.”

  Beck didn’t always talk in riddles like that. When we first met, he and Tabby were way over. We don’t exactly run in the same crowd—actually, Beck doesn’t have a crowd—and it took some planning (scheming is such a nasty word) to make sure we were at the same party at the same time. It was a costume one, and I dressed as an angel. It was a risk, but I wanted to be the light to her dark. We hooked up that night and just kept hooking up and it turned into more.

  When Tabby first saw us together—I knew she was going to be pissed. She was with Mark, but the way she stared at Beck—she still wanted him. It was widely known that Beck dumped her for cheating on him. But you know what? She smiled. At me, or at him, I’m not sure. Almost like she liked the idea of us. Like nothing I did would shock her.

  “The Blue-Eyed Boyfriend Killer,” I say. “Honestly, how stupid is that? I’m sure she thought of it herself.”

  Beck just shrugs and crushes what’s left of his cigarette under his boot.

  Things are different without Tabby around. He looks different. Almost, like, cheaper. Not the authentic bad boy of your dreams but a Halloween costume, pleather instead of leather, cologne where he should be gritty. But that’s just how boys look in the absence of competition.

  “They questioned me,” Beck says just as I turn away. “I’m getting a lawyer.”

  “I know. She’s trying to drag you down with her. Don’t let her get away with it.”

  You know what this means, though, right? The fact that her face is literally everywhere? (Besides the fact that she loves the attention?)

  It means they really have something on her. Or they’re about to.

  25

  ELLE

  YOU ALREADY KNOW that Tabby lawyered up. What you probably don’t know is that I’m not even allowed to talk to her anymore. She’s more cut off every day, a princess in a two-story. I want to know what they have on her, besides a whole lot of crap supposedly proving that she’s not innocent. As if not being an angel translates into being guilty.

  I’m not innocent in all this either. I played a role. I’m still playing one.

  When I’m at school today, I lose myself in a swirl of girls, the same ones who come to my parties but don’t know me at all. It’s not their fault. When Tabby came into my life, I let everyone else slip out of a grasp I hadn’t even been aware I possessed. Now when they ask me anything—What are you doing after school? Are you going to the party in the woods?—what they’re really doing is trying to wedge me open so I let Tabby’s secrets sprinkle out.

  I don’t say a word. I tell them I’m fine and let my smile do the rest. My mouth is my deadliest weapon. I’ve told lots of lies with it. Two of my lies started out gossamer thin, with barely any substance. But they got so tangled that it stopped mattering.

  I know Dallas has algebra second period, and I’ve aligned my days so I don’t have to see him. But today, he’s coming out of Mr. Mancini’s office as I’m walking to the cafeteria, and I dart into a random c
lassroom so he doesn’t see me. Not that it matters. Dallas has been texting me nonstop. Elle, what’s going on? What did I do wrong? Just talk to me. If I did something, don’t I deserve to know?

  He did something. But I’m the one who did something wrong. This time, by not talking. See? My mouth really is my deadliest weapon. If it says something, it gets people in trouble. If it doesn’t, it gets me in trouble. Sometimes being a girl is a lose-lose situation. Like now—I have to hide not because I’m afraid of what he’ll say but because of what everyone else will.

  Beck’s text, which comes in right after I get home, is one I don’t ignore. Seeing his name on my phone still turns my ribs into a vise, gripping my heart. I got a lawyer. Are they still talking to you?

  It’s my fault he’s involved at all. Just like it’s my fault Tabby and Beck ended, and my fault she met Mark. I’m the catalyst for everything, and I’m the only one who knows it.

  She’s cheating on you. Those are the words I said to Beck when he and Tabby had been together for four months. I was drunk, barefoot in someone’s backyard, and I was irritated at Tabby for ignoring me and worshipping her leather-clad bad boy. She was so fucking starry-eyed. And she kept on flirting with other guys, even though she didn’t call it flirting. She called it being friendly. If she had seen Beck like I did—really seen him, his softness and the sensitive parts he swept underneath the hard exterior—she never would have been so friendly.

  He confronted her, and she didn’t deny it, because it was true. She had cheated on him. A kiss with Sawyer Hartman, who she didn’t even care about. I saw it, a quick grazing of their lips at the bus stop. I didn’t even know Tabby took the bus anywhere. Maybe that’s what bothered me most, that she had secret pockets in her life that I wasn’t invited into.