The Class Reunion: A psychological suspense thriller

by N L Hinkens

  “I know, right?” Violet sighed. “She kind of retreated into herself after high school and became laser focused on her work. I can’t deny she excels at it, but she’s a bit of a loner. Her dog, Phoebe, is about the only company she has. I think she regrets letting her friendship with Lindsay slide over the years. Granted, Lindsay was busy competing all over the country, but Heather could have made more of an effort to go to some of her races. I told her so a bunch of times. It’s good she’s been able to reconnect with you, even though it came about through unfortunate circumstances.”

  “We’re all grateful she agreed to come back and investigate what’s happening,” Reagan said. “We kind of drifted apart in our last year in high school. We both ran for class president, as you know—I think she resented me for winning. Hopefully, that’s all water under the bridge now.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t hold it against you,” Violet said. “She certainly hasn’t said anything to that effect.”

  “That’s reassuring to hear. I’d hate to think—” Reagan broke off when Marco let out a raucous sneeze.

  “What was that?” Violet asked, an edge to her voice. “Is someone there with you?”

  “No, not really. I’m at The Sardinian.”

  “Is Marco there?” Violet demanded.

  “Well, yes. But—”

  Violet cut her off. “Let me guess, Josh is listening in too. Is that what this is really about? Are you guys ganging up on Heather behind her back? Do you honestly think she’s some kind of sick killer, or what?”

  “Calm down, Violet!” Reagan soothed, grimacing across the table at Josh and Marco.

  “And to think I actually thought you were being sympathetic for once,” Violet sputtered. “All the while you’re pumping me for information. Well let me tell you something, you’ve got all the information you’re going to get out of me. And you better believe I’m going to be telling Heather about this call and how you’re scheming behind her back—just like you did in high school, bribing everyone to vote for you and spreading your poisonous rumors. I know what you’re up to, but this time, you won’t get away with sabotaging my sister!”

  19

  Heather pulled onto the street where Roy lived and switched off the engine. The house was in darkness and there were no vehicles parked in the driveway or along the curb. It was only 8:30 p.m.—too early for Roy and Aidy to have turned in for the night. Heather drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She could afford to hang around for an hour or two before heading back to Violet’s place. She reclined her seat a few inches and fished a water bottle out of her backpack.

  Her thoughts gravitated to Sydney. Test results had confirmed ethylene glycol poisoning—a sobering diagnosis. There was little doubt in Heather’s mind now that this was connected to the threatening messages. The police had grilled Steve for a good half hour, wanting to know if Sydney had had any suicidal thoughts, how stable their relationship was, whether they had got into an argument that morning, if they kept antifreeze in their garage—on and on until an already emotional Steve had been on the verge of tears. Heather couldn’t help wondering what the police would think if they knew about the cards accusing her of being a killer. Would Steve suspect her of poisoning Sydney once he opened his mail? After all, she had sat at their table chatting with them for a good ten minutes last night at the restaurant—more than enough time to slip something into her drink.

  After casting another glance up and down the street, Heather retrieved her phone from her purse and pulled up a website detailing the various signs and stages of ethylene glycol poisoning. Odorless, and colorless, it was a not uncommon method of poisoning in domestic murder cases. It came as no surprise to read that alcoholics sometimes killed themselves by ingesting it with anti-freeze. Disturbingly, children had even been known to drink it due to its sweet taste. Heather furrowed her brow as she scanned the rest of the article. Sydney had exhibited many of the classic symptoms of ethylene glycol poisoning: slurred speech, dizziness, headache, nausea, vomiting, difficulty in breathing. Thankfully, Steve had overruled her reluctance to seek medical help and insisted on taking her to the ER. If she had stayed home, kidney failure would have been a real danger, and by then it would have been too late.

  The real question in Heather’s mind, and no doubt in the minds of the detectives, was how Sydney had ingested the poison. She felt fairly confident that she could rule out the Waterfront Bistro. According to the website, Sydney would have been experiencing symptoms almost right away. That only left two possibilities in Heather’s mind. Either Steve had slipped the poison to her, or someone had added it to the latte she had picked up at the coffee shop. But how could anyone have tampered with her drink in a public space? It seemed the more unlikely option, which left the chilling possibility that Steve was the culprit.

  Heather leaned her head against the car window and stared across at Roy’s house, still shrouded in darkness. She would give it another fifteen minutes and then call it a night and try again tomorrow. Something told her Roy wasn’t the key to everything that was happening, beginning with Lindsay’s bizarre death. This was bigger than the bad blood between Roy and Reagan.

  Turning her attention back to her phone, she opened her browser and typed in: what does it feel like to die from a rattlesnake bite? For several minutes, she stared at the page of results that came up, loathe to click on an article and read the morbid details. But another part of her needed to know what Lindsay’s last moments on earth had been like. Gritting her teeth, Heather clicked on the first article and began reading.

  Typically, you will experience pain, tingling, or burning in the area where you’ve been bitten. Swelling, bruising, or discoloration at the site is common.

  Heather squirmed in her seat. In Lindsay’s case, the swelling and discoloration had been severe—so severe that her mother had chosen to have her cremated. Heather blew out a shaky breath. It must have been traumatic for Pam to have to identify her daughter. It was still hard for Heather to fathom that Lindsay had been bitten twice—it was extremely unusual. The coroner had speculated that Lindsay had landed on, or close to, a nest of rattlesnakes or possibly a breeding pair.

  Heather glanced back down at her phone screen and scrolled through the progression of symptoms: numbness in the face or limbs, lightheadedness, weakness, nausea or vomiting, sweating, blurred vision, difficulty breathing. Not unlike Sydney’s symptoms. She exited out of her browser and tossed her phone into the console, her stomach lurching. It was horrific to picture Lindsay slowly dying at the side of the trail as night fell, suffering, and all alone. None of it made sense. Lindsay had been an elite athlete and a professional cyclist. What could have caused her to crash on what for her was a basic trail?

  Heather glanced across the street one last time, and then started up the car. It was getting late and she was cold and tired—time to head back to Violet’s. She had stuck around long enough for the elusive Roy to make an appearance. Her meeting with Reagan’s ex would have to wait for another day.

  As soon as she walked into Violet’s kitchen, she could tell by the expression on her sister’s face that she was upset about something.

  “Where have you been?” Violet asked.

  Heather flopped down on the chair next to her. “I drove by Roy’s place and hung out for a while. You weren’t worried about me, were you?”

  Violet pressed her lips into a tight line. “I’m more worried about you now than ever.”

  Heather raised her brows a fraction. “Has something happened?”

  “You could say that,” Violet retorted, folding her arms on the table in front of her.

  “Are you going to make me pull it out of you, or can you just spare me the agony and tell me what’s bothering you?”

  “Your so-called friends are what’s bothering me.”

  Heather spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Reagan called me a little while ago. She said she wanted to talk to me abou
t you. All very hush hush. She tried to make out she was concerned about your mental health and the strain you were under investigating what was going on.”

  Heather gave a small shrug. “That’s typical Reagan. Always trying to take control and manage the situation.”

  “That wasn’t it at all. She was on a fishing expedition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Violet narrowed her eyes. “She wanted to know how you reacted to the card: Heather has killed before. She’ll do it again. You don’t know her—the card you neglected to tell me about.”

  Heather sighed and smoothed her hair back from her face. “I didn’t want you worrying about me any more than you already are.”

  “Bit late for that,” Violet huffed.

  “What else did Reagan ask you?”

  “She wanted to know if you still resented the fact that she was elected class president. She thinks you’re harboring a grudge against the rest of the student council for voting for her—that you’re behind everything that’s going on. Doesn’t that bother you? That your friends think you’re some kind of psycho loner who has come back twelve years later to bump them off.”

  Heather stared at her aghast. “It’s just Reagan overreacting—”

  “It’s not just Reagan,” Violet interrupted. “Josh and Marco were sitting right there with her listening in on every word while she was pretending to have a private conversation with me. All the while, she was milking me for information about you—asking about your life in LA.”

  The knot in Heather’s stomach tightened. She wasn’t all that surprised to hear that Marco had been in on it, but she was shocked and disappointed to hear that Josh had participated in something so underhand.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Violet demanded.

  Heather furrowed her brow. “It’s disheartening but understandable, to some extent. They’re scared, Violet. Someone’s threatening them, trying to kill them, even going after their families. And the card they got in the mail alleges I’m a killer. Of course they’re going to have questions. Fear makes people act in strange ways.”

  “And you’re okay with that? That your friends are ganging up on you behind your back?” Violet shook her head in disbelief. ”It’s partly your own fault, you know. You could have made more of an effort to be sociable and keep in touch with them all these years. Reagan brought that up too. Why did you have to cut everyone off your senior year? And don’t tell me it’s because of what happened to me. I don’t understand why you can’t move on from that. It’s almost as if you were the one it happened to. It’s over. I’ve put it behind me. I have a husband and I’m about to become a mother. It’s about time you moved on too.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” Heather protested.

  “Then try harder!”

  “It’s not that simple, Violet.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s a choice. You choose to keep on hating. I chose to let it go. The man who attacked me is dead—”

  “Yes he is! And I killed him!”

  20

  After a beat of silence, Violet spoke up, her tone considerably more gentle, “I’m sorry, Heather. I didn’t mean to upset you. You have to stop with the guilt trip. We all wished him dead—”

  “I didn’t just wish him dead,” Heather retorted. She got to her feet and began to pace in front of her sister. “I drove him to his death.”

  Violet gripped the back of her chair, looking up at her with a bewildered expression. “You’re scaring me with your rambling.” She gestured to the seat next to her. “Please, sit back down and let’s talk about it. I know it was hard for you to get past the attack—you were always my protector. I get it, truly I do.”

  “No, you don’t get it at all.” Heather sank down opposite Violet and looked intently at her. “I’m going to tell you the truth about what happened that night. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but with everything that’s going on, I feel I don’t have a choice . Otherwise nothing’s going to make sense to you, and I don’t want to have to lie to you. The truth is, I killed Damien Kinney and I think someone knows.”

  Violet blinked in confusion and shook her head vehemently. “No you didn’t. You’re not making any sense, Heather. He crashed his truck into a tree. We read about it in the paper, remember?”

  “I know he crashed into a tree,” Heather said quietly. “I saw what happened because I was following him that night. He was trying to get away from me and he lost control of his truck.”

  Violet made a strange gulping sound at the back of her throat. “Why … why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

  “I couldn’t risk anyone finding out, and I didn’t want you to have the burden of keeping my secret. That’s what the message in the card is about: Heather has killed before. She’ll do it again.”

  Violet took a shallow breath. “Following him doesn’t make you a killer. He had alcohol in his system. He was over the legal limit. Drugs too. The autopsy …” Her voice trailed off.

  Heather nodded, dropping her head into her hands. “I know, but there’s more to the story.”

  “What are you talking about?” Violet squeezed her hands together. “What did you do, Heather? Did you give him the drugs? Please, just tell me!”

  Heather straightened up, chewing on her lip. “No, nothing like that. I was following him because I wanted to find out where he lived. I don’t honestly know what I was planning to do when I caught up with him. I brought one of dad’s shotguns in the car. I told myself it was only for protection, or maybe to threaten Damien with—to make him apologize for what he’d done to you. I wanted him to know what it felt like to feel powerless.” She chewed on her nail, frowning. “But I never got the opportunity. He realized he was being followed and he blocked the road with his truck. He climbed out and started hammering on my car and kicking the door. So I held the gun up to the window. I think he recognized me then. He ran back to his truck and took off again, driving even more erratically than before. And then … and then he hit the tree.”

  Heather fell silent for a moment.

  “Don’t stop now,” Violet prompted her. “You have to finish. I need to know what you did.”

  “After he wrecked, I waited in my car for a few minutes. I was scared to get out in case he was waiting for me. When I finally plucked up the courage, I took the gun with me.” A small sob escaped her lips.

  Violet laid a hand on her arm. “But you didn’t shoot him. He died from the injuries he sustained in the crash.”

  “That’s the thing,” Heather said softly. “He wasn’t dead. I thought he was at first but then he lifted his head and stared at me. He pressed his fingers against the glass.” Heather gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. “The look in his eyes was sheer desperation. He was pleading with me to help him. But I turned and walked away. I got back in my car and drove home and never reported the accident. I left him to die.”

  Violet tented her fingers over her mouth and nose, her eyes bulging as she stared at Heather. After a moment or two, she stammered, “But someone found him later that night.”

  “Not until four in the morning. He was dead by then. I could have saved him, but I didn’t. I wanted him to die,” Heather rasped.

  Violet shook her head slowly, her face bleached of color. “I … don’t know what to say. I mean, I understand you felt you’d failed to protect me but—” Her voice faded away.

  “I’ve had to live with what I did,” Heather said softly. “I chose revenge—I convinced myself back then it was justice. It cost me everything. I’ve lived with the guilt clinging to me like a leech all these years. And now what I did has come back to haunt me. My friends are being targeted because of me.”

  Violet wrinkled her brow. “You don’t know that. It might not be connected to what’s happening.”

  “I didn’t want to believe it either, at first, but everything’s pointing in that direction. That card: Heather has killed before. She’ll do it again. Someone knows what
I did.” Heather interlocked her fingers and squeezed her hands together. “And it goes much deeper than that. I’m convinced Lindsay’s death is somehow related to all of this.”

  “You’re reading too much into it,” Violet said. “Just because Lindsay was part of the student council, it doesn’t mean her accident had anything to do with the threatening messages.”

  Heather picked at her nail. “I’m not convinced it was an accident.” She got to her feet. “There’s something I have to show you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get something. I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes later, she returned to the kitchen with the hook she’d found in the brush and placed it on the table. “I found this not far from where Lindsay’s body was discovered.”

  Violet picked it up and examined it. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. A hook, obviously, but it looks as if it screws into a pole or something. Someone could have used this to cause the accident. Lindsay was an experienced off-road cyclist. It never made sense to me that she supposedly spun out on a little mud. What if someone hooked the wheel of her bike and deliberately caused her to wreck?”

  Violet dropped the hook on the table and jerked her hand away from it as though it had taken on a macabre aura as an instrument of death. “That … would be murder.”

  “Exactly,” Heather replied. “And if this person has killed before, they will kill again.”

  “But why kill Lindsay if it’s you they’re after?” Violet asked.

  Heather gave a helpless shrug. “Perhaps they thought my friends knew what I did and covered it up. Or maybe they’re simply trying to punish me any way they can, by hurting the people I’m closest to.”

  Violet shot her a nervous look. “So the note that came here: You should be afraid, was a warning for me. I might be next.”

  Heather wrapped her arms around Violet and hugged her tight. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, or your baby. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”