by Sara Hammel
After
Lisa came back to work the day after Gene confessed everything to Detective Ashlock. One would think being accused of murder would be horrifying. For Lisa, though, it seemed to be a fun way to get more attention. She sashayed into the club at nine in the morning in her workout gear and what looked like professionally blown-out hair. She grinned at us like nothing had ever happened. She stood at the front desk and was approached by one person after another, all of whom fawned over her and proclaimed some form of the phrase I knew you were innocent the whole time …
Evie and I watched this homecoming from behind the desk with my mom, who I knew felt absolutely terrible about what Lisa had gone through. But I also suspected she’d secretly hoped Lisa might learn something, too, maybe a modicum of humility or subtlety. No such luck. At one point we heard Lisa say, “Detective Ashlock had to practically grovel when he let me out. He gave me his phone number and told me to call him anytime if I thought of anyone who could have planted the necklace in my locker.”
My mom listened to this and said to Lisa, “It’s a shame you were caught up in this, Lisa. But let’s not celebrate quite yet. If it wasn’t you, then the killer is still walking around free.” That quieted everyone down real quick.
* * *
Later that day, I was alone in the lobby when Evie plopped down next to me on the sofa. She whispered a secret meant only for me: Ashlock’s back.
I sprang up off the sofa. What now? We walked at a normal speed toward the club’s entrance; I had to force myself not to run. As we rounded the corner and caught sight of the great granite reception desk that was the heart of our club, I stopped short. Ashlock was here, all right. He was talking to my mom. They were standing facing each other, whispering, at the far end of the desk. Evie frowned at me, like, When did they become pals? I had no clue. I tried but couldn’t hear a single word they were saying. We saw Ashlock hand my mom a mysterious manila envelope. I had to know more. I inched closer to the desk, one step at a time, to try to hear something. Evie followed, but we couldn’t get any closer without being noticed.
I felt the same foreboding chill I’d been feeling for a while now, right down to my toes. My mom put her palm to her forehead as if to self-soothe and kept it there for several moments. Then she reached out to touch Ashlock’s shoulder. He nodded as if to say, You’re welcome for this mysterious manila envelope.
She removed her hand and he backed away, so we could at least hear his parting words. “When you’re ready,” Ashlock said to my mom, “read it. Then destroy it, because I’m breaking a lot of rules doing this.”
“Then why are you?” Mom asked. The envelope shook in her hand.
Ashlock didn’t reply. He tipped his hat to my mom and walked away, so Evie and I didn’t get the chance to ask him about the case, about our ongoing safety fears, or about the necklace’s reappearing act. On top of that, we now had a new conundrum: What had he given to my mom, and why did she look like she’d seen a ghost? I decided to stick close to her for the day. I had to know what was up.
A couple of hours later, Gene emerged from his office and my mom said to me, “Keep an eye on the desk, Chels.”
Me? Watch the desk? Did she think I was an idiot? She grabbed Gene for a quiet chat, and I could clearly see her clutching the manila envelope Ashlock had given her.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he said. I faked like I was gonna stay put, but I waited until Mom and Gene were in his office with the door shut and went to listen.
“I can’t do this,” my mom was saying. “Please, keep it for me.”
I heard low talking from Gene, then sniffling from her and some papers shuffling.
“What? What is it?” my mom asked.
I heard Gene say, “It seems to be a lot of what we already know, Beth. She’d managed to get away and made it to a neighbor’s house nearly a mile away, where she collapsed on their porch. The first responders were shocked she was even alive, let alone walked a mile on a fractured ankle and that wrecked knee.”
There was another long pause, and now I knew he had to be reading from pages that my mom couldn’t bear to read. This was why Ashlock had looked at me oddly a few times. He did know about my case. That manila envelope, I knew now, contained the police report they’d never shown my mom, because the fact she’d adopted me “didn’t give her the right to confidential police files.” That’s what she’d been told every time she’d tried to learn my full story. The thing about my case, famous as it was, was there was only so much information the police made public. The rest was confidential.
“Chelsea was in shock when they found her,” Gene was saying, his voice cracking. “She was malnourished and dehydrated. Clumps of her”—another clearing of the throat—“of her hair were observed to have fallen out or been pulled out in patches.”
Then it sounded like he was reading straight from the report: “‘Upon inspection of the property, authorities found several nooses hanging from trees, bloodied tools including pliers, bloody bandages, and … a cage…’”
“Pliers? A noose? A cage?” My mom repeated his every word. “Oh, God. No. No more. I don’t want to know any more. As long as she doesn’t remember, it’ll be okay.”
Gene said something quietly that sounded like, “I’ll cough on the font,” which maybe, on second thought, was actually, “I’ll stop if you want.”
I guess it should have been a horrible moment for me, but hearing my mom and Gene talking about it made me feel safer, maybe because letting the light shine on the horror of my past life took away some of its power. Seeing or smelling things that reminded me of that time was a different story, but just hearing about it seemed to make the evil more impotent than ever.
“Beth,” Gene said. “There’s more. It’s pretty huge. But I think if you face it head-on, it will help you and Chelsea move on for good.”
My mom must have bravely read the part he was referring to because things went deadly quiet, and then she gasped loudly and proclaimed, “That—that—oh, there are no words for what that man is. You’re wrong, Gene. This isn’t over, not by a long shot.”
Gene was talking again but I could barely hear him, and anyway I’d had enough. I already knew what had happened to me. Whatever this shocking new revelation was, it would be dealt with in due time. I got to my feet and walked slowly away to find Evie.
After
Evie was looking fit and healthy now, and she was tanned, with glints of sun-infused highlights in her silky hair, and her bangs had grown just long enough that she was forced to clip them back with a barrette so her eyes were finally exposed. Celia had told her she looked a little like Taylor Swift, with those delicate features and great skin, and I had to agree. All in all, Evie, along with the rest of us, had managed to get on with things since Annabel’s death. That’s not to say we weren’t grieving and uneasy about a killer being at large, but we were making do.
Still, Evie could not catch a break. Tad Chadwick was tormenting her again in front of everyone in the lobby when she made the mistake of stopping by the TV to see “Summer Cool” sung live on The Brenda Lampley Show. Tad, munching on ham on white, was asking her what she had on tap for the afternoon: Sitting, or more sitting? When will you find time to feed your face? Ha-ha-ha. In front of the counselors he wouldn’t call her his usual list of names, but he could still pick on her. I really wanted to teach him a lesson, but Will saved me the trouble.
“That’s enough,” Will commanded. “You’re here to play tennis.” He took a large bite of his turkey sandwich, and an uncooperative piece of lettuce tumbled down his chin.
“But she’s always hanging around here and she doesn’t do anything,” Tad sniped, defying Will with the confidence of a kid whose life was already laid out for him on a red carpet. A classmate of Evie’s eating lunch with Serene guffawed; Serene shot the classmate a warning look.
Will finished chewing his last bite with great gusto. “Mr. Chadwick,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s wipe
that smirk off your face. Since we can’t seem to shut you up, I’m going to make a deal with you.”
Now Tad was a bit shaky; having Will’s complete attention was intimidating, whether he shone down his approval or shot through you with his laser of disdain. The lobby had fallen silent. Tad was turning red and focusing on his lunch.
Will stood up. “You,” he said, jabbing his index finger toward Tad and then toward Court 1, “are going to go one set against Evie Clement.”
I think I saw Evie dry heave.
Tad just looked utterly confused. “One set of what?”
“Of tennis, you blithering buffoon,” Will snapped. “I’m offering you a chance to play a set against her. But if you lose, you will not only apologize to her, you will be her best friend for what’s left of the summer. If she wants you to fetch her some juice, you’ll say ‘Grape or cranberry?’ If she tells you to go away, you get outta her face.”
Tad’s smirk had crept back. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Will crossed his arms, and he and his bulging biceps got in Tad’s space. He jerked his chin toward Court 1. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He did not.
Tad let out one sharp little cackle: Ha. But no one else joined in and he quieted abruptly. They were fascinated by what the heck Will had to do with Evie, and why he was sending this poor lamb out to slaughter. It was bizarre to the point where Celia stood up and quietly made her way to Will’s side. She whispered something in his ear and Will patted her on the arm. I saw him mouth something like, It’s okay, it’s fine. Trust me. Celia paused and glanced over at Evie, who was standing frozen. Celia still wasn’t convinced, and stayed put next to Will. Serene, on the other hand, had a strangely calm look on her face. Like maybe she wasn’t so shocked by this turn of events.
Tad was getting more nervous. “How much do I have to win by? I have to, like, beat her 6–0, or what?”
“You have to win, Tad,” Will said as if he were talking to a simpleton. “Like with any opponent. That’s the rule in tennis.”
Tad’s little adolescent brain was running at full speed, trying to figure out what the catch was. “What do I get if I win?”
“All the praise and glory you deserve.”
Tad managed an even snottier expression than he normally mustered. “No problem.”
* * *
Word spread quickly, and before Evie even had her racket in hand, the lobby had filled up. Everyone knew Tad because he was here all summer, every summer, and most people couldn’t stand the little brat.
Speaking of Evie, she’d found her way behind the front desk and was crouched down, her eyes scared like a trapped mouse. I personally thought Will might have gone a bit overboard. Evie’s first match ever—against her biggest nemesis? On Court 1? I felt a wisp of doom, but then blew it away. She was my friend. I had faith in her.
Will found us behind the desk. “Let’s go,” he said to her.
Evie slowly rose, her pink Volcano X in hand, and followed him to the door to Court 1. I felt someone behind us, and the person leaned past me and grabbed Evie by the shoulder. We both turned and saw Goran standing there in all his tennis god–like splendor. He broke into a grin and squeezed Evie’s shoulder.
“Go get him,” Goran said. “You’ve got ten times the talent of that little dork. Remember that—and keep your eye on the ball.” And he was off.
“You’ve got this, kid,” Will said to Evie. “Remember what we’ve been practicing. Keep that grip firm and snap your wrist on your serve—and keep your feet moving. His backhand is his weak spot, so don’t hit to his forehand. Don’t let him rattle you. Don’t double fault. And remember—don’t aim for the lines. Got it?”
Evie was in shock. Will added quickly, “Oh, um—you know how to score, right? You know the rules?” She nodded. You watch the elites long enough, you figure it out.
I don’t know how she found the strength to accept this challenge. But then again, maybe her path to courage started with Will Temple; he’d shown her the way, removed the brambles, and laid the bridges. I hoped Evie remembered while she was quaking in her sneakers that Tad was no elite, and never would be. He played tennis because his rich parents wanted him kept busy. Tad wasn’t a tennis player. Of course, Evie’s measly one month of training with Will would now be pitted against tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of coaching. I stayed behind until Evie and I were alone. Her eyes met mine, and I tried to channel my faith and confidence to her. She leaned down and hugged me tight.
Then she rose up, and I watched her walk out into the hallway toward Court 1, head held high, until she disappeared behind the curtain.
After
Tad walked to the net, put the tip of his racket on the court, spun it, and let it fall. Evie won the spin and opted for him to serve. Tad walked back to the baseline and I saw it in his eyes for a brief second: he almost felt sorry for Evie. He bounced the ball a few times and let loose a pretty good first serve down the middle, which Evie managed to slam into the net. Tad was already waiting to serve again.
This time he hit his first serve long, and Evie called it out. His second serve was pretty lame, and Evie ran around her backhand and whacked a forehand to Tad’s backhand. Her shot sprayed a foot wide of the sideline, and Tad didn’t even move for it. He stepped quickly to the baseline to serve, which was what tennis coaches called rushing. In 99 percent of cases in amateur tennis, rushing is due to poor mental conditioning.
I closed my eyes and prayed, but Evie lost the first game 40–love without a single rally. They switched sides, and Tad gave a semi-grin to his friends through the window that said something like, It’ll be over soon, but I can’t gloat because it’s too pathetic. Meanwhile, there was murmuring in the lobby about how Evie could even hit the ball, let alone serve. She moved to the baseline, evening out her racket strings with her fingernails like the pros did.
Tad took his place near the service line. Evie took time to stare at her racket as if it held the answer to unlocking the win. Good one, Evie, I thought. Tad didn’t like her setting the pace; he was already jumpy as he waited for her serve. She was controlling things now. She finally served, and snapped her wrist as Will had commanded—so much so that the ball hit the court on her side before it even got to the net.
Even so, Patrick, leaning forward with elbows on his knees and mouth agape, said, “Look at her move.” He glanced up at Will. “She looks like a tennis player. Who knew?”
So far, Will had been unperturbed by the oof noises the crowd was making every time Evie made a humiliating error. He stood twelve inches from the glass, watching without emotion. I was standing next to him with my face pressed against the glass, feeding her my energy. I knew Will’s philosophy: it usually took a few games for players to warm up and lose the jitters. He wasn’t going to worry. Yet.
Evie’s second serve was a cream puff. Tad stepped in and whaled on it—so hard, in fact, that it would’ve flown halfway to Cleveland if the back curtain hadn’t stopped it. Evie looked shocked, then happy. She glanced up at Will, who gave her a curt, almost imperceptible nod. She stepped to the other side of the service line and nailed a first serve deep in the box. Tad took a swing with his backhand, nailing it crosscourt to hers; Evie didn’t get it back. A few more points later, Evie was down 3–0 and they were changing sides again.
Serene said quietly to Celia, “Holy cow. Look how much weight she’s lost. I didn’t even notice before now.”
I was watching her nail a serve down the line that Tad couldn’t touch. The first ace of her life, and Evie looked as startled as anyone. I caught Will making a subtle fist. Then we had some rallies, with Evie scrambling to return Tad’s shots, scooping under the ball and whipping it up with killer topspin. Goran threw a glance to Will.
Then stuff really started to happen. The next three points got everyone riled up. There was a cracking crosscourt forehand, three first serves in, a crafty defensive lob hit off an approach shot. They were great points. Unfortunately, Evie lost eve
ry one of them.
It was suddenly 4–0. Evie had little chance of beating Tad now, not when she’d never played a set in her life, but she was fighting. Tad, all knobby knees and bored arrogance, wiped his entirely dry brow with his wristband before letting loose on his first serve. It went in, hard, straight to Evie’s forehand. She danced over to the ball, brought her racket back, and hit a shot down the line to his backhand. Tad glared at the spot as if wanting to call it out, but everyone knew it was well on the line and Evie ignored him and waited for his next serve. He shook his head and continued glaring.
Tad’s pal Marcus said, “What’s his problem? That was clearly in.”
Tad proceeded to miss his next first serve, after which he looked up to the heavens and mouthed something to the effect of, Why, God, why? but he quickly recovered and served up a softball: a big, fluffy cloud of yellow. Evie positioned herself to meet the ball at its crest, and slammed a backhand winner down the line. Will pumped his fist and met Evie’s eyes. She was treeing, which in tennis means you cannot be stopped.
And what was happening to Tad? He’d gotten overconfident, and Evie had seized the moment, absorbed his momentum. Evie won that game. When it was her serve again she hit another ace. Next up, she slammed one down the middle, and while Tad was busy celebrating over his flat, hard return, Evie was running to the ball and relaying it back even harder so that a startled Tad actually ran into the ball and got hit in the ribs.
Evie won that game. I could see she immediately took to the feeling of victory, and won the following game 40–0. This wasn’t an entirely uncommon turn of events in tennis. As the momentum shifts, there’s a vacuum that can be created, and you can’t stop the momentum of a comeback any more than you can stop gravity. I saw Will crack a proud smile. Tad was still winning, but now he was mad. I took stock of the lobby and it was clear Evie was a hero.
