Ivy suddenly felt hot. She flipped the air-conditioning vents back open. Ivy didn’t want him to discover the truth, but she didn’t want him blaming Mrs. Stratford, either.
“How is the case going?” she asked breezily as they drove around a small duck pond. A little boy tossed bits of bread to a few floating ducks and their ducklings.
He shook his head. “It’s been hard, Ivy. We’re not getting a lot of leads. Your classmate, Kip, was the last one to see him, as far as we can tell. But now we’re wondering if he saw him at all. Apparently, a neighbor cuts through the parking lot most nights to get home—and we think he may have seen this neighbor instead. The police chief wants to question the rest of your class.”
Ivy’s hands started to shake. She tucked them beneath her legs. “Dad will be mad if you bring me in again.”
Daniel paused. “Can you keep a secret? It’ll cost me my job if this gets out.” He shifted awkwardly.
Ivy nodded, keeping still. “I’m a steel trap.” Her voice quavered.
“We found the body.”
Suddenly, Ivy began to shake. She began to shake so hard she couldn’t stop it or hide it. “He’s . . . dead?”
“You’re upset.” Her brother touched her shoulder.
“I’ve never known anyone who’s died before. I thought he was just missing. Or maybe he ran away from his awful wife or something.” She wrapped her arms around herself as the lies fell from her mouth, just like she’d rehearsed. “Where was he?” she asked. “Was he at his home?”
He shook his head. “The river. About twenty miles downstream from downtown, in a very rural area. It looked like he’d been trapped between a couple rocks beneath the water for a while. He was battered. It was bad.”
“Accident?” Ivy could barely get the words out.
Daniel shrugged. “Could be. We haven’t released word that we’ve found him yet. They’re rushing an autopsy. It will get out, though. Soon, everyone will know he’s been found. I just hope we have the results by then. There’ll be questions. Lots of them.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Daniel. Danny. Pull over.”
But before he could stop the car, Ivy opened the door and heaved red velvet cake all over the road.
It was the last time she’d ever have it.
Mattie
Saturday, July 4
Mattie wasn’t better. He didn’t feel better, at least. His head pounded whenever he moved, but he wasn’t sure if it was in his head or real or anything else, really.
(He didn’t know if he’d ever be better.)
But he was good enough that he no longer had the fuzziness of painkillers. Nor did he have the solace of the hospital bed, and while Ivy had visited him at home a couple of times, things had been different with them since the kiss. Part of him actually wanted to kiss her again, but he couldn’t let himself do it.
Still, he missed her. And he owed her this.
Now, all he had left were his promises. His promises to himself. And that was why he was driving the car today. He didn’t want to ever see his bike again.
He stopped by Ivy’s house first. Rolled the Audi out of the long driveway and over to her mailbox. It hadn’t been a long note, but when she realized what he was doing, she’d understand.
Ivy, he’d written.
I like you. And I really, really wish things were different. Because maybe I’d be writing this note to ask you to dinner or the movies or something. But they’re not different. And I hope you understand.
You mean a lot to me.
Mattie
He had slipped it into a white envelope and left it in her mailbox. He hoped she read it before her mom or her brother. He hoped it would be enough.
And then he had driven away. He had more to reckon with.
There were the texts from Derrick, who hadn’t even cared that Mattie was in the hospital. It was a barrage, really, of Confess now and I know what you did and Fess up. There had been at least three a day, and today he’d woken up to one: You aren’t being honest.
Mattie had stopped answering. He wasn’t sure what to say. Derrick knew. Mattie could feel it, in the very bottom of his stomach, where all of his bad feelings collected into a fetid pile and rotted. He could feel it, when he moved the wrong way—a sharp, frightening pain that almost doubled him over.
Mattie drove carefully, safely. Nothing could stop him. Nothing would stop him. He prayed, over and over, that this would all disappear by the time he got to the police station. He closed his eyes at red lights and made promises and deals in his mind. But then he’d open them and the light would turn green, and he would be a moment closer to the police station.
He neared his destination, but there was a sawhorse in the road.
It was closed. The road was closed.
And up ahead, a ton of people amassed in front of city hall, which was next to the police station. They were all looking toward the building and whispering to each other, like they were waiting for something. What was going on? A Fourth of July parade, maybe?
For a moment, Mattie wanted to turn back. He wanted to turn his back on his promise to himself. He didn’t need to come clean. He didn’t need any of it.
The street was lined with cars, anyway. He’d have to backtrack a couple blocks to find a space. There was absolutely nowhere to park nearby.
Ahead, a green Suburban vacated its spot. It left enough space that Mattie wouldn’t even need to parallel park (something he wasn’t very good at).
Mattie swallowed hard and pulled into the vacant spot. He opened the door and set his feet on the ground: one, and then another.
And then he began taking his last steps as a free man. They’d arrest him on the spot. That was how it worked with confessions (as far as he knew).
He trudged toward the police station, but the doors were almost completely blocked with officers, all looking to the steps of city hall, along with nearly everyone else.
“What’s going on?” Mattie asked a woman who was standing with a tall man, whispering.
“Didn’t you see it on television?” she asked. “They found Dr. Stratford’s body. The autopsy results were rushed, and they’re delivering them today.”
Mattie’s body went rigid. The police found the professor. They found his body.
It was over anyway. If they hadn’t already, they’d come looking for them.
Before he realized what he was doing, he was pushing through the crowd, toward the front steps of city hall. He recognized Daniel McWhellen, Ivy’s older brother, who had been a detective on the case. He assumed the other man was the police chief.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He removed it.
Derrick. Again. He unlocked his phone.
I know everything, you asshole!!!!
Mattie, feeling wild and reckless and racked with pain, texted him back. What do you know!?
You are a big cheat and we are over! I know you were cheating on me that night! Consider us done!
Mattie stared at the text message. He looked, and he realized he felt . . . glad.
Lighter.
Derrick had never known. He hadn’t heard enough to know. Derrick knew about the cheating, and that was it. That was everything.
And they were over.
Finally, finally over. After a half summer of ignored phone calls and tense conversations.
Done.
Mattie didn’t have to worry about him anymore.
If that is how you feel, I respect your decision. Mattie pressed send on his text. There was no reason to be mean. Even if Derrick hadn’t always been perfect, Mattie had messed up. He’d messed up big-time.
He had ruined things. And it was best that he had no further involvement with Derrick.
And now he was going to make it right.
Feedback echoed from the microphone at the lectern. Mattie looked up from his phone. The police chief cleared his throat.
Detective McWhellen stood behind him, his hands by
his sides, a silent guardian.
“Good afternoon. I am Police Chief William Nolanski and I am here to report on the state of the missing persons investigation for Dr. Anthony Stratford, a professor at the local university.”
Beside Mattie, a man with a large camera snapped photos. Up on the steps, two news cameras rolled, capturing the footage.
Mattie’s heart was thunder in his chest. In his ears. In his feet.
If he collapsed, would they stop the press conference?
The police chief paused. “We have determined the cause of death as a brain aneurysm.”
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Mattie stared, his mind racing. What? A brain aneurysm? How was that possible?
“Although there were suspicions of foul play, the body was recovered from Loop River last week. While there was damage to the eye socket and some bruising around the back of the skull, we have determined it occurred after the aneurysm. The bruising was likely caused as the victim fell. He would have been dead almost immediately. Forensics has determined that Dr. Stratford has been dead roughly three weeks, but the state of the body has allowed for some speculation around the time frame. Dr. Stratford’s health records show he suffered from polycystic kidney disease, which greatly increases the likelihood of brain aneurysms.”
“What impeded the recovery of the body?” a reporter with tousled red hair called.
The police chief coughed. “Excuse me. The body was trapped underwater between two large rocks and was only found when the water levels were low enough for the body to be visible. It was recovered twenty-three miles south of the town, on farmland. A local farmer saw the body when he took his son swimming.”
“Why was the professor by the river in the first place?” another reporter called. Mattie strained, but he couldn’t see who it was.
“We have several reports from family and friends that he enjoyed long, solitary walks, particularly after arguments. He had recently engaged in an argument with his wife.”
Another question was shouted, but Mattie didn’t hear it. His own blood rushed into his ears, along with an ecstatic, wild happiness that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
His mind buzzed. Was it true? An aneurysm had killed Stratford? Not the punch, or the fall?
A forensic scientist should be able to determine all of that.
Was it possible they’d all been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Had all of this worry—all of this pain—been for nothing? He felt shaky. His head swam with vertigo, and he steadied himself against a trash can that had been dragged over toward the crowd.
He thought of Stratford—his uneven gait. His dropping face. Were those . . . symptoms?
Mattie forced himself to turn his back and walk through the crowd. He didn’t stop at the police station. He walked past, deliberately and slowly.
For the first time in weeks, he felt . . . free.
Mattie climbed inside his new car, and cried. He cried big, happy tears that hurt his head and healed his insides. He cried like he’d never cried in his entire life, great, racking sobs of relief that evaporated some of the rot from his stomach and made him feel a million times lighter.
He called Ivy from his cell phone.
“Mattie?” she answered, breathless. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
Mattie put his hand on his forehead and tried to find the words. “Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
And then he said the words he in no way expected to ever say again.
“I think—I think we’re going to be okay.”
Det. Daniel McWhellen
Tuesday, July 7
It had been a long day.
But then, they all had been long lately. Paperwork was the worst part of police work, and he had a long way to go on the Stratford case. Still, he was about to go home for the day. His fiancée had rented The Godfather and Goodfellas, his two favorite movies, to celebrate his first real case being closed.
He was going to pick up a case of beer on the way home. And maybe some Pall Malls. He used to smoke. Started in high school. But now he’d cut down to the occasional celebratory cheap cigarette, which he relished like some people relished fine wines or fancy chocolates.
Colin, the new guy at the station who handled some of the easier administrative tasks, pushed the mail cart by Daniel’s office.
And then he rolled the cart back. He was always doing that sort of thing: missing bits and pieces here and there, running into things with his cart, spilling coffee and mugs of hot tea on important papers . . .
“Sorry, Detective McWhellen. Almost missed you.” He handed Daniel a package and two envelopes, neatly rubber-banded together. “Have a good night, okay?”
He pushed the squeaky cart farther down, stopping at the next office.
Daniel tossed the bundle on his desk and grabbed his briefcase. The mail could wait until tomorrow.
But it was only three things. It would be easier to get it over with.
He slid the rubber band off his mail. The package fell onto the floor, but he ignored it in favor of the other envelopes. The first was a credit card application. He tossed it into the shredder. The second was an invitation to the summer ball. Grudgingly, he tucked it into his pocket for his fiancée. She would be upset if he didn’t tell her about the department’s annual soiree. She lived for that sort of thing.
He knelt down and picked up the package, and then sat down in his chair.
It was a plain bubble mailer. It had been sent July 3. He slipped a finger beneath the flap to tear it open, and a small flash drive fell out. A flash drive and a typed note on the plainest of papers.
Everything you need to know about Stratford.
He stared at the paper. He set his briefcase down on the floor.
And then Daniel plugged the flash drive into his computer.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Michael Strother, for being an incredible, insightful editor who took a chance on me.
Thank you to my parents, Steve and Kate, for supporting my wild dream. Thank you for encouraging my love of books and telling me never to give up. To my brother and sister, Ryan and Lindsay, thank you.
To Landon, Barrett, Henry, and Lily, well, maybe someday you’ll think it’s cool to have your names in a book.
Thank you to Laurisa for answering my super-weird forensics questions.
To Bethany Griffin and Suzanne Young for being incredible friends (and amazing writers). You are invaluable.
To Melissa Edwards, for all your hard work. You are so appreciated!
To all my writing teachers: thank you.
To the musers, a most wonderful group of friends.
And to Ogallala, Nebraska, my wonderful, supportive hometown, which still takes care of me.
AMANDA K. MORGAN, originally from Nebraska, lives and writes in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is hard at work on her next novel.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Secrets, Lies, and Scandals Page 23
