Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  “Should our kids have a police escort to and from school?”

  “Who’s letting all these media people have access to students at the school gates?”

  Another adds, “Are you really sure the first dead girl wasn’t murdered too? Is this the work of a serial killer?”

  “Why haven’t you arrested anyone yet? It’s been two weeks since Freya Miller was killed!”

  Detective Holden raises his hand, and the shouting dies down. “There’s no need to worry at this point. We strongly believe these two deaths are related, and that it’s highly unlikely the perpetrator is targeting anyone else. And, to clarify, there doesn’t seem to be any connection at all to the accidental drowning of Claire Palmer. Thank you.” He doesn’t hang around to see if there are more questions, just marches off briskly to resume his spot at the back.

  “It really doesn’t sound like they’re getting anywhere,” Carolyn murmurs next to me.

  I tilt my head at her. “You think?”

  She shrugs. “They haven’t arrested anyone, have they?”

  “What about Liam? I haven’t seen him at the library in a while.”

  Carolyn leans in. “Mr. Maitland came into the pharmacy earlier. Apparently, Liam had nothing to do with the murders but, when the cops checked his phone to rule him out of the Freya Miller case, they found a lot of messages to underage girls on there. I’m not sure if the cops are pressing charges, but he definitely got canned from the library.”

  “Wow, really?” That’s gross. I’m glad he got fired.

  “I’d like to say a few words about my son.”

  Carolyn and I both turn back to face the stage at the sound of Ms. Sutter’s voice coming through the PA system. She stands at the mic, dressed in a tight-fitting black shift dress and a baggy blazer that look like they were made for two different people. Ford had the same curly hair as his mom, though hers is starting to turn gray. And he had her eyes, I think. Clear, steady blue eyes. I see those in the blown-up picture of Ford next to Ms. Sutter; the photo looks a little fuzzy, like it’s been taken from one of his social media profiles. He squints at the camera, not cheesing, but not moody, either. Almost like he’s listening to what’s being said about him at his memorial.

  At least he’s not trying to lick his own nipple.

  I almost smile, thinking about those photos he gave me at my locker, but then a hot lump forms in my throat. He’ll never give me stupid photos again. Never try to make me laugh. God, I can’t believe that was just a couple weeks ago. But then I remember the last time I saw him alive, outside the gas station. How freaked out he was, and how he knocked me into the path of Hamish’s car. If Ford hadn’t died, would I have ended up forgiving him—for that, and for all the other shitty things he did? The hurt in my chest says no, but the honest answer is: I don’t know.

  Ms. Sutter keeps reaching out to graze her fingertips along the edge of the picture frame, as though to remind herself that Ford is there . . . or that he isn’t.

  “I see some of you here who knew Ford. Friends of his . . .” She frowns as her gaze travels over everyone facing her, searching for someone to make that assertion true. Then she spots me again, and gives a relieved sigh. I feel a sharp pang of guilt. But I muster a smile for Ms. Sutter’s benefit. “I know you knew Ford, but perhaps some of you didn’t, so I’d like to tell you a little about him.

  “Ford loved animals—cats, especially. We have four. You probably know our house isn’t a four-cat kind of size. But Ford’s the one who feeds them and makes sure they come in at night. If one goes wandering for too long, he’ll be out walking the streets with his flashlight, calling it home.”

  Ford and his mom inherited those cats along with the house when old Mrs. Sutter moved into a retirement home. Don’t get me wrong, Ford loved them, but he’d be turning all kinds of shades of embarrassed if he knew they were headlining at his memorial. But, as my mom always used to say, “It’s a mother’s prerogative to embarrass the hell out of her kids.” I guess that’s true, no matter what.

  “And now I have to deal with four cats yowling night and day for him to come back, but he—” Ms. Sutter’s voice cracks, and she takes a moment to steady herself before she goes on. “Every Mother’s Day, he’d make me something he called his Momzine, with little articles and pictures and recipes in it he knew I’d like, and he’d write a funny story about the two of us having some big day out to celebrate because we could never afford to do that for real. He used to . . . used to . . .”

  I remember Ford’s Momzines. He used to make them when he was a little kid. Funny, I haven’t thought about them in years, but I guess they meant a lot to Ms. Sutter.

  There are tears running down her cheeks. Despite my determination not to cry at this thing, I feel tears welling in my own eyes.

  Principal Gower starts heading across the platform toward her, but Ford’s mom waves her away.

  “Another thing most of you won’t know is that he used to visit his grandmother every weekend in the old folks’ home. Mom hasn’t recognized anyone in over a year, not even her own family, but that never stopped Ford going to read to her.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek until it hurts. I get why Ms. Sutter is only talking about the good parts of him—everyone does it at a funeral . . . memorial . . . whatever. But it still feels like her Ford is only one side of the Ford I knew. This version sounds so . . . bland. Like a paper cutout of the guy I knew all my life. Maybe that’s just the way memories work, though. If you’re remembered by a hundred people, they’ll remember a hundred different versions of you. You just have to hope at least one of them is good.

  “He was going to be an actor. He wanted . . . He wanted . . .”

  Ms. Sutter takes a deep breath, but seems to change her mind. She nods to herself, and says a terse “I think that’s enough, thank you” before going back to her seat.

  Madoc Miller strides up onto the stage next. His jaw is set firmly, and his eyes rake over the crowd. I see now where Dominic learned to glower.

  “I’m Madoc Miller, Freya and Nic’s father. And I’m not here to tell you about my daughter. I think she gave you enough of an inside view of her life while she was here. I’ve come here to say one thing, and one thing only. Whoever murdered my daughter is going to pay. I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens, and I will not rest until it’s done. If that’s you,” he says, eyes sweeping like a laser over the crowd again, “I suggest you turn yourself in to the police.”

  There’s an unspoken threat underlying every single word, and it makes a shiver run right through me. His eyes never land on me, though. Madoc must see me here, sitting with Uncle Ty and Carolyn, yet his gaze never pauses on us.

  I’m still relieved when he steps down and Principal Gower takes his spot. She clears her throat, then starts to wrap up the memorial. But then there’s movement at the back of the gym, and Mr. Hamish hurries forward, head down, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He walks right over to the stage, and Principal Gower steps aside with a frown.

  Why is he here? Why haven’t the cops arrested him? Or at least stopped him from barging into the damn memorial service?

  Dominic stands up in the front row. I can’t see his face, but I can just imagine his eyes blazing. His father puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to say something, and they both take their seats again.

  “I’d like to say a few words,” Hamish says, then clears his throat and begins reading from his notes. “As guidance counselor to both Freya and Ford, I saw great promise in them both. Ford with his acting, and Freya . . . honestly, Freya could have taken any number of amazing paths, and been a success.”

  He reads on, listing her academic achievements, talking about Haunted Heartland, her “great artistic talent”—only occasionally even mentioning Ford. It’s the most stomach-turning thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t believe he’s doing it while
Ms. Sutter is sitting there in the front row. Doesn’t he realize how screwed up it is to heap all this praise on Freya, and treat Ford like an afterthought?

  Why is he doing this, anyway? It’s almost like he’s trying to prove something . . .

  Hamish doesn’t go on for long, thankfully. When everyone finally files out, I’m glad of the cold air outside. I let it sweep me away from the stifling atmosphere in the gym.

  * * *

  * * *

  I lie awake in bed, not wanting to go to sleep. I don’t know what nightmares will be waiting for me.

  On impulse, I grab my phone and call Dominic.

  “Hey,” he says, answering on the first ring.

  “I guess you weren’t sleeping, either.”

  “I’m just going through the video footage from our security system the night Ford died. I had a hunch that maybe he came here, to where Freya was found, looking for clues or something, or that maybe this was where he got thrown in the river.”

  “Find anything?”

  “One pretty dramatic shot of an owl swooping at the camera near the bridge, but nothing useful.”

  “An owl . . . Wait, there’s still a camera near the bridge?” I thought he’d have taken that down by now.

  “It’s the one we were using to film my death scene for Haunted Heartland, remember?”

  He laughs softly. In spite of the spike of fear I still feel when I remember the moment I thought Sadie had just pushed him to his death, I get another kind of chill too. It feels so strange to be lying in bed with Dominic’s voice in my ear. Weird, but not bad weird.

  “I left it hooked up. There’s a motion detector on it, so it starts to record if someone comes within range.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought I might get some footage of Sadie.”

  “Are you being serious?” Because that’s the last thing I expect to hear from glowering Dominic Miller. But maybe I’m not the only one who’s seen her . . . Maybe I’m not losing my mind after all. “You actually believe she’s real?”

  He’s silent for a second, and I picture him pursing his lips the way he does when he’s considering his response. “I’m open to the possibility.”

  “The possibility of ghosts?”

  “I think it would be extremely arrogant to assume that something isn’t real when so many people claim to have seen it, simply because I haven’t.”

  I’m . . . genuinely speechless. As the silence lengthens, Dominic continues.

  “But maybe ghosts aren’t quite what people think they are, not trapped spirits or anything like that. I see them more as . . . scars.”

  “Scars?”

  “Hmm . . . like a mark left on a place by some traumatic event. And maybe they only become visible when that same kind of trauma-energy occurs in the same spot.”

  I think about that—about Sadie. How she’s supposedly tied to the waterfall where she died. How she’s meant to appear to Thorns right before they die. There’s something comforting about the idea that she’s just an echo, or a scar as Dominic says. I’d hate to think of her soul being trapped there forever.

  “Could the mark be left on an entire family, do you think?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “A scar handed down from one generation to the next.”

  “Deep,” I say, allowing a teasing note to creep in, because that’s better than letting him hear the panic his idea strikes in me. If he’s right, it means it isn’t the manor that’s haunted—scarred. It’s my entire family.

  “There’s more to see in this world than what our eyes have already seen, Thorn.”

  “Was that a quote?”

  “Yes. I believe it was first said by Dominic Adrien Miller, a proven genius.”

  “Adrien? You told me you didn’t have a middle name!” I laugh, and some of my tension begins to unravel. It’s so strange how easy it is to talk to Dominic now, about almost anything.

  “That was before I knew the alternative was being called ‘Monica.’ ”

  “Oh my God—your initials are DAM? Like, daaaayum?”

  I’m laughing for real now, trying to muffle the sound under my duvet, even though I know my voice won’t carry to Carolyn and Uncle Ty upstairs in the main house.

  “I’m glad you called me,” Dominic says, laughing a little too. “I think I needed this after that shitshow at the memorial.”

  “Right? I can’t believe Hamish actually got up and gave a speech. Haven’t the police spoken to him yet?”

  “Oh, they have,” Dominic says, sighing. “Apparently, he did talk to Freya on the phone a couple of times, but not the night you overheard her. That was another number, and they haven’t been able to trace it to anybody. It’s probably a burner phone, like the one Freya had. If the guy’s trying to cover his tracks, that phone’s probably dust by now. Besides, they’d already ruled out Hamish as a murder suspect because he had an alibi for the times both Freya and Ford were killed.”

  “Oh.” I let all that sink in. “So it’s not him, then?”

  “Well, I’m not so sure. From what I gather, his alibi for when Freya was killed is that he was in his office at lunchtime, watching a Netflix show. That seems shaky to me. I mean, the fact his laptop was playing a video at that time doesn’t mean he was physically there, watching it. And, when Ford died, Hamish’s girlfriend claims he was with her. But maybe she’s covering for him.”

  “So you still think he did it?”

  “I . . . maybe. I mean, he’s definitely hiding something. He told the cops the reason Freya called him on his cell was to ask him to tutor her, but my sister didn’t need a tutor. Her grades were even better than mine.”

  “Another proven genius, huh?” I say, not teasing, but with maybe just a hint of envy.

  Dominic’s quiet for a moment. “You should probably know that Hamish gave the police a drawing he claims is yours. He made a point of telling my parents about it.”

  My stomach sinks right through the stone floor of my room.

  “Shit. I’m really sorry—the drawing wasn’t actually supposed to be Freya. I was just doodling without thinking. I definitely didn’t write those words on it, or pin it to your sister’s locker, I swear—”

  “Thorn, it’s okay.” But his flat tone tells me it’s not. I’ve fucked up.

  “Dominic, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for the drawing to turn out how it did.”

  “I’m not upset.” He exhales deeply. “I know you use your drawings to . . . I don’t know, work through things. And I came to terms with the fact you and Freya didn’t like each other a long time ago. I mean, I know you’d have liked each other if you weren’t both so damned quick to judge, but the fact you don’t take any shit is one of the reasons I like you.”

  “You like me?” I can’t keep the grin out of my voice.

  “Don’t let it go to your head. And can we please focus? There’s still a murderer out there.”

  “So what are we going to do? It doesn’t seem like the cops are getting anywhere, and I have a bad feeling that if no better suspect leaps out in front of them, waving a confession, they’re gonna come back to me.”

  I’m hoping Dominic, self-certified genius that he is, will contradict that statement, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “We’d better find out for sure what part Hamish played in all this.”

  “How? Are we going to toss his office? Beat a confession out of the guy? I mean, I doubt that’d do us much good, but I’m game if you are.” I’m only half joking. The urge to throat-punch Hamish still lingers from earlier.

  “Maybe we don’t need to be so criminal about it? We could try to trick him into confessing.”

  I think about the greasy way Hamish tried to get me to hire him as a tutor before the holidays. Is that how he talked his way into Freya’s life? And did Ford figure that out?

  “I hav
e an idea,” I say at last.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The alarm on my phone goes off at eight p.m. the following night, as if I weren’t watching the time like an anxious hawk. I turn it off and run through my checklist once again. I have pepper spray (bought this afternoon in a completely legal fashion with my own ID), an old thumb drive, my phone, super-warm clothes I can run in, and my gloves, of course.

  I slid a typed note under Hamish’s office door at lunchtime, after checking nobody was around to see. Assuming he read it, he’s either getting ready to come meet me in two hours, or—if he really has nothing to hide—he’s gone to the cops to tell them some weirdo sent him a threatening note.

  This is what it said:

  I know what you did to Freya Miller. I have the proof from her phone. Meet me at Burden Bridge tonight at 10 p.m. and I’ll tell you how you can get it back. If not, I take it to the cops. Your call.

  If this works, he’ll show up, I’ll claim to have removed the videos from her gallery before I gave the burner phone to the cops—including one where she talks about Hamish by name, and how they were planning to meet the day she was killed—and I’ll offer to give him the thumb drive if he’ll get me into the summer art program.

  I got the idea after thinking over what Carolyn told me about Liam getting caught creeping on young girls because of evidence from his phone. It always comes back to a phone. And Freya was forever recording herself. Why wouldn’t she make a video as security? When I explained the plan to Dominic last night, he was skeptical, to say the least.

  “Why would Freya record a video like that, though? He won’t believe she was that careless.”

  “It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t fully believe it,” I told him. “He just needs a sliver of doubt. It’ll be enough. And it’s not like I’m asking for money or anything it would actually hurt him to trade for it, so I don’t see why he won’t agree.”

  At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Of course, if Hamish has murdered two people in cold blood, he might think it’s safer just to get rid of me too. And that’s what the pepper spray and running clothes are for.