What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  What I Know

  An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

  Miranda Smith

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Some Days Are Dark

  Miranda’s Email Sign-Up

  Books by Miranda Smith

  A Letter from Miranda

  Acknowledgements

  To Chris. You were right. I love you.

  One

  Winter 2000

  My brother was thirteen the first time he tried to kill me. Before that, there was only violence in an explainable sense. A smack when I stole a fry. A kick when I took away his ball. I never thought much of it, nor did my parents. He wasn’t trying to harm me, I thought. Only retaliate.

  He’d broken one of Dad’s guitar strings, and even though he threatened me with his stern, squeaky voice not to tell, I did. Mom and Dad unplugged his Nintendo 64 and sent him to bed.

  Hours later, I woke up to a strange smell. Between the darkness and my vision impairment, I couldn’t decipher anything but lights and blurs. When I put my glasses on and focused, I saw the flames climbing the floor-length curtains of my bedroom window. I sat motionless, too scared to move, breathing in the smoke.

  Mom and Dad ran into my room seconds later. Mom scooped me up as Dad got a bowl of water and effortlessly extinguished the flames. Perhaps it was scarier to me than it was to them, but I still remember the staccato thumping of Mom’s heart as she held me close.

  “No more candles, Della,” Dad howled, out of breath from his speedy rush with the water bowl.

  “We’ve told you to blow them out before bed,” Mom said, slightly less angry. Her fingers slid under my frames and wiped the tears off my cheeks.

  Perhaps allowing an eleven-year-old to burn candles wasn’t the best parenting decision Mom and Dad made, but it would also prove to be far from their worst.

  “I blew them out,” I said. I took a deep breath and clutched the ragged edge of my blanket. “I always blow them out.”

  “Obviously you didn’t,” Dad said, shaking the charred fabric.

  “I did,” I cried. I knew, knew, knew I did, and even if I didn’t, the three candles I’d bought with my allowance on our last family vacation sat on my dresser, nowhere near the window. One had been moved, away from its mates and near the scorched remains of my curtains.

  “You’re lucky Brian came and got us,” Mom said, pressing her cool palms against my cheeks.

  And that’s when I saw him, standing in the doorway. His eyes looked through me and everyone else, as always. The sides of his lips flicked upward. My ninety seconds of horror would provide him entertainment for the next month.

  “He did this!” I lifted my arm. My fingers, still clutching the blanket, shook the entire cloth as I pointed. “I know he did.”

  “Oh, ridiculous,” Mom said.

  “He did this because you took his stupid Nintendo,” I cried.

  My parents always told Brian to stay away from Dad’s instruments. He never listened. I’d felt a flicker of pride when I discovered one of the strings was broken. Younger siblings are constantly searching for the upper hand, even though I felt guilty when he yelled at Mom and slammed his bedroom door. I knew he’d find a way to get even, but I didn’t expect this.

  “I had to potty and smelled something weird,” Brian said. I hadn’t heard him use potty in forever. Usually it was pee or piss, and when he felt particularly dangerous, shit.

  “He’s lying,” I screamed, my fear twisting into anger. I attempted to wriggle out of Mom’s lap, but she held tight.

  “Enough,” Mom said.

  Dad said nothing. Not that night and not the following morning.

  Brian went back to his room. Mom and Dad did, too. I cradled myself in bed, unable to sleep. The smell of smoke lingered. I knew what Brian had done and dreaded what he was capable of, perhaps, doing again. No one believed me then, or in the years that followed. No one believed me until it was too late.

  Two

  Now

  Five weeks until summer break. Students think they’re the only ones counting down the days until school is out. Even at the high school level, they don’t recognize their teachers as actual people. They’re lost in the throes of solipsism; I think half the student body believes we teachers only exist within the boundaries of block scheduling.

  “Someone’s looking tan,” Marge says as she stands behind me in the employee lounge. When I turn, I see she’s added chunky caramel streaks to her dark, shoulder-length hair since I last saw her. The highlights make her look hip and different, two descriptions Marge is always trying to fit.

  “Thanks,” I say, moving so Marge can pour coffee. “Danny and I spent spring break in Hilton Head.”

  “Fancy,” she says, pulling back the tab of a miniature creamer and adding the contents to her cup.

  “Not really,” I say, flipping hair off my shoulder. I’m constantly finding the balance between telling my co-workers what’s going on in my life and not sounding like a braggart. “We went last minute and only stayed four days.”

  That’s the beauty of being working professionals without kids. Danny and I have both the time and money to afford nice things. But instead of buying luxuries, we travel. We crave new places like most people do caffeine.

  Marge teaches A.P. Chemistry. She’s single and doesn’t have children either. She might make digs about fancy last-minute trips (I’m married to a doctor, after all), but she enjoys wandering as much as I do. She’ll probably leave Tennessee at the end of May and not return until August.

  “How was your break?” I ask. I can tell Marge has spent time shopping, too. Her purple blouse and dark pants look new, although paired with a familiar, dusty pair of shoes.

  “I took a train to D.C. for a few days,” she says. She stirs her coffee and tilts her head to the side.

  “Nice,” I say, unable to remember the last time I went. “I love it there.”

  “Me too. I never get to enjoy it when I chaperone trips, but I sure do miss the mountain air.”

  Marge, like most of my other co-workers, has never lived outside of Tennessee. She has an attachment to home I’ve never felt. I could change locations tomorrow, and my outlook on life wouldn’t change.

  “I’d chat longer, but I’ve got copies to make,” I say, gathering my
papers and balancing the coffee mug in my hand. “I didn’t do near enough prep before break.”

  She nods. “This close to summer, the admins ought to be thankful we even show up.”

  “It’s not like the students do,” I say, walking out the door.

  After making copies in the workroom, I enter my classroom and begin setting out the day’s materials. This is my fifth year at Victory Hills, which means I’m finally eligible for tenure. I teach American literature to 11th graders. We read Poe and Steinbeck and Hemingway until my students are blue in the face, and yet it never gets old to me. I expect a sliver of optimism from my classes this week, knowing we’ve all enjoyed a needed break. I know the closer we get to summer, the further away they’ll get from me, their minds already fixed on sunny days by the pool and later curfews.

  The morning bell rings. A whoosh of voices and feet transform the quiet hallways into a mob. I’m at my desk before the first student arrives. They drip in, one by one, each consumed by their own distracted daze. Some are sunburnt, others are not fully awake.

  “Welcome back,” I say after the last bell rings. “Let the countdown to summer begin.”

  Darcy, who always sits in the back, lets out a woo and everyone laughs. Adam, her boyfriend, leans in and squeezes her shoulder. So, they are alive.

  Melanie on the front row raises her hand. “Are we starting The Crucible this week?” she asks. She’s memorized the syllabus and knows that’s the final text we’ll study this semester.

  “No, we’ll start that next week,” I say.

  “What are we doing?” asks Ben, probably still blazed from his pre-school joint. He’s a smart kid, one of the ones that doesn’t really want to show it because he thinks it will cramp his style. But he always nods along and hardly needs any revision after a second draft.

  “We have some short stories to read,” I say. “Grab the blue books in the back and turn to page three hundred and sixty.”

  They groan, but reluctantly obey. We read Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily”. I wait patiently for that chilling last paragraph to thoroughly disgust and entertain them. It’s one of the simple pleasures of being a teacher, watching each year as new minds devour the twisted stories that shaped our world.

  When we finish, I give them a few minutes to vent and ask questions. I’m standing at my podium in the center of the room when I hear a knock. I walk to the front and open the door, which always remains locked.

  “Good morning, Della.” It’s Principal Bowles, a name I’ve always considered unfortunate for a disciplinarian. The only hair on his head or face rests about four inches wide above his top lip. He’s standing beside a girl I’ve never seen. “We’ve got a new student for you. This is Zoey Peterson and she’s in your first block.”

  “All right,” I say, masking the annoyance that I’ll have to redeliver all my introductory class materials with so little time left in the semester. Not the kid’s fault. I smile. “Zoey, I’m Mrs. Mayfair.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Zoey stares at me, taking me in. She’s short and slim. Her dark hair falls halfway down her back, her bangs partially covering her wide-set eyes. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a pastel cardigan, which screams not from around here. Her hand extends to shake mine. Another clue she’s not necessarily the type of student I’m used to encountering at Victory Hills. Usually I get a shrug until I’ve really proven myself.

  “Class is about halfway over. Go ahead and grab a seat,” I tell her.

  Zoey walks into the classroom and sits down confidently. She puts her notebook and pen on the shelf under her chair and straightens her posture. Half of my current students stopped bringing writing tools back in February.

  I step into the hallway to make sure the other students can’t hear.

  “Military?” I ask Principal Bowles. There’re only two reasons why a kid shows up this late in the year. A traveling military family is one of them.

  “Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Just trouble.” He walks away.

  Families rooted in stability wouldn’t dream of transferring their child this late into the year. Just about anything can wait five weeks. Getting a new student now means her folks either don’t care at all or there’s a reason she left where she was.

  “Oh, boy,” I say, before walking back in the classroom.

  The students’ voices have turned from murmurs to yelps. Each cluster is carrying on a different conversation. Any brief distraction beckons them to socialize.

  “Let’s get back to the story,” I say, after pausing until the room is silent. “Part of the reason the ending is so gripping is because of the story’s disjointed structure. Faulkner creates ambiguity by steering away from a linear timeline.”

  The students, except for Melanie, barely listen. Ben nods. Devon, in the third row, is obviously doing something with her phone under her desk. Darcy and Adam, first block’s designated lovebirds, angle their bodies toward one another. I walk behind their desks and clear my throat, prompting them to sit properly and listen.

  “I want you to get in your learning groups and create a timeline. I’ll give you specific events from the story, and you will place them in chronological order,” I say.

  “So, like, beginning to end?” asks Devon, chomping a wad of gum.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean,” I say.

  “Mrs. Mayfair,” says Zoey, raising her hand. “Is there a particular group you want me to join?”

  “I’m sorry, Zoey.” I’d forgotten there was a new student, even though we’d only met minutes ago. My mind is still back at the beach with Danny. “Grab a book and get caught up on the story. It’s called ‘A Rose for Emily’. Page three hundred and sixty.”

  “I figured that out from what you said earlier,” she says, bending to the side and retrieving her notebook from under her desk. “I’ve read it before.”

  “Great. I’ll place you with a group in a minute,” I say, looking at the student roster on my clipboard. I don’t know anything about Zoey’s academic performance, but her familiarity with the story is a good sign.

  “It’s bizarre, don’t you think?” Zoey asks, interrupting my focus. “Reading a story about necrophilia in a high school English class.”

  The other students snap their heads and stare. People don’t typically speak in that tone here. We’re a placid school, with even the unruly students understanding they should take advantage of the knowledge being preached so they’ll be prepared for college. I notice some students tapping their phones, I’m sure googling what necrophilia means. I pray to God they don’t click on images.

  I clear my throat. “The story is not about that, Zoey.”

  “Sure it is,” she says. “The lady held onto her fiancé’s corpse for, like, thirty years. She slept with the body.”

  “It could be interpreted that way, sure. But there is nothing in the story which explicitly states she was intimate with the corpse.”

  Most students in my class are seventeen. Some of the stories in our state-mandated curriculum cover intense themes, but we usually try to glide over the sex and violence stuff. It’s there, and students can see it if they look closely enough. Most never take the time. Zoey, clearly, has.

  “Most great literature relies on inference,” she says. She straightens her posture and leans back, waiting for my response. This entire confrontation feels familiar. The way Zoey is trying to challenge my authority. The way she’s dissecting the story and extracting the goriest parts. And the way she seems to enjoy causing a scene. It’s reminds me of something Brian would do. For a moment, it’s like he’s sitting in the back of the classroom watching me squirm.

  I can tell from the blank stares of the other students that their thoughts are swirling. They’re trying to keep up with what Zoey is saying while simultaneously attempting to understand her intentions. Her vocabulary is clearly advanced, but her tone is harsh.

  “That’s right, Zoey. A lot can be inferred from this story,” I say, giving her credit where i
t’s due. “The dead body creates a good twist, but that’s not necessarily what the story is about.”

  “No one reads this story and recalls Miss Emily’s objectification by the town, or the subtle racism shown via the character Tobe,” Zoey says. If I were grading essays, I’d assume she pulled that line straight from SparkNotes. But there isn’t a phone in her hands, and she hasn’t been in the room long enough to conduct research. She pushes a fallen strand away from her face. “People remember the dead fucking body.”

  The curse word drops like a bomb followed by utter silence. If I flicked a rubber band at Melanie on the front row, I think she’d crack. I wait a beat before speaking.

  “Go ahead and get in your learning groups,” I repeat to the class. The students move immediately, grateful for instruction on how to act. They’re a laidback bunch, first period. It’s too early for power plays in the morning. Zoey remains seated as I skate toward her desk.

  “Zoey, I really appreciate your interest in this story. And, as you’ll see, a lot of learning in my classroom is discussion based,” I begin. “But you cannot use that language. It’s offensive and distracting.”

  It might be her first day, but it’s not mine. Classroom management is a duel of wills. I ignore the majority of inappropriate language I hear throughout the day; they are teenagers. But when someone blurts out something so blatant in front of the class, it’s a test on both ends.