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

by Miranda Smith

  “Now she’s talking about me. People think I hurt Darcy because she is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend.” He pauses. “She broke up with me after what happened. But we were together the night of the dance.”

  “Darcy might need space now,” I say, feeling the need to defend her.

  “I know that,” he says, still looking down. “I don’t blame Darcy for ending things. She knows I would never hurt her, but people around here are so simple-minded. They think I attacked her because we got into a fight at the party.” He stops talking, clenches his fists and looks away. “I wish I knew who hurt her. Because if I did, I’d go after him. I’d hurt him like he hurt her.”

  “Don’t say that, Adam.” I understand his desire to get even. Who wouldn’t want to hurt the person responsible for injuring the person they loved?

  “I didn’t hurt Darcy,” he continues, as though he didn’t hear anything I said. “But I blame myself. She made me mad and I left the party. If I’d stayed, she would have never been attacked.”

  “Don’t think that way. Whatever happened to Darcy… you didn’t cause it.”

  “Well, everyone thinks I did. And they won’t leave me alone about it. They’re leaving stupid letters in my locker, sending me messages, whispering stuff under their breath in class—”

  “You should talk to Ms. Pam. She’s the best at dealing with school issues like this.”

  “It’s not just at school,” he says, slamming his fist against a locker. He realizes he’s startled me and takes a calming breath. He moves closer and whispers, “I think someone killed my cat.”

  I pause, lean back to get a better look at the frazzled teenager in front of me. His eyes are wild, and his skin is red from crying, but he looks wholly convinced—even scared—by what he just said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, the cat’s dead, for starters. I found her by the road in front of my house. But it doesn’t make sense. Tabs—that was her name—never walked to the road. She hardly ever left the porch. Besides, I live in the country. We rarely have cars pass the house, and when they do, they’re not going so fast they can’t see a cat.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a coincidence?” I hate that I’m even asking the question. I’m now treating Adam the same way I’ve been treated in the past. Like I’m trying too hard to make events seem connected.

  “I knew when I found Tabs it wasn’t an accident. The next morning, I found a rock behind my car. And there was a… slur written on it.”

  “What did it say?”

  He looks away from me, then at the ground, ashamed of what he says next. “It said… well, it’s a word for a cat but can also be used to describes a girl’s—”

  “I get it,” I say, raising my hands to stop him.

  The red in his cheeks deepen. “Interesting choice of words considering my cat just died, huh? People are messing with me because they think I hurt Darcy.”

  I no longer feel right in telling Adam he is wrong. That he is being paranoid or emotional. Based on what he said, I believe him.

  “You need to tell Ms. Pam about this,” I say. “All of it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mayfair,” he says, smoothing his forehead. “I’m sorry for causing a scene in there.”

  “Go eat lunch,” I say. “Stay away from trouble.”

  He nods, opens the door and leaves the hallway. I walk back to my classroom, my appetite gone. I can’t tell Adam I believe he really did leave the party that night, unaware of the dangerous predicament Darcy was left in. I can’t tell him I think he’s right about his cat, that someone really would be cruel enough to harm his pet in hopes of teaching him a lesson. And I can’t tell him I think I know who that person might be.

  I’m worried for him. I’m also worried about what Zoey may have unearthed. If she’s digging up dirt on her teachers, what might she have found about me?

  Thirteen

  Now

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been concerned Zoey might know about my past. It started when she mentioned Florida. If what Adam says is true—that Zoey is looking into the lives of her teachers—then she must know about Brian. The average person may not identify me as Brian’s sister, but anyone digging could find out.

  I’m staring at the computer screen, seeing nothing. My mind has been pulled in a dozen directions this week. The tiniest occurrence gets me thinking about Darcy, which gets me thinking about Brian. Once I go down that path, my brain might as well be stuck in 2006. Now I’m bothered by what Zoey might know, too. A shift of light pulls my attention to the left, and I see Melanie is standing by my computer.

  “What?” I ask, harsher than I should.

  “I asked, where do you want me to put this?” She must have been standing there a second. All while her loopy English teacher stares blankly ahead. Now she has my attention, and she’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m sorry, Melanie,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m zoning out for some reason.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, raising the paper in her hand. “It’s just, I finished my rough draft last night.”

  Of course, you did, Melanie, I think. “If you’re happy with it, go ahead and place it in the basket by the door.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, returning to her computer and pulling up what looks like an incomplete PowerPoint.

  Because it’s Friday, I’ve arranged for students to work in the computer lab. They’re starting their final research essay relating to The Crucible. I’m already dreading grading them. Classic literature doesn’t get old to me but reading my students’ varied analyses eventually does. I’ve had my fill of reading essays about the Salem Witch Trails. Who knew the Puritans were such avid hikers?

  I stroll around the room. All around me, students type on their keyboards. Adam didn’t come to school today. I suppose two days was all he could handle this week. I worry about him grieving Darcy while simultaneously defending himself against the whole school.

  “How long does this have to be?” asks Ben.

  “As long as it needs to be,” I say, wishing my students would focus more on content than word count. But I know, in their impatient minds, they need parameters for when the job is done. “Think around fifteen hundred words.”

  “All right,” Zoey says, typing away. “When is it due?”

  “You should finish the rough draft today. I’ll read them over the weekend. Depending on our schedule, we might look into revising them sometime next week.”

  I realize, after I’ve shared the timeline, that Darcy will be back by then. This already seems like the longest week ever. I’ll have to come up with an alternate assignment for her. I can’t have her writing about women who weren’t believed—or in some cases, women who were believed for the wrong reasons. I hope other teachers will make accommodations and acknowledge all the triggers she’ll be hitting throughout the day.

  When I return to my seat, I see Zoey is still watching me. She senses something is wrong. I’m sure all my students have picked up on my attitude, but Zoey is lingering around it. Poking it. Trying to figure me out. I hold her gaze until she returns to typing.

  When class dismisses, only half the group has complete drafts. The other half whine about wanting more time. It’s always the students that waste the first twenty minutes of class who demand an extension.

  “The bell is about to ring,” I announce. “Place your essays in the basket by the door.”

  The sound of groaning doesn’t leave me very optimistic about what I’m about to grade.

  “Have a good one,” Ben says on his way out, tipping his head as though he’s wearing an invisible hat. Devon’s staring at her phone, shuffling her feet.

  “Happy reading,” says Zoey. I smile instinctively, the grin dropping as soon as she’s gone. I don’t trust this girl. I’m fearful of what she might know.

  My second and third blocks complete the same assignment and turn in their papers. By the ti
me my planning begins, my ass is sore from sitting in the tight computer chair all day. I gather my belongings, around sixty essays and my coffee tumbler to make the trek back to my classroom for my planning period. I’m not ready to start grading, though. Instead, I log into my classroom computer and start googling potential locations for our summer vacation; it’s been over a week since I told Danny I’d create an itinerary, and all that I have produced is a paper labeled: France and Spain.

  Normally, I look forward to organizing vacations. I put more time into planning our honeymoon than I did our wedding. The ceremony was small, with less than twenty guests in attendance. We married in a chapel near Danny’s medical school campus. It seemed like the perfect excuse for avoiding a hometown affair. Danny was already so busy with his studies, and I’d recently graduated and moved there to be with him.

  Most girls dream of their wedding day, and maybe I used to be one of those girls, too. But once the day came, I no longer cared about some fancy social gathering. More than anything, I wanted the day to be over. I think I would have avoided a wedding entirely, but Danny’s parents wanted a reason to celebrate. It wasn’t fair for me to rob them of the experience simply because I wanted to avoid attachments to Wilsonville. One of my sorority sisters, a girl I’ve not spoken to in over five years, served as my Maid of Honor. Mom was my only family member in attendance. The entire day was a bubble of anxiety waiting to burst.

  But the honeymoon, that was my opportunity to truly celebrate. Of course, we had to schedule it months after the wedding, when Danny’s school schedule allowed him a two-week absence. Then we took off. We flew to Paris for a few days. We took all the typical pictures at the Eiffel Tower and strolled the historic streets of Montmartre. Then we flew to Rome, which had been Danny’s favorite. After we’d had our fill of museums and history tours, we spent our remaining week exploring everything from Tuscan vineyards to Venetian shorelines.

  Remembering the trip still produces a smile. I think that was when I felt I’d truly made it as an adult. Made it as a wife. Made it as a person other than Brian’s sister. And every vacation since then, whether it’s spring break in Hilton Head or a long weekend trapped away in some Virginian lodge, has reinforced the person I’ve become.

  After several minutes of lazy daydreaming, I pull out the essays and decide to grade them. I’m still not inspired to make any concrete decisions about the trip. And frankly, fantasizing about such glamorous possibilities seems unfair given the climate of the past week.

  I figure, if I start a rapid reading session now, I might be able to get through at least half of the essays before the weekend officially begins. The sixth essay I pull is Zoey’s, and I realize, given her newness, this is her first writing sample I’ve assessed. She’s displayed intelligence during classroom discussions, and her learning group assignments are always orderly and complete. After the first few paragraphs, I can tell she is a strong writer, too. There are minor grammar mistakes, but her comprehension and syntax are on level, if not advanced.

  The clock says there’s only a half hour left before the dismissal bell rings. I pick through the pile of essays, selecting students whose writing I believe I’ll be able to grade the fastest. The next one I pull looks as though it has largely been lifted from the internet. I sigh and shake my head, marking the paper as a reminder to search for plagiarized portions online later.

  I pull another piece of paper and immediately sigh in frustration. It’s only one sheet, and there’s not even writing on the back. We’ve devoted an entire day to these essays, and one of my students has only managed to produce a few lousy paragraphs. My frustrations build further when I realize there’s no name on the paper, either. I understand we’re nearing the end of the semester, but is it too much to ask for minimal effort?

  I start reading, almost nervous to see what poor topic this student must have chosen:

  We go outside. She stumbles, no longer fit to run.

  I sit back and shake my head. What the hell is this? Why is it shuffled in between stacks of research essays?

  People see her beauty. People see her wealth. I see her meanness. Behind the pretty purple, there’s nothing but weak.

  Purple. Darcy flashes before my mind. Her satin gown with that bronzed leg poking out, the same leg that was slashed hours later. Is someone writing about her?

  I’ll make her feel her ugly. The world will see her meanness.

  I throw down the paper, tears falling from my face. This is the attack. All the details the school is unsure about, all the details Darcy can’t remember, are written on this paper. This is someone’s confession. But they’re not trying to clear their conscience. They’re trying to disturb mine.

  I refuse to continue reading. I don’t want to know the details; it’s too painful. High school students can be ugly to each other, and, on occasion, their teachers. But I can’t imagine any of my students making fun of Darcy’s situation, especially considering the dim light the school has shed on the matter. Their cruelty would typically be saved for their peers, a crude joke when they think no adult is watching.

  No, whoever wrote this essay is trying to bother me. They’re dangling their confession in front of my face, hoping I won’t be able to figure out who wrote it. I recall my rosters. I’ve had most of these students in class for weeks; I can’t imagine any of them would write something like this. Adam, the person everyone believes attacked Darcy, was noticeably absent today.

  In the past five years, there has been only one student whom I consider cruel enough to write such a letter. Only one student has ever reminded me of Brian. Zoey. It must be. She’d only been at Victory Hills for a week when Darcy was attacked. She’s managed to get her classmates and other teachers to like her, but the charade doesn’t fool everyone. It doesn’t fool me. When people heard Darcy Moore was assaulted at a party, their minds—even mine—went to a male perpetrator; unfortunately, the story is far too common. Based on the circumstances of the attack, a female could just have easily stabbed Darcy.

  My mind goes back to first block dismissal and Zoey’s smug threat as she left the room. Happy reading, she’d said, that glib smile covering her face. Knowing at some point, whether this afternoon or later this weekend within the comfort of my own home, I’d find her confession and freeze. I slam my elbows against the desk and drop my head into my hands. My gut tells me not to trust Bowles with it; he’s already adamant about ignoring Darcy’s ordeal. Pam would see the seriousness, but I remember she’s not here today; she’s with Darcy. Telling the police crosses my mind, but I decide to wait. I should see what Pam has to say first.

  Guilt rages, again, when I realize Zoey intended this letter for me. There’s a reason she isn’t messing with Marge or Coach Gabe. I recall my conversation with Zoey earlier in the week when I overheard her make a wry comment about girls not being believed. I revealed my buttons and now she’s pushing. Zoey wants me to be bothered. If she knows about Brian, she knows I won’t confront her from fear she’ll out my past.

  As much as I want to never read the letter again, I realize there might be some clue tangled up with the other sickening words. I take a deep breath and lift the paper. It’s only a few paragraphs, but the contents disturb me. Much like reading all those articles over a decade ago. I read as the disgusting writer—already in my mind it’s Zoey—describes violating Darcy, slicing her leg. The essay stops abruptly, as I’m imagining the event did in real time. Maybe this was when the police arrived? Perhaps Zoey was interrupted?

  By now, I can hardly read because I’m crying so hard. My contacts are blurry. Because, again, I’m not only imagining these events happening to Darcy, but to all those girls back at Sterling Cove University, too. Except this time, Brian isn’t the only abuser who enters my mind. Zoey’s there, too. Hurting and slicing, smiling at the pain she’s caused.

  The dismissal bell rings, and I can hear the thunder of feet as students stampede the halls. I’ll have to wait several minutes to leave, now. Otherwise my c
o-workers and students will see my splotchy face and know something is wrong.

  I close my eyes, as Dr. Walters has instructed me to do in times of deep stress, and count. One… two… three. Within another two minutes, I’ve regained composure. I’ve stored the evil contents of the letter away in my mind, with all the other bad memories. I won’t read it again, but I will share it with Pam once I have the opportunity. Maybe this letter will confirm what happened during Darcy’s attack and urge the authorities to look more closely at who might be responsible.

  I immediately backtrack on my thoughts. Not my commitment to speak with Pam, rather my promise not to read the letter again. There’s one sentence dancing around in my mind, and I need to read it once more to make sure it’s there. That I haven’t just made it up in an attempt for the essay to serve a purpose.

  I don’t focus on the entire thing. I scan the words until I find that one sentence. It reads:

  She struggled to get away…

  I stop reading. That’s the only detail I need. The image of Darcy wriggling beneath her attacker. It’s horrifying, but it proves something. It means Darcy wasn’t passed out during her attack.

  She was awake.

  Fourteen

  Summer 2004

  I’d been nervous around the pool ever since I nearly drowned. I no longer enjoyed swimming. The cool water reminded me of my struggle to breathe.

  Still, it was summer in the suburbs and relaxing at the community pool was the best way to pass the time. Amber spent each day tanning, and she made frequent phone calls begging me to join her. I put on a metallic teal bikini and slathered on sunscreen. Dad had bored me enough with the dangers of UV rays.

  “Nice outfit,” Brian said, leaning against my bedroom doorframe. “You look like a skank.”

  I was used to this. His frequent name-calling. In the past, I’d say something snarky back or tell Mom. Telling Dad worked better, but even that didn’t stop Brian’s cruelty.