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

by Miranda Smith

  “Violent?” Danny put his hand on my shoulder. “Just take a breath.”

  “No, I need to do something about this. I need to tell Mom. Brian can’t go around acting that way.”

  “Don’t you think she’s got enough on her plate right now?”

  “I’m telling you, what I saw was not normal.” I pressed my palms against my temples.

  “Della.”

  “I don’t know if Amber is even okay. Maybe we should go back together. Make sure he hasn’t hurt her,” I said, pointing down the street.

  “Della.”

  “I’ve always known he was a creep, but to be doing something like that after our dad’s funeral—”

  “Della, will you just stop?” Danny shouted. His volume silenced my rant. “I know you don’t particularly like Brian, but he doesn’t need an annoying kid sister right now.”

  I stared at Danny, embarrassed I’d just unleashed the way I had. But still, I knew what I saw wasn’t right. If he could only understand. “I’m not being a kid. I’m scared.”

  “I can only imagine what those two are up to. But it’s none of our business. You don’t need to make the situation more awkward by getting others involved.”

  “He was hurting her, Danny.”

  “Knowing Amber, she was probably into it. Just give the guy a break. He’s grieving, too.”

  I started crying over all of it. Dad was gone, and he’d left me in a world where no one believed what I had to say.

  “Della, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. I’m only taking up for Brian because he’s my best friend. I know what it’s like between the two of you, but I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.”

  He hugged me and wouldn’t let go until I sank into him, my forehead resting against his bony shoulder. I knew he didn’t mean to be harsh, but Danny didn’t know what it was like between us. No one did.

  Twenty-Seven

  Now

  I can’t sleep. I’ve downloaded one of those pregnancy apps that tells you how your baby is progressing from week to week. Of course, I don’t know exactly how far along I am because I still haven’t had a proper ultrasound. Based on my last period, we estimate I’m between six and seven weeks. According to the app, the baby is around the size of a pea or a lentil. Strange to think something that small can make such a difference in a person. The app says expectant mothers have unpredictable sleep patterns around this stage, but I don’t blame my lack of sleep on the baby. I blame Zoey.

  I now know Zoey has acted violently in the past, but I have no solid proof she hurt either Ms. Peterson or Darcy. She’s become skilled in hiding her violence, just like Brian. He didn’t stop doing bad things, as a more adjusted person would. His acts grew more dangerous, but his ability to hide became better.

  I just wish I could get someone—anyone—to see the situation from my perspective. See the real Zoey. I’ve already bothered Pam enough. There’s nothing she can do without proof, and it’s wildly unfortunate we live in a society that waits for bad things to happen before doing anything.

  Suddenly, it comes to me: Marge. She’s the only employee who knows more about the students’ personal lives than Pam. Marge may be riding the I love Zoey train, but if I explained to her my suspicions in full, she might be more likely to listen. I consider this possibility some more, until I lazily drift off to sleep.

  On Thursday, I rush to work in hopes of catching Marge in the teacher’s lounge. Unfortunately, she’s not there. By lunch, I still haven’t seen her, so I send a text.

  You at school today? I ask.

  I skipped. Had to get ready for the Year End Bake Sale, she replies, with a cookie emoji.

  Can I come over after school? I ask.

  It’s not unusual for me to drop by her house. It’s happened in the past, although I feel I’ve barely seen her outside of school since spring break.

  Sure. You can be a taste tester!

  In Victory Hills, everything is a short drive away. Marge’s neighborhood is full of homes that millennials would describe as starter homes. Little square houses with two or three bedrooms, wooden fences crossing the backyards and newly-paved sidewalks crossing the front lawns.

  When I park in front of Marge’s house, she’s outside loading a half dozen foldable tables into the back of a truck. Marge hosts the Year End Bake Sale annually. Proceeds fund last-minute Prom expenses. Parents contribute several items, but she bakes the majority herself.

  “Hey, lady,” she says when she spots me walking across the street. At her feet is a large cardboard box. She bends over and starts rummaging through it.

  “You have enough food to feed an army,” I say, peering at a box filled with individually wrapped Rice Krispie treats.

  “We’ve had several donations this year,” she says, lifting the box and putting it inside the cab of the truck. “I’m waiting on some other parents to stop by, then I’ll head to school and start setting up.”

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “You’re welcome to shop the sale,” she says. “We’ve got cake pops and miniature pies. Tomorrow Melanie Fisher’s mom is bringing apple turnovers.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “The bags with the yellow stickers are nut-free, the green stickers mean gluten-free and the blue stickers are dairy-free.”

  Marge has numerous allergies, nuts being one of them. Each year, she hosts a faculty assembly over the proper way to use an EpiPen. Bowles might get the title of principal, but it’s people like Marge who keep the place functioning.

  I grab a brownie in a sticker-free Ziploc bag. “How much?”

  “Please,” she says, waving me down. “Just eat it.”

  I put the brownie in my bag for later. “I’ll pay you in labor. Let me help you lift these tables.” The offer leaves my lips, and my hand instinctively brushes against my midsection. I don’t need to be lifting anything, I remember.

  “No need,” Marge says. “Thankfully, I’ve got an extra set of hands today.”

  “Yeah?” As the words leave my mouth, I look at Marge’s front door. Standing there, leaning against the brick, is Zoey.

  “I guess I didn’t tell you about my new roommate,” Marge says.

  “Your what?” My words trail away. I haven’t stopped staring at Zoey. She sees me now, acknowledges my presence with a light wave before ducking inside.

  “Marge, what is she doing here?” I ask, looking at her with frightened eyes.

  “I guess you heard about what happened with her mother.” She shakes her head and makes a pitiful shoo sound.

  “Yes, but why is she here? I thought she was with CPS.”

  “I volunteered to let her stay with me until the end of the semester,” she says.

  “Marge! What are you thinking?” I bite my bottom lip, upset I’ve not had the chance to tell her my suspicions about Zoey sooner. It’s just like Marge to help a student in need. It’s what she always does. She doesn’t know the potential danger Zoey presents. I soften my tone and lower my volume. “Do teachers typically take in their students in a situation like this?”

  “I’ve fostered before, you know. Never anything long-term, and usually the children are younger. But what can I say? I like the kid. It’s bad enough she came here so late in the year. I thought, if she stays with me, at least she can remain at school with a sense of normalcy.”

  “That’s very admirable, Marge,” I say, wanting her to understand I appreciate her kindness. “But there’s something you should know.”

  Like a phantom, Zoey appears at my side holding a roll of duct tape and cutting scissors. “Happy Almost-Friday, Mrs. Mayfair.”

  “Zoey,” I say, hesitantly. I look at her but cannot reciprocate her smile. I don’t even have the spirit to fake it.

  “Hold on, guys,” Marge says, staring across the lawn as a car pulls up. An older man exits the vehicle holding an aluminum platter. “Looks like we have another food delivery.”

  She skirts across
the lawn, leaving us alone. Zoey stares at me for a beat, scissors in her hands, then places them on the grass. She hauls a foldable table off the ground and into the truck bed.

  “What brings you here?” she asks.

  “Ms. Helton and I are friends, Zoey.”

  “Do you often hang out after school?” she asks, still focusing on the task in front of her.

  “Sometimes,” I say, irritated by her questions. Across the lawn, I see Marge is busy talking with the visitor. “I’d rather know why you are here?”

  “You didn’t hear about what happened with my mom? I thought you might know, considering how close you two are.” She stops pushing the table and looks at me with those empty eyes.

  “What’s that mean, Zoey?” I ask, careful not to give her more information.

  “She told me about your visit last week,” she says. “She said you seemed like a very concerned teacher.”

  “I visited her, and we talked about your progress at school.”

  “Well, everyone at school seems to think I’m progressing just fine. Except for you. I wonder why that is?”

  There are so many things I want to say to her right now. So many accusations I want to throw her way. But I can’t. She probably wants me to act hysterical, react in a way that will make me seem unbelievable should anyone start listening to what I have to say.

  “Your mother thinks you’re adjusting, too,” I say, instead. “She said you had a great time at Spring Fling. And the party.”

  I hold her eye contact, letting her know, as discreetly as possible, I’m onto her. I’m onto her lies, and it won’t take me long to uncover more.

  “Maybe I just told my mom I was at the party. Isn’t that what teenagers do? Tell their parents they went one place, so they can really go somewhere else.”

  “I’ve not been a teenager for a while,” I say. Then, whispering, “Is that what you two fought about over the weekend?”

  She flinches, letting me know I’m right. Ms. Peterson did ask Zoey about the party, and the exchange which unfolded led to violence. She recovers quickly, smiling.

  “I’d rather not talk about what happened.” Her eyes turn from cold to pitiful. “It wasn’t a good night.”

  “Must have been traumatic,” I say. “For both of you.”

  I know what I’m saying is wildly inappropriate, especially considering Zoey has recently been labeled a victim of violence. But I don’t believe her. And I want her to understand my accusations, even if I can’t voice them.

  She lets out a quiet laugh.

  “You would know about that, right?” she asks. “Overcoming trauma?” She smirks, placing a box inside the car without taking her eyes off me.

  I breathe shallowly, because now I’m not the only one making allegations. One… two… three. I feel, for the first time in a long time, someone is looking at me not as Della Mayfair, but as Brian’s sister. She knows.

  “Don’t stop working now,” Marge says to Zoey, standing between us.

  “Sorry, Ms. Helton. I was just telling Mrs. Mayfair how appreciative I am you agreed to take me in.”

  “Don’t get all soft on me,” she says, squeezing Zoey’s shoulder. “And you should call me Marge. At least when we’re not in chemistry class.”

  My entire body feels hot, and there’s a thin line of sweat between my palm and the strap of my purse. Four… five… six. “Marge, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home,” I say.

  “You all right, Dell?” she asks. “You look pasty. Come sit on the sofa. I’ll make you a drink.”

  “No, no. I’m fine. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I say, stumbling toward my car. Seven… eight… nine. “Thanks for the brownie.”

  “Be careful, Dell,” she warns me, uneasy. I can tell she’s concerned, but she has no way of knowing why I’m suddenly on edge. Or that I’m not the one who needs to be careful.

  I get to my car, but before I open the door, I stop and turn. “Marge?” I yell across the narrow street.

  “Yeah?” she hollers back.

  “You don’t have a cat, do you?”

  “Nope,” she says. “I’m allergic.”

  Zoey keeps her back to me as she wrestles another table. She doesn’t respond to the question I ask, acts as though she didn’t even hear. She has a much better poker face than I do. But I hope she did hear, and I hope she’s wondering what else I know. Wondering how much of her past and present I’m starting to piece together.

  “Good,” I say to Marge, getting inside my car and slamming the door.

  Twenty-Eight

  Now

  On Friday morning, I go straight to the employee lounge. As expected, Marge is inside preparing her morning coffee.

  “You feel better?” she asks, stirring her cup with a spoon.

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering my sudden departure yesterday. I spent most of the evening on the couch with a cool rag on my head. Danny said I’m likely to feel this way the next several weeks. He thinks everything is pregnancy related. Maybe some of it is, but I think Zoey’s pull is getting stronger. “I did want to talk to you about something, though.”

  “Shoot it, sister,” she says.

  “Will you come to my classroom?” I ask. I don’t want to have the conversation where others might hear.

  She follows me through the hallway. I unlock my door, throw my bag on the desk and offer Marge a seat.

  “Everything all right?” she asks, concern in her eyes.

  “I need to talk with you about Zoey Peterson,” I say, rolling my computer chair toward her.

  “Okay,” she says, a smile on her face. “You know, I thought she was a good kid when I had her in class. You should have seen how helpful she was yesterday. I think she set up every table in the gymnasium.”

  “Look, the reason I came to your house yesterday is because I wanted to talk to you about Zoey. I didn’t realize at the time she had moved in with you.”

  “Well, it was a last-minute arrangement.”

  “I think it’s admirable you offered her a place to stay,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. “But there are some things about Zoey you need to know.”

  “What’s going on, Dell?”

  “I think Zoey is disturbed.” I know it sounds ridiculous, and the blank stare Marge returns doesn’t make me feel any better. “I think she was the student who attacked Darcy Moore. She’s displayed more threatening behavior since then. And I really don’t think she should be living in your house.”

  “Okay.” She stretches out the syllables and repositions herself in the cramped student desk. “What makes you think Zoey hurt Darcy?”

  “I… I saw them at the dance,” I begin, feeling already like what I say won’t be enough. I clear my throat, restart with a stronger voice. “I saw them at the dance. I know she went to the after-party where Darcy was assaulted, even though she lied about attending. A week after the attack, I received an anonymous written account of what happened that night. I think Zoey wrote it.”

  “But why Zoey?” she asks, turning her head. “How do you know she wrote this message?”

  “She was in the computer lab when it happened,” I say. “None of my other students would have written something so disturbing.”

  “How do you know that?” she asks. “Was her class the only one in there that day? Or did you take your other classes?”

  “All of my classes were in there—”

  “When did you find this paper?”

  “It wasn’t until the end of the day—”

  “So you don’t know which class period it might have come from?” she asks, aggressively.

  I stare at her, knowing I’m already losing the battle. “I know it was Zoey.”

  “Why are you so convinced?” she asks. “You’re making an allegation about a student I’ve only had pleasant interactions with.”

  “That’s the thing. I haven’t had pleasant interactions with her. She shows me a different side. And it’s not just the essay. I think she’s
done other things. Violent things.”

  “Like what?” She leans against the back of the chair, crossing her legs as best she can under the tabletop. At least she’s willing to hear me out, but she wears the same expression Pam did earlier in the week. She’s unconvinced.

  “The week following the attack, Adam told me there were students harassing him. He even suspected someone killed his cat.”

  “Adam’s on edge with everyone these days. I’ve heard his other teachers talk about it.”

  “I think Zoey is using that to her advantage. She’s purposely pushing Adam’s buttons. That’s why she killed his cat.” I’m afraid to tell her the next part, but I must so she can start making connections for herself. “I called Zoey’s former schools. She was expelled from an elementary school for killing a cat on school grounds.”

  Marge raises her hand to her chin and steadies herself on the desk. She’s thinking. Finally, she speaks. “How old was she?”

  “She was in sixth grade.”

  “And none of this was on her official record?”

  “The school secretary told me about it. I’m not sure why none of this is in her file.” I roll my eyes and flick my hand. “Maybe she was an athlete there, too.”

  “Come on, Della,” Marge says. “They wouldn’t ignore something like that for sports.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “But for whatever reason, they didn’t add it to the official file. They told her to leave and she did.”

  “The cat incident is… disturbing. But that was several years ago. Maybe there were things going on at the time we aren’t aware of.”

  “Really?” Now I’m the one who sounds frustrated, leaning back and straightening my posture. “There’s no excuse for it, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Adam’s cat was killed, too.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she concedes, leaning forward. “Based on what you’ve told me, I will be more alert.”

  Her words are as empty as her face is blank. She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m blowing this out of proportion.