As I’m carrying my contraband out into the cold day and heading for the truck, I notice the small cottage sitting off on its own. The caretaker’s cottage. Johnny Adair’s cottage. Rarely did I go near it, but the few times I looked in, I remember one room with a cot and hot plate and tools. But I know some of the girls dug around in there on occasion, looking for booze, cigarettes, or weed.
The last girl that was in there, though, was Heather. Her blood and DNA had been found all over it the night she disappeared.
I glance behind me toward the circular driveway. Mine is still the only vehicle here. One quick look in the cottage wouldn’t be that bad. I’ve already broken about a dozen rules anyway. What’s one more? But when I turn back to the cottage, I freeze.
A woman is standing in the doorframe. She is wearing bright-blue scrubs and looks to be in her late forties. She’s tall and fit, possibly a former college athlete. Her dark eyes study me.
My brain is screamingrun, but it’s also telling me something about this woman is familiar.
“It’s cool,” I say.
And then she’s the one who runs.
“Hey,” I yell. “Wait.”
I watch her scamper to a narrow opening in the woods, and then she’s gone, swallowed up by the shadows.
Chapter Seven
Riverbend, Louisiana
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
11:53 a.m. CST
I set the box Iborrowedon the front seat of the truck, then climb in and lock the doors. I scan the woods where the woman disappeared, but I don’t see her. I think about what could have happened if she hadn’t run. I need to be more careful.
Be careful, Rita.
Shivering, I crank the truck’s engine and pull away from the school, heading north once I get back to the main road.
I pull into the small town of Piedmont, and this time I get stuck behind the parade I saw on my way down. The car behind me does a U-turn and speeds off, although I’m not sure where that person thinks they’re going. It’ll be faster to follow a five-mile-an-hour parade. A white sedan pulls out from a side street and tucks in behind me. Welcome to the conga line.
But the conga line has come to a stop.
A guy jumps from a makeshift float consisting of a tractor pulling a flatbed trailer and walks toward the line of cars, yelling there’s a problem with the lead float. One thing I know about parades in these parts is, aside from beads, you are guaranteed at least one float with a flat.
The cars behind me honk, and I examine the box on the seat next to me, its lid in place. A lesson from my college Greek mythology class comes to mind about Pandora’s box. Pandora opened it out of curiosity and released pain, anger, sickness, and jealousy into the world. And when she tried to put the lid back on, it was too late.
It may already be too late, but I put the truck in park and opt for the folders in my tote instead.
The papers in the first folder are torn and water damaged, and from what I can tell, most are transcripts, but it’s impossible to read any names.
The second folder is more interesting. It’s filled with mental health evaluations. The names are redacted, but they are in better shape and easier to read. Several have general notes with similar phrases: problems with authority, disruptive in class, hypersexualized, eating disorders. Things that could have described any number of girls in my graduating class, including me. We were all there for a reason. But there are three that are more specific than the others and from my freshman year, when it felt like we lived under a microscope. Like the teachers and counselors were always watching us. And what had Grace said? One of us could have been violent.
Is that why Laura Sanders reached out to me?
I set those three forms side by side on the seat next to me.
Privileged and Confidential
1999 Group Session Notes
Date: September 1999
Student Number: 031
From: Dr. Janet Fontenot
