Page 12 of Where the Darkness Goes

“The nurse. When we came in earlier, she said Mom was popular today.” Tessa takes quick steps toward me. “The nurse told Mom she was popular today.” She waves the paper at me, and now I feel like I’m the one in trouble. “Someone else was here. Whoever it was that wrote this, they might’ve done it today.”

The nurse’s words float through my head, and I do vaguely remember her saying that. Maybe. But… “It’s probably a misunderstanding.”

“How could I misunderstand this?” She turns her head, studying the paper in horror. “Someone is calling her a murderer.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” The look on her face tells me I should immediately rephrase what I said, so I do. “I just mean, for all we know, it was inside one of the books and fell out when someone took it off the shelf. Like maybe someone had been keeping notes on one of the murder mysteries or something.” I had no idea my brain had even concocted that theory until it left my mouth. “We don’t know what it means.”

Before she can respond, there’s a quick, light knock, and then Nurse Emma eases her head into the room, eyes wide when she sees how close we are to the door.

“Ope. Sorry. Did someone call for me?” Her cheeks flush as if she’s caught us in an intimate moment, and it’s only then I realize how close I’m standing to Tessa. So close I can smell the sweet coconut of her shampoo.

I step back, despite every nerve in my body rebelling. “Yeah, we?—”

“Did someone else visit my mom today?” Tessa asks, cutting me off. It’s a reminder this isn’t my business. Not really. She doesn’t mean it to be, maybe, but it’s just the truth. Frannie Becker isn’t my mom, no matter how much I think of her as one.

“Um, yes. Before you came by.” Her smile falters slightly. “There was a woman who visited.”

“A woman?” Tessa only sounds slightly deranged. “What woman? What did she look like?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember. She was here bright and early this morning. I remember because your mom’s room is the first on my rotation. I came in, but when I saw she had a visitor, I immediately stepped back out to give them time. She was blonde, I think, but don’t quote me. You could check the front desk and see if she signed in.”

“Right. Okay. We’ll do that.” Tessa blinks, coming out of whatever sort of trance she’s been in. She rubs her lips together, deep in thought.

“Is everything okay?” Nurse Emma asks.

Plastering on a sickly-sweet smile that rivals Nurse Emma’s own, Tessa gives an affirmative nod. “Yes. Of course. We’re just going to go.”

We step out the door. Tessa moves faster in heels than I’ve ever seen her as she jogs down the hall and toward the lobby. We approach the window where we signed in earlier and wait for the receptionist to appear.

When she does, she walks around a corner from the back with a protein bar in her hand. “Checking in for a visit?”

Tessa taps the counter with her finger. “We’re already checked in. I was hoping you could tell us about a visitor my mom had earlier?”

“Probably not,” the woman says, but grabs the clipboard and places it in front of us. “If they signed in, it’d be on here.”

“If?” I ask.

She shrugs. Not unkind, just indifferent. “We don’t require visitors to sign in, but it’s encouraged.”

Next to me, Tessa scans the sign-in sheet. There are just three listed before us, but none that I recognize. Eventually she puts it down.

“Oh. Okay. Thank you anyway.” Her tone is soft and defeated.

“Thanks,” I add, following her out the door with more questions than answers. We both know why this has upset her so much—echoes of the past play in my ears. This isn’t the first time accusations have been thrown at this family, and with a new death in town, the first in years, I hate to think it could start up again. No one could think Ms. Frannie had anything to do with Britney’s death. She’s been in the nursing home all this time. Still, it feels like I’ve eaten something rotten, the contents of my stomach rumbling with warning.

In the car, she unfolds the crinkled paper in her hands, staring down at it. “My mom isn’t a murderer.”

I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or herself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TESSA — AGE 16

My door bursts open like a firework, boys exploding in every direction. I sit up in bed, closing the book I’d been reading, and eye them. Will, Garrett, Justin, Brendan, and Cory pant heavily, faces red as they slam the door shut. It’s as if they were running from something.

“What are you dweebs doing in my room?”

Like he just realized I’m here, Will’s expression goes serious. “I need to talk to you.” He crosses the room and sits on the end of my bed. The other boys linger near the door. I’m used to this—the house dripping with my brother’s friends. The understanding that they might pop up at any moment.

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