Page 21 of Someone Knows

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

An earsplitting bell rings. Seconds later, a teacher comes into the office with a student, and then two more people file in. The secretary, whose name I still don’t know, sighs.

“Do you mind showing yourself out, Ms. Davis?”

“Of course not. Thank you very much for your help.”

Apparently, security hasn’t changed much in Minton Parish. Who lets a virtual stranger loose in a high school these days? The hallway outside the main office isa sea of teenagers. They walk in clusters, gossiping, or by themselves, staring down at their cell phones. I might as well be invisible. Which gives me an idea . . . I turn right out of the office—walking the way I came in—but when I reach the entrance, I head in the opposite direction to the main staircase, blending into a crowd of students. Once I reach the second floor, I glance down the hall. Teachers are standing in front of their classrooms as students enter. They won’t be as oblivious to a stranger wandering the building. So I duck back into the stairwell, turn my back to the students rushing to get where they need to be, and pretend I’m scrolling on my phone. Minutes later, another bell rings, and the few stragglers still coming up the stairs pick up their pace and jog the rest of the way to their destinations. If I remember correctly, there’s another bell—the late bell—so I wait. Sure enough, it rings through the hallway speakers, and then there’s the sound of doors closing, and the second floor goes quiet.

I wait another few minutes before peeking my head out to make sure the coast is clear, and a rush of adrenaline sends my heart racing as I step out into the empty hall. I take a deep breath and tiptoe down to the third classroom from the end. The door still has the same small window. I close my eyes and remember the way I used to look at Mr. Sawyer when I passed by, before everything happened. I thought he was so handsome—most girls did. That makes me feel sick, and I open my eyes to force my mind back to the present. I peer through that same window now, and there’s a woman—a young teacher at the front of the classroom. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop myself from visualizing the vivid description on the pages of the last chapter I received from Hannah.

Kneeling.

Staring down at the floor.

A caress of the cheek.

Good girl . . .

I blink open my eyes and the young teacher is gone. Instead, I see Mr. Sawyer and my best friend, Jocelyn. I know it’s not real, but it knocks the wind out of me just the same. I’m still seeing them when a voice breaks in.

“Ma’am? Can I help you?”

The teacher. She’s in the hallway now, wearing a look of concern. When I don’t answer, she takes a step closer.

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Yes. I . . . I was just leaving.”

I don’t wait for a response before I turn and walk quickly down the hall, rush down the staircase, and fly out the front door of the school. I keep running until I’m in the parking lot, locked inside my car. My hands shake as I attempt to put the key in the ignition, and I still can’t catch my breath.

It was a mistake to come here. To the school. To Minton Parish. To Louisiana.

Yet I can’t stop myself from going to visit the spot that isthe biggest mistake of all.

The Memory Haven Motel has changed even less than the high school. The neon sign that flickers intermittently is still missing half theMinMotel, so it reads as “Memory HavenNotel,” which is fitting. It’s concealed from the main road by overgrown trees, and its peeling brown paint seeks attention about as much as the people who frequent the place.

I watch as a man parks in front of room 112. He exits his car and looks around before slipping inside the room. Heavy drapes shroud the windows, and I imagine the stench of stale smoke and mold. Not long after, a brunette pulls into the parking lot. She drives around to the side of the building and parks her car, then walks with her head down to the same room. She knocks and the drapes move, allowing a peek outside, before the door opensand she ducks in.

A little while later, an 18-wheeler pulls in. The driver doesn’t get out. Instead, a woman pulls in next to the truck. She parks and climbs up into the big rig. I can actually see her head bobbing up and down from where I’m parked.Good to know the place is as classy as it was in high school.

I sit in the parking lot with the engine running for a few hours, staring at the last room on the second floor—the one farthest from the crappy little office downstairs. I’ll probably run out of gas soon, but I can’t make myself leave, and it’s too damn hot to turn off the car. No one has gone in or out of 212 yet. I’m half tempted to go in and say I need a room, see if they’ll give me that unit. But I don’t really want to. I’ve let in enough memories these last few weeks. I’m just about to call it a day when a knock on my car window makes me jump. I see the brown police uniform and holstered gun before anything else.

“Shit,” I breathe, holding a hand over my heart.

The man bends, showing me his face. Is that . . . Wendell Unger? The police chief?

I haven’t laid eyes on him in twenty years. The face is older, weathered and wrinkled, but I really think it might be him. He gestures for me to roll down my window, and my heart feels like it might leap out of my chest as I press the button to lower the glass.

Where the hell did he even come from? I didn’t see anyone approaching my car.

“Good afternoon.” He nods. “Didn’t meant to startle you. Just noticed you sitting here for a while and thought I’d check to see if everything is all right.”

“Everything’s fine, Officer.” My eyes drop to his name tag. Unger.

“Good. Can I see some ID, please?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

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