Page 2 of Someone Knows

“How’s Walter doing?”

God, the brain is such a labyrinth of complexity. Precious memories fade like whispers in the wind while the worthless ones stay anchored. Walter was some jerk I dated briefly when I first moved here. But I’ve learned that it’s best for Mr. Hank if I don’t correct him and just continue with the conversation. So I force a smile. “Things are okay.”

He makes a grunting sound. “I think it would be best you date men your own age. Older men have agendas.”

This time my smile is real. Some things haven’t changed after two decades. Sam is ten years older than me.

Forty-five minutes later, it’s dinnertime for Mr. Hank. He opens his arms for a goodbye hug, and I step in, inhaling the scent of chocolate donuts and Old Spice. The smell is uniquely him. When I pull back, he clutches my arm for a second, gives me a big smile. “I love you, kid.”

I press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, too.”

Two hours later, I’m soaking in the bathtub with a glass of wine. The stress I’ve felt all day dissolves like a sugar cube in a hot cup of tea, and I barely remember my name, much less today’s date. I should have done this earlier; maybe I would’ve finished the work I need to complete before it got so late. I only teach two classes at Pace University during the summer, but one of them is an online yearlong fiction-writing seminar that just started, and it requires a lot more time than the English 101 course, which meets in person twice a week. There are two dozen first chapters of books waiting for me to read and critique. I’m the only professor who volunteered to take on the class when the school started offering it a decade ago, and it’s a lot. But every once in a while, I find a diamond in the rough, a student who shows promise, and it makes all the extra hours worthwhile.

My iPad is on the bath mat, so I reach over the tub and grab it, along with my reading glasses, and press the button to fire it up. I preferred the days of students handing in papers that were on actualpaper—much gentler on my eyes and easier to scribble a note in the margin with a red pen. But I’m a dinosaur at thirty-seven now.

I call up the first submission and read through the chapter. It’s written well enough, but it doesn’t grab my attention, doesn’t make me excited to turn the next page or anxious to read the whole book. Polishing it likely won’t make it a diamond, but I add a few comments, note a few suggestions to pick up the pace, and hit send.

I open the next file, sip my wine, and sink deeper into the warm tub. The document opens to a title page—The Reckoningby Hannah Greer. My course syllabus suggests not attempting to come up with a name for the book until the first draft is completed—so the title can capture the true spirit of the novel. But every year, one student does it anyway. The next page even has a dedication—that’ssomething new.

To anyone who has done something evil in the dark and believes it will never come to light. You’re wrong. Your day of reckoning is coming.

Wow. Dark. Though it certainly has piqued my curiosity as a reader. I scroll to the next page and expect the creepy vibe to continue. But it doesn’t. Instead, it opens with a prologue, a beautiful discussion about coming of age when life isn’t so easy. It might not be what I expected with that title and dedication, but it’s a strong start nonetheless. Immediately, I have a sense of the character—a young woman questioning her self-worth, on the cusp of going out into the world. I can identify with that. I add a quick comment, suggest the student describe the face her protagonist is making, rather thantellme she’s sad.

I keep reading. The main character is a girl in her senior year of high school. A girl who looks at hermaleteacher differently than the other kids do. It sounds like she might have a crush. She’s daydreaming, looking out the window at a yellow finch—

A yellow finch.

My breath comes up short.

My heart pounds.

I close my eyes and manage to shake it off, laugh out loud at myself even. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a bird. And find me a high school kid who doesn’t stare out the window daydreaming at some point. I’m just being paranoid.

I read another paragraph, then another, but the farther I go, the more I realize I can’t shake it off anymore. A sheen of sweat forms on my forehead, though the bathwater has grown cool. I read rapidly to the end and swallow.

This isn’t fiction.

This is a real story, atruestory.

But that’s not possible. Is it? Maybe it’s just . . . similar.

I wipe my forehead, grab my wineglass, andgulp the rest down. Then I flip back to the beginning and read again. It’s just a first chapter, but the names, what the teacher does, it’s . . .

Definitely not fiction.

And while I might’ve only read the beginning of the story, I already know the ending. Mr. Sawyer has an affair with my best friend, Jocelyn, and winds up dead.

BecauseI killed him. Exactly twenty years ago today.

CHAPTER

2

Chapter 1—Hannah’s Novel

Jocelyn stared out the window, watching as a bright yellow finch landed on a branch, bringing its nest full of babies their regurgitated meal. It was supposed to be innate, wasn’t it? The nurture of a parent—feeding, bathing . . . physical affection. Yet this morningshe’dbeen the one to wake her mother, make her breakfast, help her into the shower. Then again, finches couldn’t stumble to the liquor store and pick up a plastic bottle of vodka that made them forget their role in life.

“Miss Burton . . .” Her teacher stopped at her desk. “Are you with us this afternoon?”

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