Page 87 of Someone Knows

When I sit down to book a flight, the earliest I can get is tomorrow in the late afternoon.Perfect.I hit purchase and enter my credit card. I’ll clear out my room and be done by tonight. Then I’ll get back to my life. Speaking of which, I need to text my boss and tell her I’ll be back in two days. I miss my job. In some ways it’s never seemed like much, but after these last weeks, months of realizations, it now feels like so much more—like it saved me. I really did escape this place and start over, thanks to Mr. Hank and my career. I think I’ll go see him next weekend, bring a box of donuts and bask in his smile while he enjoys them.

I stall for an hour before finally making my way to my bedroom. When I do, I sit on the decades-old carpeting, feeling hollow inside my chest. This place is untouched since I left at seventeen, from the pink comforter to the posters on the wall, secured with thumbtacks. There are even stuffedanimals still lining a little toy chest I have a vague memory of someone handing down to me.

I settle in front of the bed and reach beneath it. The first box I pull out has Valentines from grade school. I nearly smile—for some reason, I kept these. Maybe because they were claims that people cared about me:Please be my ValentineandSweet on you, along with two-decade-old cheap candy. I toss the entire thing into a trash bag and reach for the next box.

Stacks of photographs.

It momentarily rocks me, thinking about the Polaroids I burned in the backyard yesterday. But these aren’t photos like that. These are photos of me and Ivy and Lucas—hanging out in a parking lot, wandering by a stream on the outskirts of town. Ivy and me hugging in a classroom, wearing ridiculous clothes we thought were cute and sexy back when we were teenagers. Our hair was straightened so much it looked frayed, and we were so incredibly skinny, I now realize. But we looked happy, innocent—little idiots who had no idea what the world was about to throw at us. These memories aren’t bad, but they’re my past, and that’s staying here. So I crumple the photo in my hand, add the entire box to the bag of trash. When I go back to New York, I’m going back to pretending my life started when I was eighteen.

There are half a dozen more boxes under the bed—there wasn’t money for storage containers—and I slowly sift through the history of all the shoes I wore in my childhood, each box filled with more mementos. I throw away papers I was proud of, art I did in grade school. I can’t bring myself to throw away my favorite books, though, so I pile those up to go to Goodwill. Maybe some other little girl will find comfort in them. After the last of the bags is tied up and at the curb, I drag my twin mattress out. The only thing left is mom’s set, which I left, knowing it would be heavy and awkward to carry.

Her room is dark now, since the lamps were tossed days ago. I open curtains that have probably beenclosed for a decade and let a little sunshine in. The bed still has bedding on it. It’s old and ratty, so it’s all going to the curb with the last bag of trash. I strip the comforter and top sheet, then walk around to tug the fitted sheet from the corners. When I pull at the third corner, something pops partially out from between the mattress and box spring.

Something yellow, somethingfamiliar. . .

I crouch down for a better look, gripping its spiraled side to pull it out.

The butterfly on the front. Myjournalfrom back then.

But it can’t be. It’s probably just another yellow spiral-bound notebook with a butterfly on the front. One my mother wrote in—though I can’t really see her doing that. I flip it open, then go still, my whole body trembling in shock.

Itismy notebook. The one I wrote every last secret in.Me, not my friend Jocelyn.

And my mother had it all this time, hidden between the layers of her bed.

I sit down, heart pounding at what I hold in my hand. I flip it open and skim the entries. It starts with simple things—I have a crush on Lucas. He’s so cute—and details about Ivy and me. I’ve even pasted in a photo of us, wearing what we thought were fancy gowns, going to some dance at the school. We couldn’t have been older than fifteen, before everything happened.

But I know what else is in this notebook.

I turn page after page, searching for what comes later.

It doesn’t take long to find. My writing changes, turns to scribbles as I hurry to get the details down. There are entries about Mr. Sawyer. Entries about kneeling. Entries about havingsexfor the first time. Entries about the beatings. Then . . .an entry about my pregnancy. I made the words bold, going over them repeatedly with my blue, ballpoint pen.I. AM. PREGNANT.I hadn’t known how to feel about it. Shocked. Frightened. As crazy as it sounds, happy. I detailhow I plan to tell Mr. Sawyer. How I hope he’s not mad. How I hope it doesn’t mean I’ll be stuck in Minton Parish for the rest of my life like other girls who got pregnant too early. I speculate what might happen—will he leave his wife? Will we go away together? Am I special enough that he would do that for me? Tears form in my eyes, reading all the hope I had. I wanted him to save me from this place more than anything.

The next entry is about the miscarriage. About how he pushed me. The clinic. How I went back to the motel after I was strong enough, and we had a fight. The first and last time I ever fought back.Because I thought I’d killed him.

I don’t move for a long time, staring down at the scribbles, the one place I told the truth back then.

Then it hits me.

My mother knew all the details that are in the chapters . . .

I’d pretty much ruled her out after that pregnancy chapter came in. Because while I might’ve told her I’d been involved with Mr. Sawyer the night everything happened, might have told her the things he made me do, Inevertold her about the pregnancy. I’d never told anyone.

But she knew.

She had my journal.

I drop the notebook, get to my feet, race to the garage.The letter! The letter!It can’t have been in one of the bags I took out.Please, God, no. There were so many damn bags of trash, and only three of them made it to the curb before I was interrupted by Noah showing up on trash day—a dozen more still have to be put out. I yank the first one open, turn it upside down, and dump the contents before shuffling through.Nothing.I rip the next one wide and sift through garbage I cleaned out of her kitchen, her dining room.Nothing.My heart pounds. I’m afraid it’s too late. Afraid it was one of the three I dragged to the curb that day.

But I keep going. I’ve lost track of how many bags are strewn across the garage floor, but I think itmight be bag number nine I find it in. The thick envelope her lawyer brought is now smeared with coffee grounds, but otherwise intact. I rock back on my butt and rip it open.

The handwriting is shaky and barely readable, but it only takes ten seconds to get to the line that makes my blood run cold, makes me draw a hand to my mouth in shock.

Dearest Elizabeth,

I know I don’t have long now, and as you are very aware, I am a true believer. There is one sin I have yet to confess, and you are the person I will confess it to. In the Old Testament, Book of Exodus, 21:23-24, it reads:

“And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot . . .”

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