“You’re upset about the podcast,” Vicky said. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.
“I’m so frustrated and don’t know how to handle this. I tried talking to Henry Clarkson last week, after the first episode, but he doesn’t see this from our perspective. And then Henry hooked Vega up with a former US Marshal? Why?”
“Nicole has been talking to some of the girls, and they think this podcast is a good idea.”
“I know. I had a long conversation with Nicole yesterday. I’m too close to it. I really liked Candace, and I told her she needed to do more to keep that man off campus, but she had such a soft spot for the troubled. I admired that about her, but at the same time she didn’t have the street smarts to know who might really be dangerous.”
“You think he really killed her.”
“Yes! Who else?”
“Yeah, I know—you’re probably right. But Nicole and some of the others are talking about other theories, and it’s just exhausting.”
“The police know what they’re doing,” Rachel said. “They’ve been up-front with us from the beginning. Abernathy is their primary suspect. He killed her and knew he did something wrong and left. It makes sense, and it fits all the evidence. I’m just surprised they never caught up with him.”
“I wish I could get them to stop listening, because others are getting upset. I found Debra crying after the podcast. She’s the sensitive type, said she now can’t stop picturing Candace drowning, and it’s interfering with her studies.”
“I’ll go talk to her if it’ll help.”
“I’m sure it would.”
“Do you know who wrote that email?” Rachel asked. “The one Vega read on air, about seeing Candace driving onto campus Sunday night?”
Vicky shook her head. “I sent an email to everyone right after the podcast, promised confidentiality, but no one has gotten back to me. It makes us look bad. But I’ll find out.” Nothing could remain a secret for long here, and Vicky was good at getting information.
“I’m sure she thought she was doing the right thing, but if anyone knows anything they need to go to the police, not call into that sensationalist program.” Rachel looked at her watch. “It’s late, but maybe you can get everyone together for a quick meeting? I want to make sure that the girls know that they can come talk to me or the police about anything, but we don’t want to contribute to an amateur podcast that is doing more harm than good.”
“Yeah, I’ll have everyone who can meet down in the Rose Room in fifteen minutes.”
Vicky texted out the announcement to the Sigma Rho loop. “Done.”
“I’m also going to reach out to Regan Merritt myself,” Rachel said.
“Do you think that will help?”
“I don’t know, but I want her to have the facts, not just Vega’s twisted version. If the police believed that Candace was killed by someone other than Joseph Abernathy, they would be pursuing it. I have faith in the system, and more, I have faith in Steven—Detective Young—who has been straight and honest with us from the beginning.”
“Maybe Regan Merritt should talk to him,” Vicky said. “If she hasn’t already.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Rachel agreed. “But I doubt he’d talk to her, not after she’s aligned herself with Vega.”
“Let me know what she says, because juggling all this with only two more months until graduation is stressful.”
Rachel gave her a hug. “I know. It’ll be over soon.”
From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
Yoda said, “Do, or do not. There is no try.”
I’m not a Star Wars fan. I don’t get it. I don’t like science fiction or anything not set on this world, in this reality. But Chrissy has always loved Star Wars. I never understood how two girls who came from the same two parents and were raised in the same way could be so different.
I had promised to pick Chrissy up from a party. She didn’t have her license yet, so my little sister became my responsibility. It didn’t help that Mom and Dad were divorced and still fighting about everything. I thought that divorce meant silence, acceptance, an end to the constant bickering. But no. It just means fighting over the phone or using me and Chrissy to send messages back and forth.
I wish I could have escaped, but I couldn’t leave Chrissy there, alone, to deal with the mess of our parents’ lives.
Chrissy called me early, saying she wanted to be picked up now, that her friends were doing drugs, and she didn’t want any part of that and they were calling her a party pooper and a baby. I said, “I’ll try.” I didn’t want to cut my date short just because Chrissy couldn’t wait.
My sister said, “Do, or do not, Candace.”
She only called me Candace when she was really mad at me.
I did pick her up, asking my boyfriend to come with me. He was actually pretty cool about it. Chrissy was crying, and though she never told me what really happened at the party, it had to be worse than her friends getting high.
I’ve thought a lot about that quote, especially over the last three years. Three years of wanting to do the right thing...then doubting I even knew what the right thing was. I had to make a stand. I had to do, not just try.
Even if by doing meant I would be sacrificing everything I have worked for, everything I have achieved. Because as time passes, I wake up feeling less human, less real...just less.
Thirteen
Three Years Ago
Sunday night, April 12
Candace sat in her car in the middle of the parking lot, crying.
Pathetic, but she couldn’t stop.
No one would help her.
She didn’t blame Alexa. She had so much to deal with right now, Candace didn’t blame her for not coming back and helping her convince Taylor to do the right thing. But she’d hoped. She’d really, really hoped they could present a united front and Taylor would change her mind.
The entire day she’d just driven around, trying to figure out what to do, and she came back to campus planning to forget everything. Just finish college and graduate and leave all these people. They weren’t her friends, they weren’t her sisters, not like she thought.