“I’m not scared,” Taylor said, but her manner said otherwise.
“What was your argument with Candace really about, Taylor?”
“Look, the cops said some weird dude from where she volunteered killed her, the same freak that was hanging around for months. And yeah, I was pissed off at Candace for not taking care of the situation sooner by calling in the police.” She took a long drag, then exhaled. “If you were a real investigator, you would know that. Candace and I used to be best friends, and then we weren’t. Now she’s dead, and sure, I feel like shit that we couldn’t get through our problems, you know? So just drop it. That podcast is a fucking stupid idea, and if that asshole thinks he’s going to find her killer or some such nonsense, he’s got a screw loose. Go away and leave this all alone.” She slammed the door, and that was that.
Regan’s phone rang just as she got back in her truck. It was a call from Lucas.
“Can you come to my apartment? Like, as soon as possible?”
“What happened?”
“I got a letter. It’s not signed. Someone left it at the studio. And it’s—hell, I don’t know what it is, but you have to read this.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said, then drove off.
Taylor stamped out her cigarette, then lit up another one.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Now was the time she wished she had a joint. But pot never satisfied her the same way heroin did. She’d had to quit all drugs because of the way they’d fucked her up, big-time. For her, pot always led her to crave heroin. But now she craved any kind of relief.
Stress accentuated her dangerous cravings. But Taylor didn’t want to go back to rehab. She’d been clean for thirteen months. She had a job she liked. She was not going to fuck up her life again.
This just couldn’t be happening.
In her dimly lit living room, she paced, smoked, paced, wished she had a beer. But she didn’t buy it anymore because sometimes when she drank, she wanted more. Not more alcohol, but heroin. It was a disgusting, awful habit, and she knew from rehab that it had taken years off her life, and she wanted to live.
Why did you have to fuck everything up, Candace? Why did you have to be a fucking Goody Two-Shoes? Everything was fine. Everything! But you just wouldn’t shut up.
She glanced at the clock. She had to be at work at four thirty. She wanted to call in sick, but if she did that, she wouldn’t make rent next month. She was on a tight budget, and she had been doing well and was making it, with decent tips.
Now this.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number she hadn’t called in a long, long time.
No answer.
She left a message.
“I need to talk to you. This podcast bullshit is getting out of hand. Today I had a woman come to my door, asking questions about what Candace and I were fighting about. I didn’t tell her anything, but what if someone knows the truth? Please. We need to talk about this. I get off work at midnight.”
She ended the call. Damn, damn, damn.
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit up a third. She needed a plan. If Regan Merritt came back, Taylor wouldn’t answer the door. Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway? Not a cop but acting all tough, asking questions she had no business asking?
Maybe someone oughta teach that bitch a lesson.
From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
I always thought loyalty was the most important thing among friends. Loyalty is why I joined a sorority. It’s what most appealed to me: a sisterhood when I couldn’t be with my real sister. I missed Chrissy. My high-school friends, too, but mostly Chrissy. With the sorority, I could have what felt like family. Friends who had my back. Friends who believed in me like I believed in them.
But what happens when loyalty turns dark? When your sisters demand allegiance even in the face of evil? Because what we did was evil. I didn’t think so at the time... Fuck, who am I lying to? It’s just me with pen and paper. I can’t even write down what we did, I am so ashamed. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. Evil... I never thought I was evil. I tell myself I would never do it again, that I am better than that.
But I’m not better if I ignore the past, pretend it wasn’t wrong, pretend that I learned from my mistakes. I have told myself for nearly three years that if I told anyone what really happened, I’d sacrifice my future. For what? No one knew...no one would ever know. It’s a secret we swore to keep. It wasn’t like it was on purpose. It was an accident...
Yet, I made a conscious decision to erase a human being from the face of the earth. That was a choice I made.
The wrong choice.
I can so easily pass blame, and I did for a long time. I blamed everyone else, except me. We panicked. Every one of us.
But there’s only one person to blame for my own silence, and that’s me. If I had stood up then, would I be in so much pain now? I don’t know. Maybe I will always suffer, remembering the choices we made. The choice I made.
Why am I the only one who is having a hard time living with the guilt?
Sixteen
Lucas:
I don’t know where to start.
I’ve been listening to your podcast with both fear and trepidation.
I knew Candace Swain. I was a year ahead of her. We were friends, and I knew that she was wrestling with something very deep and dark. Maybe you’ll expose the truth. I hope you do. But you have to be careful. I fear the truth killed Candace.
I was at Sigma Rho’s spring party that night when Candace and Taylor James were arguing. Only a few people overheard them and would know for sure what they were arguing about. Their fight didn’t last long—maybe five minutes? Ten tops. Then Candace left the party.
But they weren’t the only two people in that heated discussion. Another sister, Kimberly Foster, an alum, was there, trying to mediate and keep them quiet. Kim would know exactly what Candace and Taylor were arguing about. I have no idea if the police ever talked to Kim or what she might have said to them if they did.