CHAPTER Thirty-Three
I stand on Samantha’s doorstep, holding a bouquet of daffodils. It’s been a week since I stood in this exact same place, a week since Samantha was arrested for the murder of Scott Becker and the attempted murder of Rollins. I heard her parents had to rush home from Barbados to post an exorbitant amount of money for her bail. I guess she was lucky they let her come home at all.
The door opens a crack. Samantha’s mother, looking frazzled, peeks out at me. “Sylvia?” She studies me warily. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping I could come in, Mrs. Phillips. I brought these for Samantha.” I hold up the bouquet of flowers, in case the woman hadn’t noticed them before.
“I’m very sorry, Sylvia. But Samantha doesn’t want to see anyone.” Mrs. Phillips starts to close the door.
“Please,” I say. “I’d really like to speak to her.”
The blond woman looks behind her and then back at me. Finally she seems to make up her mind and steps back. “Okay. But just for a minute.”
I follow Mrs. Phillips up the stairs. When we pass through the living room, I try to avoid looking at the bloodstain that is still on the carpet.
“She’s in her bedroom,” says Mrs. Phillips, walking into the kitchen. “You know where it is.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, and then I make my way down the hallway to Samantha’s room. I knock on the door. All is quiet. I knock again.
The door opens.
“Vee,” Samantha whispers.
She looks like shit.
I hand her the bouquet of flowers. She accepts them, looking confused. “Why did you bring these?” She clutches them to her chest, searching my eyes for answers.
I shrug. “Because they’re pretty. And I know you can’t go outside.”
We both look down at the electronic anklet on her leg.
“Can I sit down?”
She nods.
I cross the room and sit gingerly on her bed. Still holding the daffodils close, Samantha follows me and sits down.
“Is Rollins okay?” She avoids my gaze.
“Yeah. He’s going to be just fine.”
“I’m glad. You know I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand. “I know.”
We sit still for a moment, both staring at the flowers.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what could make a person do what Samantha did. I never in a million years would have thought she was capable of killing someone. But when I think about everything that led up to it, I guess I have a better understanding of her actions.
It was like a snowball, coming down the mountain. First, Scotch stole her panties and made up a nasty story about her. In retaliation, we planned to get him naked and leave him at Lookout Point. When she saw me fighting with him at the edge of the cliff, her emotions went out of control, and that’s when she pushed him—not meaning to hurt him, but just to get him off me.
And then she must have been terrified. She tried to cover up her actions by sneaking back to the car and then pretending not to know what happened to Scotch. She thought she’d get in trouble if anyone found out. I mean, I know how she was feeling. I was scared, too.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
She lifts the flowers to her nose and inhales. “Okay.”
“I understand everything you did,” I say. “Up until the point you got to the hospital. I just didn’t think you were capable of . . . killing someone.”
She looks over at me and gives me a sad smile. “I didn’t think I was, either. But I guess we were wrong.”
She stands up, walks over to her desk, and dumps the pens and pencils out of a University of Iowa cup. As she starts to arrange the flowers, she speaks. “When I heard that Scotch woke up, I freaked out. I came home, and I was all by myself. I couldn’t stop shaking. I just kept thinking about what would happen to me when Scotch told everyone that I pushed him. How my parents would hate me. How everyone would hate me.”
“No one would have hated you,” I say. “Not if you explained what happened.”
Samantha stops fiddling with the flowers and raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? You don’t think people would whisper things behind my back for the rest of high school? It would be like the rumor about me and Scotch hooking up, only ten thousand times worse. It would be never-ending.”
“Okay, probably people would talk, but I still don’t get how you thought it would be a good idea to go to the hospital and kill Scotch. I mean, how did you even come up with that?”
Samantha leans against the desk. “The idea wasn’t to kill Scotch. I just wanted to scare him a little. I found some of my mom’s old scrubs that she wears to bed sometimes. I put them on and went to the hospital and waited for the shift change. Then I snuck into Scotch’s room. I just stood there for a little while, watching him. But then he woke up, and when he saw me, he started to yell. I panicked. I grabbed a pillow and stuffed it over his face.”
“But how . . . I mean, he was so much bigger than you.”
She shrugs. “A combination of him being weak and my adrenaline, I guess. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him to shut up. When he stopped thrashing around, I took the pillow away, and he was just gone. So I ran.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Samantha didn’t mean to kill Scotch. I knew it all along. She was just terrified. She wanted him to be quiet. And she didn’t know her own strength.
When she starts talking again, I open my eyes.
“I came home afterward and wrote a suicide note. I couldn’t bear to face my parents after what I’d done. The plan was to use my father’s gun, but Regina interrupted me. She came over, accusing me of killing Scotch to cover up our prank. We started fighting, and that’s when Mattie called.”
Samantha covers her mouth. “I really didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she repeats. “It just happened.”
I rise and go to her.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
I reply by hugging her hard.
We stand there for a while, until Samantha’s mom comes and tells me it’s time to leave.
At dinner that night, Lydia makes an announcement.
“It’s time for me to go back to California and face my demons.”
“Your demons, meaning your fiancé?” my father asks, barely keeping a straight face. He passes the green beans across the table to Mattie.
“My demons, meaning my fear of commitment. I’m going to take my sorry ass back to California and see if James will forgive me.”
“What brought you to that decision?” I ask.
“You did,” Lydia says, smiling.
“How so?”
“Well, I watched you forgive Samantha after she very nearly took away the thing most precious to you in this world. It gives me hope that James might do the same for me.”
My father reaches across the table and rubs my arm. “She is pretty amazing, isn’t she?”
“That she is.”
I return Lydia’s grin and realize, for the first time, how nice it is to have an aunt around, particularly one that looks almost identical to my mother.
That night on my way to the bathroom, I pass Mattie’s open door. Lydia is inside the room, her suitcase open on the bed.
“Need any help?” I ask.
She turns around, a pair of jeans in her hands. She folds them into a haphazard square and then stuffs them into her bag. “Nope, I think I’ve got it covered.”
She sits down on the bed and pats the spot next to her. “I have some things I think I should tell you before I leave.”
I search her face, wondering what she wants to talk about. I take a seat beside her, waiting.
“So . . . Mattie told me pretty much everything about the last few weeks.”
“Everything?” I ask, feeling embarrassed about how convinced I was that she was up to something terrible.
“Yes.”
“Everything everything?”
She nods. “If you’re referring to a particular trait you and Mattie inherited from your mother, then yes, she told me everything.”
I suck in my breath.
“My mother . . . she was like us?”
Lydia smiles. “She was gifted, just like you girls.”
“And this gift, do you have it?”
She chuckles. “I’m happy to say that gene passed me by.”
I draw on the carpet with my toes. There’s just one thing I’ve been wondering about, a question that’s never been answered.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you change your name to Lila Harrington?”
Lydia smoothes a wrinkle in her slacks. “It’s hard to explain. After Melody’s father brought her back to Iowa, I went through a period of depression. I was in so much pain whenever I thought about giving away my daughter. I wanted to start anew, I guess, and it seemed logical to start with a new name.”
“Does James know about all of this?” I know very well he doesn’t, but I want to hear her explain why she never told him.
“Like I said, I wanted a new life. I wasn’t sure he’d want to begin a family with a woman who once gave away her own daughter. I wanted to pretend that this time was for real. But the night before our wedding, I realized I couldn’t marry him—not until I’d sorted everything out at home.”
I think about this. It makes sense that she’d want to wait until she could be completely honest with James before they got married.
“I hope everything works out for you,” I say, and I realize that I mean it.
“Me too,” Lydia says, squeezing my shoulder.