Page 68

Story: The Haters

I HAVEN’T SEEN ABBY Lester’s mother since my disastrous visit to their home, but now she sits across from me, hands on a pottery mug full of tea. We’re at a homey coffee shop on neutral territory, away from the school, several blocks from the Lesters’ charming duplex.

“Abby doesn’t know I’m here,” Rebecca says, sipping her rooibos. “She wouldn’t want me talking to you.”

“I understand.” My eyes feel damp, so I blink rapidly. Rebecca notices.

“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Abby has blacklisted a lot of people since the incident, including most of the students and staff at Maple Heights.”

My voice is hoarse. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Like what?” Rebecca’s brows knit together.

“There’s something you need to know about that night.” I swallow thickly, emotion and dread coating my throat. “My daughter, Liza, was at Abby’s party.”

“What?” Rebecca leans forward, hands pressing on the table. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?”

“I just found out,” I say quickly. “Liza told me everything last night.”

Confusion and distress pinch Rebecca’s features. “But we checked on the girls around midnight. Only the four of them were there.”

“My daughter sneaked into the party later, with her friend Sage and a boy called Wyatt Tillman. He was Liza’s boyfriend at the time. Another boy called Hugo Duncan was already there.”

“So there were other kids at the party.” Rebecca shakes her head. “We thought Fiona, Lily, and Mysha were just covering their own asses.”

“We all did.”

“I’ve never even heard of those kids. Why did they come to Abby’s party?”

“From what I can gather, Abby had a crush on Hugo. But Fiona Carmichael liked him, too. Hugo plays on Wyatt’s soccer team.”

Rebecca sighs, leans back in her chair. “Will your daughter tell us what happened that night?”

“She says Abby had already taken the Molly when she got there.”

“And you believe her?”

“I do,” I say. “Liza was really upset. She said she wanted to wake you and Craig. Wyatt did, too. But they were scared of the other kids.”

“So they put their popularity over my daughter’s life?” Rebecca snorts. “That’s nice.”

She’s angry. She has every right to be.

“I’m sorry. I’m so disappointed, in Liza and in myself.” My voice wobbles. “I thought I’d raised her better than that. But Liza’s been going through some stuff of her own.”

Rebecca’s eyes blaze. “What’s she been going through that justifies standing by and watching my daughter overdose?”

“Nothing. Nothing justifies what those kids did to Abby.”

“I really don’t know what to say, Camryn. This is upsetting, to say the least.”

“If I had known Liza was at the party, I never would have tried to counsel Abby. In fact, my attempts may have retraumatized her.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Rebecca pushes a hand into her auburn curls. “What am I supposed to do with this information?”

“You’ll need to tell her therapist,” I say, and Rebecca nods slightly, but she’s gone inward, consumed with worry and concern. I watch her in silence; there really are no words. And then something catches my eye outside the plate-glass window: a girl, tall, pale, and furtive. Her right arm hangs at her side, wrapped in white bandages from wrist to elbow. Within a blink, she is gone, but not before I saw her. She looked like Abby Lester.

“Does Abby have a cast on her arm?” I ask Rebecca.

“It’s a bandage.”

“What happened?”

Rebecca comes to, picks up her tea. “She burned it.”

A frisson runs up my spine, tickling my scalp. “How?”

“She went to a party at the beach. They had a bonfire and she stumbled. Her shirt caught fire and her arm was quite badly burned.”

“Abby went to a party at the beach?” I confirm. “I thought she wasn’t socializing?”

“We were surprised, too. But she’s met some new kids. When she asked to go out that night, we were thrilled.”

“What night was that?”

“A couple of nights ago,” Rebecca says, lips on her cup. “Why do you ask?”

“Just… wondering.”

“It was Monday.” She sets the tea down. “I remember because it seemed a weird night for a party, but school’s not in regular session.”

Monday, two nights ago, was when Shane Miller’s suite caught fire. The night he died. My pulse is thudding in my throat, the hairs on my arms prickling with electricity. My body knows something isn’t right, even as my brain struggles to put this together. Abby Lester’s arm is burned. It has to be a coincidence. Abby could not be responsible for the fire at Shane Miller’s basement apartment. Unless…

“How did you know about Abby’s bandage?” Rebecca asks. “When did you see her?”

“I… I think I just saw her outside the window,” I stammer.

“Oh no.” Rebecca collects her purse from the back of her chair. “Abby must have overheard our phone call and followed me here. I should go.” She stands abruptly, her legs banging against the table. Her mug of tea tips over, the remains of the milky liquid pooling on the surface, cascading over the edge.

“Shit,” she mutters. “I’ll get a towel.”

As she hurries to the counter, I seize my chance.

Grabbing my purse, I hustle outside.