It was the nicest thing anyone from Loxahatchee had said to me in years and I didn’t know how to respond to the kindness. I just stared at him blankly.
“We looked around the whole farm,” he continued, seeming to understand I needed a minute. “Didn’t find anything. But we let the police know they are welcome to do a more thorough search if need be.”
Mr. McCullough paused then, and for a moment, we stood in silence. I knew I should say something. I was the one who’d shown up here randomly, but my mind was blank. The longer I stood there, the more stupid I felt for coming here in the first place. What did I expect to find that the police hadn’t already? I wasn’t a detective; I was a writer. I didn’t have any clues to follow. Just an overwhelming amount of anxiety when I thought about my little sister and where she could be. Even our neighbor knew her better than I did.
“I’d like to be upfront with you about something, Rose.” Mr. McCoullough cleared his throat. “I told the detectives this already, but they brushed it off, said it was just normal teenage behavior. But there was something going on with Hazel the last few weeks.”
My ears immediately perked up. “What do you mean?”
“She was acting differently. She was normally an upbeat little thing. Chatty, always coming and going, busy doing a million things. But lately? She seemed distracted, even sullen. Like there was something bothering her. Every time I came out here, she was in the stable with her head buried in a book. Ithought maybe something might’ve been going on at home, but I didn’t want to meddle.” His weathered face twisted.
“When I did ask her about it, she brushed me off, said she just had a lot going on with college applications. Now that she’s been gone this long, I’m worried I missed something important.”
All of this was news to me. Neither Tommy nor my father had mentioned anything like it. So they either didn’t know or were purposefully avoiding speculating. From the panicked expression on Mr. McCullough’s face, it felt more likely that they didn’t know. That Hazel had hidden things from our family too.
Whatever it was, I needed to figure it out. “Is there anything else?” I asked. “Anything else she might’ve said or done that seemed weird to you?”
“Not that I can think of …” Mr. McCullough paused, thinking. “Oh! Actually, she has a locker here that the cops haven’t checked yet—I didn’t want them messing with her things if she was just going to turn up the next day. But I can show it to you if you want. She’ll probably have some stuff in there. Just like she left it.”
I nodded eagerly. “Lead the way.”
Mr. McCullough took me on a small walking tour of the property as we headed toward the administration building, showing me the horses Hazel spent the most time with, and the additions and improvements they had made to the farm since I’d been there last.
When we got to the main building, Mr. McCullough took me into the staff room—a small beige space with a vending machine, a round table, and a cluster of lockers. He pointed out Hazel’s and left me alone to look through it with one more warm squeeze of my shoulder. I appreciated the privacy.
The locker practically exploded with Hazel’s belongings when I opened it: plastic friendship bracelets she had made for both herandthe horses,pictures of her and her friends posing with the giant beasts, a Lululemon jacket, a brightly colored Stanley cup.
At the very bottom of the locker was a canvas tote bag. I pulled it out and rifled through it. More normal teenage girl stuff: an AirPods case, a lip gloss I also used, claw clips, and a very tattered hardcover book, the dust jacket missing. Mr. McCullough had said he’d caught her reading a lot, hadn’t he?
I turned it over to look at the spine, going rigid as I took in the words.The Smileys Next Door.
My book. I stared at it, transfixed, trying to figure out why she had it. Dad had made it a point when it was published that I was not to send a copy to Hazel. He didn’t want the book to dredge up the pain she barely remembered. If she had a copy, she had to have bought it herself.
I suppose it did make sense that she’d be curious to know more about the tragedy that had defined her life. Yes, she was the most well-behaved of the Dearling children, but she was still human. It seemed obvious now that she would read it. Would she believe the story it told? Or would she agree with what our mother had always said, that I’d written a book that wasn’t true?
She probably hated it, I realized, my stomach filling with dread. If she hadn’t, wouldn’t she have asked me about it? After all, she’d had to consume it in secrecy at the McCulloughs’ farm. The only real place of privacy she ever had.
I opened the book, looking at the dedication:For my big brother Will: I know you didn’t do it, and these pages will prove it.
At a loss for what to do next, I turned to a random page and started flipping through, quickly stopping when I noticed that every margin was covered in notes. Hazel’s handwriting was bubbly and girlish, and there wereeven Post-it notes stuck to some pages. I could barely read chapter 6, “The Mall.” The pages were almost completely covered in her scribbles.
I started reading, but none of her comments made any sense. This chapter mostly took place in the month before Alex was murdered. Details that were still painful, though not fresh. But this wassomething.A glimpse into Hazel’s thoughts from the week before she had gone missing.
I didn’t hesitate. I slipped the book into my purse, shut the locker, and left the farm with a quick wave to Mr. McCullough from afar. I didn’t need him asking me what I’d found in there.
I drove back to my father’s house and was thankful to find it still empty. I went straight to my bedroom, leaned back on the bed, and reopened the book at page one.
Hazel’s first words were written at the top:So, who really killed Alex?
7
Then: May 2010
My best friend Cassandra and I had been counting down the days until our freshman year on a Zac Efron calendar we had made ourselves. It was early May, with only three more weeks and a handful of final exams left of our middle school experience. Before we knew it, we’d be packing our backpacks for the last time and moving to the high school, a massive building across town where we’d be following the paths of our siblings.
“I can’t wait to be rid of this place,” Cassandra said as we approached her house, irritated from our trek home. The unrelenting Floridian heat had left our hair frizzy and our underarms soaked, even during the short walk.
“I thought you were nervous?” I asked. Cassandra had gone back and forth for months about whether she was excited or anxious to start high school, even though all three of her sisters and my two brothers had all gone there—or still did. Samantha was in college now, with Alex and Will to follow this fall.
