“Was she older?” I asked quietly, eyes drifting toward Grandma in her wheelchair. My heart began to hammer against my ribs. If she’d been there with my mom before Zach was killed … then that would mean she knew about the cancer before my mom went to jail.
“No,” he said.
The word didn’t register at first. Made no sense.
“She came in with a woman in her early thirties,” he said.
As if in slow motion, I turned, and my gaze landed on Amanda.
She stood by the table, laughing as she filled champagne glasses for the adults and sparkling apple cider for the kids. The ugly Christmas sweater dress made her look so innocent. Red knit fabric. A ridiculous stitched reindeer across the chest with dangling wool antlers.
“She had blond hair,” Dr. Rothchild said.
My throat tightened.
Amanda’s hair caught the glow of the lights, almost golden.
“Kinda petite,” he added. “Pretty. Sweet voice. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying this in a creepy way. So don’t get me canceled on social media or something like that.”
His attempt to joke floated past me.
The room felt both too small and too large at the same time. Sound dulled. Markus giggling. Dad’s low chuckle. All of it far away.
Amanda tipped her head back and laughed at something Lila said.
“Hello?” Dr. Rothchild asked.
I heard him.
But for a second, I was mute.
Amanda.
She had been there with my mom. At her cancer appointment. Before Zach was murdered. She knew. She fucking knew!
Myers’ last words looped in my head.
Some woman his friend knew from his AA meetings years back, Myers had said in the hut. Not your mother.
Thinking about it now, it made sense. My mom once told me how much Amanda helped the family when she had to attend college classes and Grandma worked. There was nobody to drive Dad to his AA meetings when he lost his driver’s license for a while after another DUI. So Amanda stepped in. Smiling. Helpful. Always there for us. It was Amanda who had been taking Dad to his AA meetings in the morning. Waiting outside. Chatting with other members. Drinking coffee and eating doughnuts while listening to sad stories.
“Hello?” Dr. Rothchild said again. This time sharper.
“Y-yes. Sorry.”
“Do you know any Lacey Alderwyn?” he asked.
Across the room, Amanda laughed at something. She always looked so sweet.
I stared at her.
The woman I thought I knew. The woman who never raised her voice. Who made cookies for school events and volunteered at the homeless shelter.
Her gaze lifted and found mine.
The clink of glasses and the voices around us faded into the background.
Her smile faded first. Then her shoulders froze. Eyes sharpened.
