She glares at me, her brown eyes dark and hollow. “I’m not going to deny I have a few insecurities about their old friendship, but it’s not enough to make me murder someone.”
The word hangs between us. It’s the first time I’ve heard it said in this situation. Murder. Well, other than Kenley suggesting that maybe someone pushed Rose off the bridge. Maybe she does know more.
Alice continues, “I just don’t want Kenley to get hurt again, that’s all. She’s too nice and trusting.”
She walks off and as much as I hate it, my big takeaway from the conversation is that Kenley is keeping secrets. I lean back and study the crowd, my gaze passing over Finn and Juliette, the Chandlers, the Wallers, and many other residents of Thistle Cove, and wonder who else has secrets that haven’t come to the surface.
15
Kenley
Once again, fire lights up the back field of the high school, but this time it’s not a raging bonfire and there’s no celebration. The mood has shifted completely—sad and scared, worried and suspicious. It’s weird to think that it’s only been twenty-four hours since we were at the bonfire and now we’re back at that same field for a different reason—to hold a vigil for Rose Waller.
Juliette is running the show, Finn following behind her like an obedient dog. It’s reminiscent of his relationship with Rose over the past few years, although the look on his face with her was affectionate and smitten. In the current situation, he just seems miserable.
Keeping to the edges, I discreetly take photos. It feels morbid, but I consider myself a journalist of sorts. No, I don’t work on the school paper, but I do document history. I also need something to do with myself so I don’t lose my mind.
It’s been a full day, and there’s no information about Rose. No posts on social media, no calls or texts, and as much as I hate going there…no body. The worry I’d been feeling all day is slipping into something else. Terrifying fear.
“Need some help?”
I look over and see Ozzy. He’s not holding one of the candles Juliette had been handing out. His hands are shoved in his pockets. I do see the muted pink ribbon pinned to his jacket. The true color would be “rose” for our missing classmate. The cheer squad is handing them out to everyone as they arrived.
“No, I’m just trying to keep busy, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know.”
He trails behind me as I take a few more photos. Coach Chandler is here, providing support to the players and students. He’s both good looking—like what girls would call a DILF—a
nd reassuring. There’s a strain on his face. A tightness to his grin. He feels what we feel and that’s what makes him relatable.
He’s not the only adult here. Other teachers, like the art instructor, Mrs. Allen. Rose was a talented artist and had been in her class since freshman year. Then there’s Mr. Cortez, the Spanish teacher. Rose was president of the Spanish club. Mr. Russell, the principal, stands to the side, worry etched on his face. He’s probably concerned someone is going to light up the school. It’s valid.
“She really was ‘that girl’ wasn’t she?” Ozzy says, watching me, watch the crowd. “Thistle Cove’s best and brightest.”
A chill runs down my spine when I realize he said it in past tense.
He’s right, though, Rose was ‘that girl.’ It’s obvious from the pile of mementos people brought to the event. Photos of Rose in her cheerleading uniform, with the art award she won the prior year, standing on the field during the homecoming court with Finn, and of course, a large one in the middle of her and Juliette in a tight embrace. Scattered around this are stuffed and plastic unicorns—something she notoriously loved—and a few cupcakes from the diner. All you had to do was scroll down her ChattySnap feed to see what she was into. Rose is one of those high school girls with thousands of followers—letting the world know what products she approves of. Not quite an influencer in the traditional sense of the word, but locally, in Thistle Cove? She had created her own brand and the objects brought here tonight confirms it.
“Can everyone huddle around?” Coach Chandler calls out, using his booming voice. I step forward, squeezing through to get to the front. Ozzy stands next to me.
At the top of the circle I see Reverend Jacobs, from First Methodist. Rose’s family are members, although sometimes it feels more for political show than anything else. Seeing him brings back a flood of memories from our childhood—First Methodist Preschool is where Rose and I met in the two-year-old Lambs class.
I remember the day vividly. Despite the bright colors and alluring toys, I’d been hesitant and scared to walk in the room. I’d been clinging to my mother’s leg as she spoke to the teacher, and I spotted a dark-haired girl with perfect braids watching me. After a moment she walked over and said, “I’m Rose, let’s be best friends.”
And that was it.
Until it wasn’t.
The Reverend starts to speak, and emotion swallows me. It only gets worse when I look across the field and see Finn. Our eyes meet, and he looks so miserable, so sad. My hands tremble, and Ozzy takes the camera from me. Then, to my surprise, he wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.
“It’s okay,” he says, hand running up and down my arm. He smells good, feels so safe, and I press my face against him. It’s not okay. It may never be okay again, but having Ozzy by my side at least makes me feel like I can at least get through this moment.
I’m an odd mixture of drained and wired when I get home. My parents ask me a dozen questions about the vigil, telling me they’re taking the morning off work to help with the search. We’re supposed to go to school for first period and will be released early afternoon if the Chief still needs our help.
“Go to bed,” my mom says, squeezing my hand.
She doesn’t have to ask me twice.