Beneath the transcript are several pages of emails, printed out and stapled together. All were sent during the same time period—three weeks ago.

Miss Milner,

Yes, I do know who you are and what happened all those years ago. I humbly offer my belated condolences and wish to say I admire the courage and fortitude you’ve displayed all these years. I also understand your curiosity about Miss Carpenter. You two went through very similar ordeals. It’s been a long time since my dealings with Miss Carpenter, but I remember them well. My partner and I interviewed her several times after the events at Pine Cottage. We both felt she wasn’t telling the truth. It was my gut feeling that something preceded the horrible events that occurred at the cabin that night. Something that Miss Carpenter wanted to keep secret. This led my partner to believe she might have had something to do with the deaths of her friends. I didn’t share his opinion then nor do I share it now, especially in light of the compelling testimony given by Officer Cooper at a hearing on the matter. Still, even to this day, I do think Miss Carpenter is hiding something about what happened at Pine Cottage. What that might be is something only Miss Carpenter knows.

Sincerely,

Det. Henry Freemont

I’ve said all there is to be said regarding the matter of Pine Cottage. My opinion of Quincy Carpenter has not changed.

Cole

Other than Detective Freemont’s eloquence, nothing about the content of the emails surprises me. Cole thinks I’m guilty. Freemont is in the middle. Yet their existence gives me pause, even more than seeing those folders hidden in Lisa’s closet. This is proof that she was looking into my past. Mere weeks before she was killed, no less.

I try to tell myself that one isn’t related to the other, but that’s not possible. They are. I know it.

Two more printed emails sit beneath the ones from Cole and Freemont. Unlike those, this pair rattles me.

It’s good to hear from you again, Lisa. As always, I hope you’re well. Quincy is also doing well, so your questions regarding what happened at Pine Cottage surprise me. However, I am thankful you didn’t pose them to Quincy herself and I hope you continue to display such discretion. I can only tell you what I’ve been saying all along: Quincy Carpenter endured a terrible experience, as you well know and can certainly relate to. She’s a survivor. Just like you. It’s my firm belief that Quincy is telling the truth when she says she can’t remember much about that night. As a child psychiatrist, you of all people know that repressed memory syndrome is a real condition. Considering what happened to Quincy, I can’t blame her mind for wanting to forget.

Franklin Cooper

P.S. I won’t tell Nancy what you’re doing. I’m sure she’ll frown upon it.

At first, disappointment nudges my ribs as I wonder why Coop never bothered to tell me that Lisa had recently contacted him. It seems like something I should have known about, especially in the wake of her murder. But I soften once I re-read his earnest defense of me. It’s just so Coop. Firm, polite, revealing nothing personal. That’s when I realize why he didn’t tell me about it.

He didn’t want to upset me.

As surprised as I am by Coop’s email, nothing prepares me for the one beneath it.

Hello Lisa! Thank you for contacting me instead of writing to Quincy directly. You’re right. It’s best that we keep this under wraps. There’s no point in upsetting her. Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ll be of much help. Quincy and I aren’t in touch as much as we used to be, but that’s how things go! Always so busy! If you’d like to talk, I’ll give you my phone number and you can call me when you’re able.

Sheila

The email’s such a shock that at first I’m not quite sure it’s real. I blink, expecting it to be gone when I reopen my eyes. But it’s still there, the words bold on the snow white page.

That bitch.

Furious, I hop out of the car and stand on the road’s edge. Next to my feet is a spray of broken glass. A bottle, probably, yet I can’t help but think it’s the wine glass missing from Lisa’s house. Tossed out the window of a speeding car, its driver still high on a post-killing adrenaline rush.

I dig the lighter out of my pocket and hold it to the bottom corner of the folder. It’s a cheap thing that requires several flicks to spark a flame. No wonder the clerk let me steal it. The store probably gives them out for free.

Once lit, the fire smolders a moment, taking time to sink its teeth into the folder. Soon a flame is running up its side. When the flame threatens to burn my hand, I drop the folder, fingers of fire shimmering in mid-air. The driver of a passing rig sees it, blares his horn, keeps on trucking. On the ground, the folder burns until it’s just ash caught in the breeze of vehicles barreling down the road.

Once I’m convinced that every page has been destroyed, I snag the water bottle sitting in the car’s cup holder and pour it onto the folder, the flames vanishing into hisses of smoke.

Destroying evidence. That’s the easy part.

What I have to do next is going to be a whole lot harder.

Back in the car, I swerve back onto I-65, heading north. I steer with one hand and dial my phone with my other. Then I lay the phone flat on the passenger seat, set to speaker mode. Each ring sounds out loud and clear inside the car. The noise reminds me of my phone calls on Mother’s Day, when I count each ring, guiltily hoping no one will pick up. Today, someone does.