Page 14 of The One Before

“You seemed chummy with my mother-in-law,” I say. “I wonder how she’d feel about that dig you made last night?”

“Look, lady. I don’t know you—”

“You don’t have to know me. What you said was rude. Making a joke about a girl drowning?”

She titters, taking another drag of the cigarette. “We don’t need to get into this.”

“Why? Because you know who I am?”Who I am. What do I mean by that? A Douglas? In a few short days, it’s like the privilege has gone to my head. I take a deep breath and redirect. “I thought Celia was your friend.”

“She was my friend.” Bridgette tosses the cigarette on the ground, stomping it with her foot. “And Cooper killed her.”

The scent of smoke rising from the ground turns my stomach. I step back, processing the magnitude of what Bridgette just said. Coop?Killed her?Then the anger returns. “What did you say?”

Bridgette smiles, having reclaimed control of the conversation. “You know that’s what everyone in Whisper thinks, right? People don’t say it anymore, out of respect for Mrs. Douglas, but we all know Celia’s death wasn’t an accident.”

I’m confused. Of course Celia’s death was an accident. That’s all Coop ever said. How could anyone think he’s capable of hurting—let alone killing—someone?

“Celia drowned,” I say, my words sounding more like a question or guess than a statement.

“Yeah, the water in her lungs killed her. That doesn’t explain why her skull was cracked. I’m guessing Cooper didn’t tell you that part of the story.” Bridgette looks over my shoulder. I turn to see Josephine and Roman exiting the store.

“Coop would never hurt anyone,” I hiss, low enough so they can’t hear.

“If you say so,” Bridgette says, slinking around the side of the building. “Welcome to Whisper.”

For a few moments, I stand there. I can barely think. I’m trying to process what Bridgette said and what it means, then I hear Roman calling my name from the parking lot.

“Are you coming?” he hollers.

“I’m going to run by theGazette,” I say, standing still. I don’t want them to see the rosy flush in my cheeks. “I need to visit Coop.”

“We can give you a ride,” Josephine says, opening the passenger side door.

“No thanks,” I say. “I’ll walk.”

Nine

Madison

The distance between the warehouse and theGazetteis longer than I expected, but I need these moments alone. I need to process what Bridgette, with her wicked smile and chipped fingernail polish, said. Coop killed Celia. Could people actually think that?

In the two years we’ve been together, he talked about Celia periodically. There’s been times I’ve wanted to dig deeper, ask more questions about her death, but I think to do so would be cruel. It’d be like demanding someone relive the worst day of their life over and over again, and for what cause? To ease my own insecurity? After all, Coop has graciously overlooked my own shortcomings.

I playback everything I know about the tragedy. Coop never mentioned foul play, let alone that people suspected him. And why would they—how could they—think Coop was to blame? He’s the most mannerly and respectful man I’ve ever met.

As I get closer to Market Avenue, I see groups of people enjoying the Saturday sunshine. They’re sitting on park benches and strolling along the sidewalks. On the surface, this place is beautiful, welcoming and warm. I can’t help wondering if this is all some kind of façade. A shield this town wears to hide its nastier underbelly.

By the time I reach theGazette, Whisper Falls feels like a ghost town again. Most businesses on this side of the street are closed for the weekend. Coop’s the only one pulling extra hours, which is why the front door is locked.

I bang against the glass, simultaneously reaching for my phone to call Coop. I’ve almost finished tapping his name when the front door opens. Coop stands there, looking a bit startled.

“Madison?” His worried look drops slightly, and he smiles. He must be wondering why I’m here.

“Can we talk?” My voice is low and unenthusiastic. I step inside the building to find Coop isn’t alone. There’s another man here. He’s shorter with thinning hair and pockmarked cheeks. He removes one hand from his pocket and initiates a handshake.

“Jim Nelson,” he says, his firm grasp displaying the confidence his outward appearance lacks. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’m Madison,” I say, looking to Coop for an explanation. His name sparks recognition. Jimmy, one of his old high school friends. Coop has mentioned him before.

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