Page 70 of The One Before

“Here’s what I’ve found so far,” Bailey says, leaning forward. “Cooper Douglas and Laura Price were enrolled at the same university for their freshman and sophomore years. Laura was reported missing, by her mother, in May. Detectives believe she went missing either en route to or during a music festival about three hours away from campus. She’d sent some text messages to friends saying she wanted to meet up. She never did.”

I’m sure those messages were sent from her phone. Coop had it, and he had her credit card that bought the ticket. Everything she’s told me thus far aligns with Coop’s fabricated version of events.

“Did police ever search her apartment?” I ask, hoping something there might indicate foul play.

“They did a week after she last spoke to her mother. I’ve even seen pictures of the place. Everything looked in order, but they did find small amounts of blood and bleach. Something was cleaned up, but not enough to warrant an investigation.”

“Why not?” I ask, frustrated at the unknown reach of the Douglas clan. “And how did you see pictures?”

“I write about our sleepy little town primarily, but I’ve done my fair share of networking over the years. I’ve got a friend in every police department between here and Memphis. My buddy pulled the cold case file and let me take a look.”

I knew Bailey would be relentless, especially if she thinks she can finally nail Coop. She’s convinced he got away with Celia’s murder, too. Having all this information about Laura dropped into her lap strengthens her conviction.

“If there was blood in her apartment, it should have been classified as a crime scene.”

“It’s tricky when there’s no body. If Laura was found in a sewage drain a month later, then they would have gone back and torn the place apart. Considering her age and the circumstances, it’s harder to prove she didn’t just walk away.”

“Helena’s convinced Laura would never do that.” And I know she didn’t do that.

“It’s been more than ten years since anyone has heard from her. I don’t know what else can be done. We have minimal blood in an apartment and Cooper’s connection to Celia’s death. That’s it. In our eyes, it’s a lot. In the eyes of the law, it’s not enough.”

I lean my head back, looking at the blue sky above. The clouds drift and birds fly and leaves fall. The serene setting juxtaposes the ugly topic we’re discussing, the grisly decision I’m about to make.

Fifty-Five

Helena

It’s been too long. If Madison had any intention of leaving Cooper, she would have done it by now. I really thought things would be different this time. I suppose all desperate people think that. Insane people, rather. Is that what I’ve become during all these years without Laura? Insane?

I thought reading about Cooper’s engagement was my lowest point. The idea of spoiling his wedding and telling his fiancée the truth gave me some hope. After meeting Madison, I convinced myself this would be the closest I’d ever come to getting justice. She was so different from what I expected: smart and independent and thoughtful. I fooled myself into thinking she might believe me. Now I feel worse than ever. I’ve exhausted all my options; irrational thoughts are all I have left.

I strap protective eyewear to my face and fasten the bulky headphones on my head. In all the years I’ve owned this gun, I’ve never used it. I bought it during those blurry months after Laura’s disappearance. It’s a natural reaction for people who’ve lost a loved one to violence, or so I’ve read. The weapon provides a false sense of security, becomes a symbol I’m still in control. I’ve never had control of this situation, I realize. No matter how much I prepare and scheme, Cooper Douglas is always one step ahead of me. And I’m tired of losing.

Removing the gun from its case, I check the ammunition chamber, careful to follow the protocols provided by the range instructor. Several meters in front of me hangs a paper with a series of circles. Planting my feet, I pull back my shoulders and stretch both arms in front of me, aiming for the target in the distance. My finger rubs against the trigger, yet even in this contained environment, I don’t have the strength to pull it.

I close my eyes and try to forget where I am. I try to forget who I am. Years ago, I was a happy person. I reminisce about all those summers at the beach with Laura, her dark hair dripping over sunburnt shoulders. I remember how small she’d felt sleeping beside me as a toddler. I remember the scraped knees I’d bandaged and splinters I’d pulled during her youth, how I always vowed to protect her when times got hard. I see her smiling face as a young woman, the pride she felt embarking on a new life. Then I think of what happened to her. The terror she must have felt when the boy she loved turned against her. I wonder how many minutes she was in that fearful state. Did she cry out for me the way she had as a child? I couldn’t hear her then, but I hear her now. Her strained voice echoing all around me.

I open my eyes and pull the trigger. My shot is way off, but I shoot again. And again. Each shot skids closer to its intended target, until the chamber clicks empty. I reload and repeat the process. After a while, my stance is sturdier, and my movement is less doubtful. I’ve obliterated the piece of paper, but in my mind, I’ve finally destroyed Cooper Douglas.

Afterward, I approach the Whisper Falls Range counter, deciding to restock the ammo I just used. The store owner hovers over the register, carrying on a casual conversation with the customer ahead of me.

“Did you hear the Douglas boy is getting married next month?” the customer asks the owner.

I whip my head in their direction, listening to every word.

“The older one?” the owner replies.

“Whichever one runs the paper. Cooper, I think,” the other man says. “Sissy name, if you ask me.”

My mouth drops. So, the wedding is still happening? Worse, they’ve moved up the date? I got all this wrong. I was foolish to think Madison would believe the words of a stranger over her own fiancé. I was foolish to think she’d see the truth. I stare at the rows of weaponry tacked to the wall, realizing I could have saved myself years of regret and hurt if I’d reached this conclusion sooner.

“Ma’am?” the owner asks. I look up. “Can I help you with something?”

“Ammo,” I say, sliding my shaking hands into my jacket pockets.

Fifty-Six

Maidson

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